my home ghost

It’s a really bad sign when you can’t enjoy the one thing that has always cheered you up.

Whenever I reach That Point – when I can break out in tears, turn to pyromania and/or slice various things, living or otherwise, that fall upon my path – a nice meal, on my own, always seem to keep me away from your evening news. Yes, glorious, life-saving, food.

But as I took a bite of that wonderfully baked garlic champignons with spinach and cheese à la raclette, tears welled up. And not just because I had burned my tongue.

“How izcit?”, the very pretty French waitress asked me in broken English. I nodded as I squinted one eye (the teary one) and tried to create an air passage to ease the burn in my mouth, and created instead a burn in my throat (because it's impolite to eat with your mouth open, especially when someone is talking to you.) Seemingly satisfied to make her customers painfully pleased, she walked away and seated a loud couple a few tables away from mine.

He’d enjoy this, I couldn’t help thinking to myself.

From where I sat, I couldn’t tell what my new fellow diners looked like but they sounded slightly, for lack of a more flattering word, pudgy. There was weight and heaviness to their tone - hoarse and tired, for all the volume exuberated. Their cheerful chit-chat quickly turned to growing resentment as my steak, perfectly rare, with frites & watercress, was presented before my hopeful hunger. “I know you don’t like them, but they’re still my family!...”, the lady spoke out, so defensively, I turned my head. She had curly hair. “And there’s no need for you to be so rude! Especially in front of me!”, she continued.

So some couples have more serious issues....

Still, the thought didn’t help me enjoy as I could this 7oz of juicy dead meat, the sweetness of which hasn’t melted in my mouth in months. Bastard. Because as I sat there, sipping the nice glass of red and guiltily amusing myself in eavesdropping, I know he is at home, sulking in his bowl of homemade fried rice. And though his fried rice is pretty good, somehow indulging an overpriced meal out without him, in spite of him, just doesn’t seem fair. Even if he started it. And slammed the door behind me when I continued.

“Fucking bastard”, the pudgy-sounding man shouted in tandem, but unrelated, with my head. He then mumbled something underneath his breath, quite angrily I noted, and shuffled loudly various things, the salt and pepper grinder probably, on the table. “And that’s how you speak of my family…”, surly curly lady sadly pointed out. An icy silence ensued, interrupted only intermittently by the restaurant manager asking the pretty French waitress to clean up just as the last customers left so they could all leave sooner, to which she replied ‘it donne madderre to mi - shure, but it donne madderre eder wé…’.

It doesn’t matter indeed.

I finished my steak, satiated, asked for the dessert card but didn’t order any. “I’m just going to finish my wine, thank you”.

I just wanted to go home. Wherever that was.

for the price of a cup of tea

I’d like to say the reason I haven’t written much was because I was busy travelling and acting decadently scandalous ‘till the wee hours of tomorrow. Fortunately, I have sufficiently shitted through my fingers to fool no-one. I’ve just been lazy.

It’s been three weeks since I’ve moved in with Blond Monkey - roommate and relegated boyfriend - and I still haven’t unpacked. Mostly because there isn’t exactly any room to put away my color-coordinated wardrobe, the entirety of which I had cleverly brought with me. I could, of course, clean and order the closet to clear out some space but that would just defy my obstinate lazy stance and foil the only thing I may succeed in throughout this whole trip.

We go out, we eat, we shag, we cry, we laugh and start saying ‘we’. It’s enough to make me sick. Only, it hasn’t. The best moments are those spent when he plays some music and I read blogs the guardian while sipping tea. Ladies and gents, fags and faeries, I’ve become a 67-year-old semi-retired bore living beyond her means before my time.

Words cannot express my joy.

On the home front, I’ve recently spoken to my little cousin, aka Little Boy Whore, he of taciturn moods and tight pants. With all the blossoming vigor of his youth, he is planning a trip to New Zealand and Australia in May, despite being for as long as I’ve known him not the wanderlusting type. Hearing of his exciting new plans and the anticipation of his curiosity makes my heart soar. But despite my glee, I could not help a drop of regret sipping into my joyful heart. I wish I had the ability, the vision, direction and guts to travel far and wide when I was his age. To feel that drum in your head and just follow it. Right then and there, without question nor fear. To have fun while playing and not playing to distract.

Usual nostalgic bollocks, you get the idea.

As for The Crazy Woman, I've been avoiding her calls even though I terribly miss her. I'm not quite sure how that works yet, and quite frankly I can't be bothered thinking about it. Despite shooting our usual banter nobody understands (seeing as it is in our Crazy Language, which she took years to forge and perfect) there is always a dark gleam behind her upbeat speech. I can tell when she is holding her tears. Bless her for trying but I selfishly cannot deal with it at the moment (when can you ever deal with that?) Instead, I let her linger and cut our occasional conversations short with some feeble excuse. I know I will pay for being such an awful daughter but as these things work, I won't regret it until it's too late.

Thank goodness there's tea.

christmas is going to the dogs

He cooked a mean piece of rosemary stuffed roast pork with parsnips and potatoes for Christmas night, the leftover of which we had as sandwiches, picnic style, the next day. We had had vegetable curry – his mum’s traditional meal – on Christmas Eve. There was wine. And music. And candle lights. There was also lots of love. And kisses. And laughs.

