Portrait of the Artist as a Rollercoaster

.
Not so much fun, actually.

What the hell.

My fingertips are holding onto the cracks in our foundation, and I know that I should let go but I can't.

And every pop song on the radio is suddenly speaking to me.

Seriously. That is exactly how I am feeling right now. We were doing so well. And then you decided that we weren't. And then you thought we were better, and I didn't. Then I thought we were better, and you didn't. And now I don't even know what's going on. I want nothing more than for us to be ok, but I don't know if you want that. You've got that damn girl in your head right now, that one who you always mention but never name. I know who she is. I'm sure that you're thinking about how interesting and exciting she is, but you need to know that if you leave me, and go get her out of your system, and decide that you made that huge mistake again, there is no third chance. Maybe you need to take a minute. Think about it seriously. Do you really want to throw away everything we have for a crush? Do you really want to get rid of me, only to realize that was never what you wanted? And part of me is so terrified that you're just sticking around until I get over my grief, until I finish exams, and that as soon as you decide my life has levelled out you'll dump me. The other part of me really doesn't care anymore. And that scares me. That as soon as you said, Hey, I'm not so sure anymore, I started to pull away. You said that you weren't just waiting a decent amount of time after the initial conversation to drop me, but part of me can't believe that.

I kind of hate myself for a lot of things right now. For what I've just said. For putting up with this crap again. For getting so complacent. For daring to think about a future you and I might have together. Although I can't help but blame you a little bit for that last one, with all your damn 'hey, let's get married some day's and starting conversations about baby names and all that bullshit that you're allowed to talk about, but the second I say anything in regards to a future more than a few weeks ahead, you get weirded out. Fucking hypocrite. Fucking terrified of commitment and having anyone rely on you for anything, even a comforting shoulder after a shitty day.

Fuck.

23, 741 Days

My grandparents have been married for 65 years, this Wednesday.

They just missed WWI, grew up in the prosperous 20s, really grew up in the Great Depression, worked for their country in WWII, raised a family, mourned a son, dealt with my long-haired cool-like-Kelso dad, worked well into their 70s, spoiled 4 grandchildren and have long started the same for their first great-grandchild, and are still going strong, with more love for each other than I have ever seen two people have.

It is inspiring.

It is heartbreaking.

It makes me hope that when I'm 90 and wrinkly, I'll still have the love of my life right there with me, my partner in crime in sneaking the great- and grandkids chocolate before dinner.

So, A Girl Walks Into A Beer Store...

I think there's something about nice weather that makes me productive. Perhaps it's Spring Cleaning Fever starting to set in now that the weather seems to be looking up (today was a balmy 4 degrees, sunny, with only a slight breeze to push the sunshine around), or maybe the fact that my break is almost over and I've done essentially nothing with myself for the past 4 days, or possibly the other fact that I've got a dinner date tonight with my boyfriend and cousins and my house was a wreck.

My day so far: woke up early, cleaned for an hour (including under my bed! You'd be so proud), ate breakfast, cleaned for another hour, showered, ate lunch, ran errands, cleaned more.

I've become so damned lazy lately (I blame the unfortunate weather and my inability to withstand any semblance of cold) that I take the transit absolutely everywhere. Not today! My weather-induced productivity inspired me to walk! It was GLORIOUS. I haven't felt this refreshed in a long while.

Anyway. To the point of my ramblings: On my way, I passed a church. Normally, churches keep their gates and doors shut, and only advertise being open Sundays, 9-10 and 3-4, and sometimes Thursdays 6-7. I have never seen this particular church closed. It's front gates and doors are always wide open, and their main sign has "Visitors Welcome" engraved right below the name.

It made me so nostalgic.

I haven't been to church in years (excluding my once-a-year Good Friday attendance with my boyfriend's family, out of respect to him), and I consider myself an athiest. And yet...I found myself missing that sense of community, that sense of comfort that comes from believing that while God cannot take your problems away he can help you through them.