He managed to spend the entire day without trousers on. You gotta love someone who can make a deliciously debilitating meal without any pants and still be completely sexy.

He said he loves me. That he wants to make me happy. He said he’d shave his cat for me...

And me? All I can do is miss the snow, my crazy family and think how much I will miss him when I go home.




Next year, I want to learn how to be happy please.




A very good one to you too.

*cheers*

moon river

Relationships are weird.

I don’t mean just the romantic kind. It’s the general idea, the incessant drive, the rumbling need for people to come together in one moment in time and share a piece of their lives, their memories and their hearts, to bond, to connect, and then just up and leave, as the tidy currents of life would only have it, that all seems a tad... odd.

Doesn’t it?

When J flew away to his Big Corporate Job about four months ago now, I didn’t fully realise what it entailed. So we won’t be skipping and singing along the streets in repugnant British accents anymore, and we won’t argue over who hates the other more or who's the bigger bitch nor will we embarrass ourselves our mothers by orgasming over the gorgeous colors of Club Monaco’s shirts and skirts. So we won't mimic sexually depraved shenanigans to the horror of our friends or whore ourselves on the dance floor to the dismay of too-cool-to-mess-their-hair indie posse. Nor can we mock, gag and plan devious ways to shun folks with shiny pants and moustaches only to come up with stupid t-shirt ideas we think are absolutely brilliant. So we won’t be able to have shitlong conversations over beers and tears and lattes and laughs. After six years of friendship and all that we have gone through, it is a little silly that being a continent and ocean away would mark the end of it, I thought. Besides, as proud 21st century unsociable geeks, practically 50% of our relationship can be recorded through the intricate nanobite world of the interweb, it’s not as if it’ll be that big of a difference anyway.

I thought…

The funny thing about being away, every relationship I have is re-evaluated. And by extending my distance from them, I seem to have found space to better feel them. And it feels like going through a big cleaning for the harsh winter. Like assigning old frocks to different boxes – the ones I don’t really need, the ones for the deep freeze and the ones that I’ll always keep, all year-round, through the seasons. Like an inventory for my heart strings. To know what’s waiting for me when I come home. To seek out the ones I want.

I’ve known Jules & Mary since I was seven years old. Despite having briefly ‘drifted apart’ during high school, and though we don’t see that much of each other anymore, every time we get together we somehow manage to pick up right where we left off. And the only things that seemed to have changed are the careers, the cars, the boys, the locations. We still laugh at the same old jokes, at the same old memories, and we even manage to love one another more for the little pieces we find out through all these years.

It’s astounding, really. To find these people you can be yourself with. Who just get it. Like E. A feisty little woman with enough sass to sell and still be able to kick your ass to the moon. But also so sweet. And innocent and caring and just and honest. Whom I wish I had spent more time with...

And what about those who are bound to you by blood? Who are inexplicably and irrevocably true and strong and unconditional. These people to whom you owe so much yet never comprehend why, or know how to ever repay. These people whom you have no choice in the picking, whom you learned to know and hate and understand and love, who build and feed and comfort you, for the sheer reason that they are referred to as ‘family’. Who are indefinably yours. Whether you want to or not.

But... there are also the others.

The ones who after all this time together somehow still don’t quite understand. Unfortunately. And though you still care and love them dearly, no matter how hard you try, they will never get it and will always hurt you by it. Unintentionally. So what to make of these people, those years past and these pieces of you blown in the wind? How can you get them back? So you can take them and give them to those who would care. Because there is such a depleted amount of where that came from...

And isn’t it a little self-delusional to think that there would be people who would care? That aren’t all these relationships just another accessory to reaffirm your illusions of self-importance and your meaning in the world? Simply through the feeble validation of others? Aren’t all these friends and lovers, connections and conversations sought out to comfort & endorse your subjective beliefs & opinions, and pat yourself on the back? To make you feel less trivial somehow? Anyhow? And at any cost?

As much as I hate thinking of people like some appropriating piece of clothing one can store and wear and throw and give away, for sentimental reasons or self-preserving purposes, the truth is I can barely keep myself together let alone someone else in my out of whack wardrobe.

Yet…

There is that yearning again…




And then there’s the moon...
And my Seventeen-Year-Old Self...
Who believes that the trivial is meaningful…

Enough.




Human nature to survive, by any means possible, is stronger than one may think. And completely, utterly fucked up weird, if you ask me.

Which, of course, no one did.

fleur de saison

À Montréal, l'hiver.

À Londres, soleil...




[n.b. photo de kimberly blue.]

better

It’s friday night and I’m on my own. For the first time since I’ve been here.

A sign that I am finally settling in?

A cup of tea, dark chocolate digestive biscuits, a good thick book.
And my laptop.

I have been here for nearly two months and I still haven’t a clue of what I am doing.

I don’t remember what happened. I can piece together some parts of the day, from lunch to dinner. And then, I vaguely remember flashes of whites and yellows. And pinks. My pink shirt in red blood. How unfashionable. And all these voices... My vain efforts to spell out my name, remembering to see if my jeans were still on, relief that they were. I remember nothing in between. Just wiping my tears away the next day. Trying not to cry. Thinking ‘what the fuck…' . Over and over. And wishing my mother was there. To hold me and make it all better.

...What. The. Fuck?

What am I still doing here? So much money and effort and sweat and tears and blood. Literally. For what exactly? Could I not draw and paint and read and soak myself in the life I need back in the comfort of my own bed, my own friends, my own family? In my own home? I am confused.

It is eight. He hasn’t called yet.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I seem to have found myself in strange territories.

He is a good man. He is kind and gentle and warm. And so gifted... But I don’t know what to do of him. And I'm lousy at this because I foresee the end. How, why and when. And I am unable to filter these thoughts. Through my mouth. With every kiss.

Such a terrible way to begin. Or live.

I have been listening to that Regina Spektor song in hoops. The one that goes ‘...uh-oh’. Or ‘ah-ah-ah ah-ah-ah ah-ah-ah-aaaahhh’. And/or. Repeat and shuffle. She’s got great hair. I need a haircut. I can’t stand my fringe anymore. And my skin is acting out. It’s allergic to him. His budding beard.

It’s so silly, I keep saying to myself...

It’s too soon. Unusual circumstances.
It can never sustain itself in my natural context.
It doesn’t mean anything. Whatever that means.
Stop worrying about it. Planning its doom.




...And when I’ll go home, will I miss him?




Such useless questions when there is really only one to ask...

our faces split the coast in half

For the few weeks that I have been in Britain, I have (in chronological order):

• Bathed with centipedes;
  
  
• Moved five times;
  
  
• For the first time in my life, been stung by a wasp – twice, in the same day;
  
  
• For the first time in my life, been punched in the face in front of my flat, woke up in the hospital with a concussion, memory loss, smashed sinuses and a broken cheekbone, wondering why people here say ‘hospital’ without putting an article before and impressed that I was able to text on my mobile without any spelling mistakes;
  
  
• Spent two nights in [the] hospital with a polite little senile woman pleadingly crying to go home and a lady who wants to get in contact with Whitney Houston’s aunt who was going to tell her where Heaven is;
  
  
• Moved again. For reasons unnecessarily undisclosed;
  
  
• Met The Sweetest of Men;
  
  
• Been hit by a car and sent flying to the ground with a scratch on my elbow and a sore bum, incredulously;
  
  
• Understood the comfort of this whole Tea-And-Biscuits-In-The-Afternoon Thing;
  
  
• Actually liked a cat;
  
  
• Requestioned my entire self-concept [due in no small part to above-mentioned point];
  
  
• Shagged so much my abs ache and legs can barely hold themselves up;
  
  
• Become comfortably accepting in deluding and ignoring my Fear of Relationships;
  
  
• Had a panic attack [due in no small part to above-mentioned point];
  
  
• Quit two jobs;
  
  
• Been wondering for the 472nd time what the fuck I am doing here;
  
  
• And really hoping that all my bad karma has been paid for...
  

... And how have you been?

hands away

Wales was beautiful. The hills, the greens, the sheeps. And how nice people were…. Sometimes, I looked up and breathed it all in. And those moments filled me with a trifle bit more breath, enough to stay one more day.

Because I’ve been wanting to leave ever since I had arrived, you see. If I must admit it. And it’s not something rather easy for me to admit. Not after all this time.

It’s not because I was shacked up in a complete and utter shitty moth-infested hellhole with centipedes crawling up the tub* and folks whose horseshit** depressed me in a way I had forgotten. It’s not because it turned out that I really really– really – hated my job, or because it is insanely ridiculous to find ways to make ends meat in The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD. It’s not even that I so gut-wrenchingly miss my mother’s sweet embrace, or my father’s warm eyes, or my sister’s loud obnoxious voice, or even my friends’ hearty laughs sometimes. It’s not exactly that I think I’ve made a mistake at all…

It’s because I started to cry when I was trying to explain what I was doing here to this beautiful man from Nairobi and he inadvertently gave me a Look. A Look that he quickly, politely, diverted. A Look that I quickly, graciously, recognised. A Look of empathic defeat, comforting pity. A Look that recognised me. And my desperate lies. A Look that unravelled everything.

It’s that I think I’ve slightly overestimated myself, you see. And though I’ve always known I am lost, and therefore must find a way – any way – that would somehow be mine, like a lost child that wasn’t cute enough to make international news***, the one I was counting so much on turned out to be a little… ill-fitted. For me. For now. Because, my dear, you’re even more lost and fucked than you had thought. Because you could never stand the spotlight anyway. Because it’s too soon.

And though I have come here like that 21-year-old girl who three years ago had found something she lost, something I wanted so much to find again, I am not that girl anymore….

So here I am now.
At square one.
Incidentally named Russell.


















Let’s see how we get on, yeah?