I explicitly remember the moment I stopped believing in God. I was in grade 10, sitting in science class. A boy in my grade was dying of cancer. One morning during announcements, the principle asked that we fast for the day and pray for this student. I did, although I really had only met him once or twice incidentally. The following week, our science class got a visit from the principle, telling us that he had passed away the night before.

I couldn't comprehend how, even though this boy had so many people fasting and praying for him, God could let him die. While I realize now that God had nothing to do with his cancer, and that all the praying in the world could not have taken it away, I had truly believed that he would live. And I had been let down.

Yeah.

God.

Portrait of the Artist as a Lonely Soul

Disclaimer: This post has been written with the express knowledge that I will probably sound like a pretentious emo douchebag to anyone who is not myself.

***

I work better at night. Late night, when I'm exhausted and hungry and cold and wanting for nothing more than comfort. Of course, it's usually that lack of comfort which drives me to work in the first place.

When I say work, I don't really mean work. I mean creating art. Not crafting, because crafting is a happy thing. Art comes from a deeper place.

I started using art as catharsis years ago. I've always been a crafty person; it just fit, I guess, that I would use my hobby as a way to purge emotion.

Right now I feel lonely. I would like to stop feeling lonely, but instead of confronting the issue head on (which would be the smart thing to do), I am trying to spill it out onto a canvas. And maybe I'm not tired or hungry or cold enough, but for some frustrating reason I cannot work. My materials are not clicking. I can't see in my head what I want. I feel the energy in my fingertips, frothing, surging, straining to get out and onto this damned canvas but I can't do it.

Not tonight.

Looking Into My Past

Did you ever make one of those time capsule things when you were a kid? I always wanted to. I imagined collecting a whole bunch of different things--pictures, momentos, lists of my favourite songs and movies and games, who my friends were, who I was--and burying it in a box in my yard. Of course, I never got around to actually doing it.

I keep several small decorated wooden boxes on my desk, for tucking stuff into when I want to keep it but don't want to think about where to put them at that moment. I used to use them a lot more when I was in university a few years back, for keepsakes. Now they dutifully serve as bookends for my collection of Nintendo games (Nindendo-ends?).

Fast forward to yesterday, when I decided I really wanted to find an old necklace to wear. Thinking I may have stashed it in one of the boxes during a recent move, I started going through them.

It was really, really weird. As if I were looking back on myself as I was 4 years ago.

Paper stars. Love notes from an old boyfriend. A grocery list. Photographs. Half a loose-leaf diary entry. Movie stubs. Tickets from a visit to the AGO. A souvenier magnet. An old skeleton key (as cliche as that is; it was a gift from a friend, who picked it up at a lawn sale of sorts in rural France, of all places). An old ring.

Of course, my necklace wasn't there.

Ode To The One That Got Away (or, The One I Thought Got Away, But Really Turned Out To Be A Small Fry In The Ocean)

Dismissive
I think back
To you
To our time together
And that is the word that pops into my head.
You treated me like a tag-along
A follower
Someone to morph and mold and change
I became a non-entity
I only wanted to please
I began to enjoy Eric Clapton, Chili Peppers, Jamaican curries
I watched Bubba Ho-Tep and chortled along with you
I sipped wine and read Buddhist teachings
I drank tea in small, out-of-the-way shops
I listened to Lauren Hill and Why? and Wyclef Jean
I loved your hands and your beard and your hugs and your cock

Then you left

And I think part of the reason that killed me so much
Was
Who was I?
I was a no-body
I needed someone to lead me
To show me who to be
So I floated
For too long I floated
Waiting for someone else to come along
And while I floated, I tried to change back to the person I had been
But I couldn’t
So I became someone new
Someone you wouldn’t recognize
And I liked it
I liked this new me
Because it was me, and not you

Then you came back

And I thought, One night
One night couldn’t hurt

And it didn’t
Because I finally realized
That you had no idea
About anything
You are not cultured
You read to seem worldly, and yet you are indelibly stuck in the here
Your hands were filthy
Your hugs held me down, made me slouch and contort and make myself smaller to fit into your arms
You could no longer please me

And I was free.