* CENTIPEDES!! Yes, we all agree that I am an undeserved prissy little princess but for THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS FUCKING HOLY – centipedes!? They are WORMS!!! With FEET. Thousands, in fact. Crawling. In. The tub. Where one is naked. Now, I somehow amazingly managed to not even mind for the first few days or muster a goddamned word of complaint (mainly bc this one girl did plenty of that), but add it to my growingly shattering state of mind and believe you me that I am feeling slightly robbed for not receiving an honorary trophy of Keeping It Cool In Hell, lemme tell ya… *wiggles finger in the air for no-one to pretend to care*

** In all fairness, I’m sure they are all delightful folks to hang out with. In small doses. (Although I am considering adopting this one guy but that’s bc he saved the little vestiges of sanity I had left, mainly by being a completely pessimistic bitch – and we all know how that’s just music to me ears (he was also queer - my faghag is happy).) But horseshit, specifically, the kind that one throws around to give oneself an air of nobility, be it moral or class or intelligence, as horses tend to convey (as oppose to bulls or dogs, whose shite usually refer to the pedestrian kind one throws around without thought, harm nor belief), particularly kills bc the horseshitter actually holds on to it like dear life, believing so much in its retching stench he/she castrates and/or bullies anyone or anything that might question its integrity, as if they’re on a self-serving high-horsed quest for the Equestrian Excrement Holy Grail, and THAT, my virtual friends, is the sort of shit that kills, okay, kills!!... End rant.

*** I am a horrible pretentious biatch and will die alone & unhappy. (Apply note wherever needed.)

a time to be so small

I am freaking out.
I am in a frenzy.
Way over my head.




After thinking about, planning and dreaming and hoping for this project to come along for well over two years, it is finally hitting me. How unbearably overwhelming it all is. Running away to a country where you know no-one and no-one knows you. Where there isn’t a net – financial or otherwise – you can fall on should something go haywire. Which it always does. As Life tends to do. And this terrifyingly enticing unknown that attracted you, that you learned in and out, now suddenly feels different.

Bare.
Void.
Cold.

It’s the complete and utter blackness of jumping into something you had invested so much – everything – in and have no control over. Because no matter how many books you read, how many links you clicked, how many people you asked, or listened, there is this breathless ball embedded in your chest that knows it was all useless, you are taking a leap into the ocean without ever touching water while learning to swim from a picture. Rien que pour un chant de sirènes.... And then there’s the loneliness. That you crave. That you fear. That engulfs you. And though you’ve always been happiest on your own, there’s a fine balance between choosing its path and having its shadow hover above you that still escapes your grasp.



I am freaking out.
I am going by ear.
Tyring not to drown.

blowin' in the wind

I am having A Bad Day.

Thank you. That is all.

moody

I haven't gone outside in days. To a proper class in weeks. Been avoiding friends and grumpy at work, which i feel extra shite about bc most of my coworkers are terrific, really. And because i also know that all these things i am avoiding are the exact things i should be jumping straight into. But somehow... i just can't bring myself to face any of it....

I did go out for a bite & a few drinks with a friend i haven't seen in a while on Friday. Working Boy he has become now, and it was actually fun to hear about his new 'corporate' life as well as dispensing romantic advices i'm never good at following myself. I did enjoy the evening though, but i think i might've used up all the pure joy i had on reserve. It's only for show now.

Due to my financial predicament, i haven't gone to see my therapist in ages either. And despite taking my antidepressants as prescribed, the brainshocks occasionally hit me like a tidal wave. This may indicate two things: 1) i've hallucinated the entire episode and have not in fact taken them as often as i'd thought - i am going insane, or 2) my body is building a tolerance to its effect and i need to increase the strength. I haven't decided which explanation i prefer. It's like having to pick between being burned at the stake or drowned to death, innit?... Decisions, decisions, decisions...

the blossoms

Well, it is officially Spring. *eyes search vainly for a place to hide*

In the words of a very wise lady (who got it from another wise person - lady or otherwise - although that would not change her 'wise' status as we all know that that birds of the same feather flock together, or some other shit wisdom of sort), "Fake it 'til you make it!"

Right-o. If there were any appropriate time to fake it, it should be now, innit?

Wish me luck.

[n.b. photo courtesy of gontanon. Because i can't be arsed to take a picture of Spring. Yet.]

au gré des saisons

I have been feeling "less than giddy" lately but somehow my beloved sister successfully talked me into going to the cabane à sucre with a few of her friends. As much as I wouldn’t like to take anything away from her impressive powers of persuasion, promise of endless maple syrup (perhaps) had something to do with it....

So at 2 p.m., prepped up in my Outdoor-Woodsy outfit (yes, i name my outfits... what?) , I apprehensively stepped out into the cold wind and on my way to meet my sister. Some two hours later. Now usually, despite being a true public transport kinda gal, the prospect of 120 minutes of transit accompanied by strangers with dubious social skills [ha!] would only further convince me to stay hidden between my covers. However, this time, I was going to take the train. And I love trains. I love being in the central station. I love the high ceiling, the open space, being in between destinations. It feels homely to me. I love the way trains smoothly slide across the city, from downtown to its furthest outskirts, and lazily watching as you drift off into the ether [suburbs].

By 4 o’clock sharp [4h20], i met up with her and, after frustratingly arguing & fidgeting with her new GPS device [her] & threatening to throw the damn thing out the window [me] for another 15 minutes, off went two of the most hardcore city girls I know into the untamed wilderness [Rigaud]. Two hours of jolly car-riding later, we managed to get there unscathed [startled by the creepy robotic GPS woman every 3 minutes and freaking out as we speeded through the Steepest And Narrowest Road With The Most Potholes Ever]. As we circled around looking for parking, we noticed however that the entire place was eerily deserted. In a quickly abandoned kind of way. With empty old wooden cabins scattered across the perimeter...
“What time are we suppose to meet them again?! It’s already 6 o’clock! It’s going to get dark soon!”, I calmly inquired.
“I don’t know?! They should be here now!", my sister reassuringly replied. "Oh look! There’s Audrey’s car!”
After parking the car right next to the little Echo like the expert driver that she is, my sister skillfully tried to turn the GPS off as it angrily refused à la HAL-9000, while I keenly scanned the woods for a man in a hockey mask. To further prove how paranoid I am my survival skill was on tact, I dutifully made note, as I was putting my handbag in the trunk, that there was a shovel in there, youknowjustincase. Clearly, we was made for outdoor fun, the two of us!

My sister, sensible & fearless as her dependable nature can ever tolerate, suddenly laughed out with glee as we were circling the grounds and declared, “But where the HELL is everybody?!” Grabbing onto her like dear life, with my Alert Button switched on to RAMBO, I discretely responded in the most comforting of tone, “ OH MY GOD! THIS HAS JASON VOORHEES WRITTEN ALL OVER IT!” Oddly enough, it was at that precise moment that a sweet old man with a beard that seemed to be chewed off by rabid rats & a farmer’s hat he'd found on a cadavre decided to jump out from one of the wooden cabins as if he had been watching too many B-rated slasher horror flicks, followed by two hungry feline creatures that hissed at us out of our fucking tits, and asked us where we were going. “Oh my god! Are those cats hissing at us?!..”, I courteously shouted in response.
“Est-ce que vous pouviez nous dire où se trouve la cabane à sucre, monsieur?”, my sister finally asked him, realizing that I was about to run for my life and/or kill them bastard cats, which incidentally decided to rub against my legs.
“God! What’s it doing?! Is it rubbing against my legs? It’s rubbing against my legs! Hey you! Cat! Don’t you know I hate you?”, I continued on my lovely gibberish.
“Oh, c’est pas très loin. Attendez ici, je vais vous amener”, the old farmer replied.

Instantly, my mind travelled from Friday the 13th & Pet Cemetary to Wolf Creek in the speed of light. As I turned to my sister and met two petrified bulging eyeballs, I comforted myself in knowing she was thinking the same thing. Still, as it would be most impolite [and insane] to start running for the hills, we decided it would be best to hide our fear and waited while he harnessed two ginormous Canadian horses to a wooden carriage.
“Are there blood stains on the horses?”, I caught myself asking aloud.
“Can you run?”, my sister abruptly turned to me. She was smiling in that Scared Shitless way she has.
“Oh hell yeah, I can run, but… what? You want me to leave you behind?”
“Just make sure you can run, okay?! [insert maniacal Lost-Her-Mind laugh]".
As I was [actually] contemplating if i could make it by running back to the car, finding a way to open the trunk, getting the shovel and coming back in time to save my sister, the Creepy-Wolf-Creek-in-Rigaud Farmer stormed out as if he was triumphantly riding Hades' carriage. At his suspiciously kind behest, we nervoulsy hopped in.

During the few interminable minutes of the ride, which involved small talks [him - “Vous venez d'où, memzelles (are you far from safety)?”, “Vous êtes toutes seules (will anyone come looking for you as I rip out your lungs)?”], noting that we were at least going slowly enough to jump off & run for the hills if need be [me], grinning in what can only be described as utter & complete fear [sister], I casually asked him whether there were lots of people working today. Confused and slightly suspicious (?), he distractingly whispered “Non, pas vraiment...”. *Alert Button goes off the charts* As we were about to put our escape plan into gear, the carriage suddenly came to a halt in front of what looked like the dinner hall. He got off first and stood by the gate.

To help us get down.
Like a real friendly gentleman.

Feeling a little silly indeed, we graciously thanked him for his utmost kindness. And then ran inside.

Much to our relief, all my sister’s friends were already there (and not in fact ripped to shreds nor pinned up to a wooden stick) patiently [drunkenly] waiting for us. We told them how we had arrived "in style" [as oppose to "insanely"], and much eating & drinking ensued. Soon, the only impending danger facing us was the explosion of our stomach as pea soup, homemade breads, sausages, mashed potato, ham with maple syrup, eggs, and oreilles de criss [fried pig skins] quickly filled our bellies. It was like a massive Celebratory Breakfast For Being In The Glorious Woods with no adults to say 'no more'. And lots of wine. Obviously.







As dessert was coming up soon, we all firmly believed that [embarrassing] dancing would burn off the calories & make room for the traditional sugar pies and crêpes.


Of which I had six.

The night cannot be over however without the epitome of the sugar shack experience [the main reason why I dragged my sorry ass out of bed], so as soon as the chansonnier* announced that the Maple Taffy was ready, we clumsily (and drunkenly) ran outside to get in line, just like we used to do when we were 10 years old. Mmm, good times.



Yes, it all looks like a game of Write Your Name In The Snow from your younger mischievous days**, but it's really hot maple sap poured onto [what we all delusionally hope is] fresh snow. As it hardens up, you quickly twirl as much of it as you can around a popsicle stick, much like in this most expert of ways:

And then, when you have successfully created a lolly without getting maple all over yourself and become thus a life size maple stick (very dangerous, especially around drunken hungry gluttons - trust me, i know...), you simply suck on it 'til all self-respect is lost! Yeah!


High on sugar, we merrily popped by the General Store where many a-maple syrup goodies are neatly packaged and ready for consumerist use. My sister bought two jars of syrup while I got me some dark chocolate filled with maple sugar***. I would have bought that entire basket too, but alas, am also very poor.

All in all, i was glad i went. Even though it involved trying to be "sociable" and "friendly" to people i've never met (eventhough most of them were indeed quite nice, albeit slightly scary, what with the horde of stray cats and vapid killer eyes to their general impression...)

So, lesson of the day: psychotic murdererous scare & massive amount of sugar increase mood. You read it here first.











*Yes, a real one! With the curly country hair, plad shirt, brown suspenders and even coureurs-des-bois boots...to boot! Get it?...ahaha... okay. Carry on.

** Which i sincerely implore, for everyone's involved well-being, to not play during -15C conditions. One would think this is obvious, wouldn't it? Not so, blog world, not so...

*** T'is but a shameful marketing tactic, to drug one up on sugar before the shoppig spree, i know. But, eh, who's complaning? Not I.

fade to grey

I woke up in a spacious run down room. The wall across me had peeled off-white paint lazily patching the dark grey plaster underneath. The windows were low and had no curtains. He had left cds with my name on them all over the room. He wanted to see if i cared enough to find them all. I gave up. The Crazy Woman found some porn. She deliberated whether to watch it or not.

I looked out the window. Rooftops with old convoluted cornices adorned the tightly squeezed houses across the street. They were of the deepest reds and blues. The most beautiful view i had seen. The sun was rising. Or setting. I wasn't sure. I tried to take a picture. It didn't come out right.

I turned to my left. A three-legged Edwardian chaise had all my clothes on it. It was upholstered with a jade velvet green. It was the chair i had always wanted. The only pop of color in the room. I was intrigued.

I woke up again.

Regretfully.

neighborhood #4 (7 kettles)

I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason. I don’t believe that all the ‘unpleasant’ things that have happened in my life (or anybody’s for that matter) were good because it was meant to bring me where I am today. I believe that it is slightly delusional and presumptuously self-serving to think there is some higher hand that invisibly guides us through life towards the best possible version of ourselves, and if there is a god at all, out of all the creatures that could be alive in the entire universe, it’d care about us to meddle in our little lives. Like natural selection, I believe things just happen. Whatever the outcome, may it be good or bad, can be at best considered as the result of survival in the big scheme of things, and that we simply do our best with what we have. And if circumstances were different, or if only you knew what you know now, if you chose to go out with that Sweet Gawky Dude instead of Badass Intellectual, or gone to that trip a day earlier, or later, or had made that damn phone call instead of stupidly holding on to your pride, things might be entirely different today. And more disturbingly, unbearably better.

If I had a chance, if I was living in some bad sci-fi novel, I’d fight to be the first one to try out its time machine. I’d go back to the year 2000, June 20th, a little after midnight to be exact. Prom Night. Or, The Last Time I Ever Saw Him. JP-him. Yes, I know…. I’m not even sure what I would say to him now. There was a time where I would spend all my days desperately willing myself to turn back the clock so I could change his mind, so I could be with him, tried my best to make him want to stay. And then wishing that i'd see him in my nights. Now though... I’m not too sure anymore. Knowing what I know.... Yet I’d still want to go back. If only to see him again. To feel him again. Or just to make sure that he knew how much I cared. How much I loved. How much I’d miss him. And how I understand. And I do. That’s why I know it would be meaningless to change his mind after all.

If I had the chance, I would go to a different college right after high school. I’d still study in Natural Sciences but would add some classes in Interior Design as well (I checked the programs). I’d still like to attend the same University I do now, still like to major in the same program, but I’d take a minor in Art History (or vice versa) and be more involved in design/arts internships and opportunities. I’d know exactly which classes to take, how to go about preparing for an interesting career, a planned future. The right life. Because my mind would be so much less cluttered and thus clear to finally live it. I could also go to Graduate School afterwards, perhaps, or decide to get an Architecture degree after all when I came back from Europe. I haven’t decided about that part yet. There would be so many things I’d do differently instead of what i'd done. Wasting my time away. The Best Years of Your Life, as they so often warn you but for whatever reason, whether it be because you think they were patronizing, or because you didn’t care, or because it was too late, you didn’t listen. And suddenly, there they are, the first part of your twenties gone in a few puddles of tears. And you realize you haven’t only missed out on unimaginably delicious delusional relationships & experiences but the luxury to expand your mind through ways that were delivered to you on a silver platter. And you can never have them back.

If I had that chance, I’m not entirely sure I’d be happier. But at least I would not wonder, I would not yearn, I would not regret and so terribly miss…. And I would not be here. Now. Wondering what might have been.

But this is not a sci-fi novel, is it? There isn’t any way for me to ever bend the space/time continuum, is there? It isn't fiction, it isn't a television program. It's just us, with our little lives.

And if I try really hard at not being so defeatist & pessimistic, I… wait a second, I don’t know how to finish that sentence…









Oh, right, here it is:

I am terribly grateful for the things I do have. The family, the opportunities, the privilege. There is nothing I would change about that part. It's criminally undeserved, honestly. And I know I have come a long way, and even if I could come back, I’d have to go through something similar to what I’ve lived through to clear enough of my head in order to do everything I’ve set out to do should I go back in the first place, which would therefore render everything equal in the end, and whether I stay here or travel back in time would ultimately be inconsequential.

(Disregard that last paragraph – it made more sense in my head, I swear. Really. Not that it is of any comfort, of course, but i figured it was a good enough argument for me. Right. Carry on.)

Actually, no. That’s all I got.

Have a nice weekend now.

making plans for nigel

I decided* to stay home today. After spending last evening in front of the telly in a zombizoid (zomboid? zombiioid?) state watching "Heroes" and "The Black Donnellys", accompanied by a few panic attacks in between, I figured I should pick myself up before stumbling mindlessly down to Miz McDees doorstep where she’d usually keep me tucked away in her comforting cold embrace well into June. And believe me, it’s a lot worse than it sounds. She’s a mofo bitch, that one. With a Bette Davis As Baby Jane Crazy sense of humour too.

So, paid some bills, organized my schedule for this week (which always calmed me, despite never being followed), and did a whole lot of reading. Also found out that the assignment I’m losing my hair over is actually due later than expected. All around yayness then!

I can’t wrap my mind around Project London just as yet though. I haven’t a clue about what I’m about to do, or when I’m going to do it. Trying to go through it one day at a time for the moment and to take it easy. Not having my degree before leaving wouldn’t be so bad considering that I hadn’t any intention to pursue a career from it (although a B.Sc. would highly come in handy, wouldn’t it?), or doing it in two steps (leave-return-leave) isn’t that bad either, it’ll be like having un avant goût, a teaser trailer of a really good movie. (Speaking of which, I cannot wait until Frank Miller’s 300 comes out next Friday. It looks rather fantastical, and exaggerated, and probably very un-PC - what with the Persians being monster-like and all - but it’s Frank Miller after all. It’s supposed to completely off the wall, and more comic book-y than historical. Like a tale. Twisted futuristical style. Oh who am I kidding, I just wanna see some badasses in metal skirts kicking the bloody shits out of eachother. Yeah.) Anyway, all I know is I can’t possibly postpone it until next year (the trip, not the movie). I’ll go mad, really. Or madder some might argue.... But let’s not think about that, k?

Okay. Well that’s it for tonight. I need to go to the bank tomorrow, so I can actually see that there is some money left in my account, which should also help in reassuring little me. Yes, there there, poppet, it’s gonna be okay….

Aside from the fact that all the stores are having huge shoe sales at the moment. God damn them all.



*as in, my alarm clock didn’t go off I didn’t hear my alarm clock due to being completely knocked out, and woke up at noon.

everything's not lost

Things To Do To Cheer Yourself [Myself] Up From The [Light] Blues (in no particular order):

• Bake cookies.
• Eat cookies. Or candies, ice cream, chocolate cakes, instant noodles, baked potatoes, sushi, anything that tickles the fancy but unfortunately am incapable of making (except for the instant noodles).
• Watch The Sound of Music, A Philadelphia Story & Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulin - in that order.
• Clean desk/bathroom/house.
• Read magazine with pretty pictures & shiny pages. Makes one feel pretty. And shiny. (A skewed transference mechanism.)
• Cut/trim/dye hair.
• Shop (though could be tricky as if too much is bought can catalyse into Heavy Blues --> not good).
• Fuck.
• Get all purdied up.
• Meet up with some good friends. And laugh.
• Dance.
• Draw/paint.
• Go sit & read/people-watch in favorite coffee shop.
• Plan Project London.
• Read this.**newly added**

A list in progress....

pitter patter goes my heart

So it is raining. Again. Only, you cannot see it is raining because it is utterly dark outside. AT FIVE PM. So here i am inside, trying not to focus on this shitty feeling that comes for no other reason than to accompany the clouds and to piss me off, eating this:

By the time this picture was taken, downloaded then uploaded, I had finished the entire bag. Which i got this morning. There were also a bag of candies, and a box of pastries. The evidences of such however were carelessly discarded in the rubbish bin before i realized 'Oi! i have a new swanky camera now to document every moment of my waking day!'. I know, i can hear the moans of disappointment from here. I apologise. They were very good though, but after which i needed something salty. And tadah! That's how you keep on eating for hours on end - by switching sweets & salty alternatively.

Another thing that can help keep oneself lethargic in front of the tube eating everything one owns:

Also known as Curtis Stone and my future husband.

Y'see, i humbly admit i was never the girl who dreamt of marrying a nice doctor or a prince (nor have i actually ever dreamt of marriage per se, but that's just a small detail). I didn't have wild fantasies about fire fighters either, paramedics, nor police officers, cowboys, monks, lawers, the postman, dentists, so on & so forth. No. What i fancy was/is The Cook. Any time. Any day. Yessery Bob. He can look like he had perhaps inhaled the totality of the Mars gaseous elements, but my gosh as long as he can make a mean sexy chocolate soufflé, he can do with me as he pleases. As long as i get to eat said soufflé. So imagine my joy when The wonderful Learning Chanel introduced a show featuring a hunky Aussie who goes into a siupermahket, pick ep a wee lass, bring 'er beck haome & cuk far 'er (yes, that was a taste of my most excellent accent, thank you).

'Fucking genius!', that's what i said, incredulously. It's like they had found my childhood diary & made it into a reality! Here are just some examples of what Monsieur Stone can whip up:

Grilled rib eye steak with semi-dried tomatoes, watercress & crispy potatoes.
(or as i like to call 'Humma-na Humma-na Haa...')

Cajun crusted chicken with creole mashed potatoes.
('Oh yes please! Right here!')

Marinated & grilled bison rib eye with pasilla salsa.

('Ouh! Ouh! Me! Ove here!')

Salad with deep fried manchego cheese & madiera reduction
([gawk - as have lost all words & consciousness])





But can he bake, you ask? Ohhh! Oho-ho hohoh....

Chocolate covered mango & vanilla cream bomb.
BA-BOOM!

Aussie cheesecake.
(as if having permanent sunshine, fairweather & the incredible ocean at their finrgertips wasn't enough...)

Sautéed baby bananas with sour cream, spearmint, chili & lime.
(YESSSS! I know! it sounds awfully weird at first, but as one who completely LOVES cooked bananas AND spicy foods, this just seems like le-perfect!)

(and la pièce de résistance...)
HANDMADE CHOCLATES WITH MARCORONA ALMONDS.

*wipes off trail of saliva*

And he made this, can you imagine? With his own bare hands! FROM SCRATCH! *hands over heart* Mumsie, i think i'm in love!....

**Next up: Things To Do To Cheer Yourself Up From The [light*] Blues.**




* Because we all know that the Heavy Blues can only be cured with massive amounts of drugs and/or a gun.

smile like you mean it

I've been feeling a little...volatile these days.
Vagrant, vexed, vacillant, vagarious, vicious. Vvvvvvvvv.

Perhaps because it's raining. Again.
Or because i've been ingesting cafeine twice in an hour.
Or because it's that time of the month.
Or perhaps because my birthday is coming up very soon.
Or maybe it's all of the above.

I remember when i turned 20. It took all the strength i had not to fall apart. Kept trying hard to mend the pieces of my broken heart... Erm, no. Sorry, got a tad carried away there. What i meant to say was, it took all the strength i had not to sob on the cake as i blew out the candles. (Right. There you go. It's hard to start a sentence like that and not carry through its usual disco destiny. Um. Carry on, now.) I did not want to cry because i felt old (tch, i'm not that insipid). They had asked me to make a wish as the tradition goes, and suddenly, shockingly, it overwhelmed me. There were so many things to wish for, things that would not - that could not - happen... I remembered what i thought 20 would be like as a kid and i was so so far from it. I wasn't smarter, wiser, stronger, more confident, or the least bit 'together'. I was a complete & utter wreck. I was more of a mess than i ever was... Or ever thought could be...

I am far from where i was four years ago. I suppose that is something. That is a lot, actually. And look - i'm still a mess! Yay! But i've learned to get used to it, i guess. I've learned to accept it. À l'apprivoiser. And i've also learned not to fret so much about it.

I just remember when i was 12 years old, and thinking that the next time 'my' year - the Year of the Dog - would to come again, i'd be 24. It was such an unfathomable fantasy... Well i'll be 24 now. And it's the Year of the Dog. My year. My 12-year-old self would believe this should mean somehting. But it doesn't, does it? It's just another year. It's just another number. And it's just me. A complete mess. And okay with it. (Or at least once these damn cramps go away.)

Now, everyone scoot together and sing 'I Will Survive'.

the lake

I am tired.

I tend to get this way when i have been Socializing A Lot, so i know it's not something to be alarmed about. I'm just tired 'a lot' means more than three social interactions....

I spent last weekend in Toronto visiting family. I also had my first real Thanksgiving dinner. With the stuffed turkey, cranberry sauce, gravy & homemade smashed potatoes. I saw my only surviving Grandmother who is rapidly becoming senile, although happily, she is still able to remember everyone. She will be living with my parents for a while. I also got to catch up with my younger cousins who are now mostly starting, or worrying about getting into University. Who are so tall now. And so young. Who have so much potential. Who are so optimistic about what life has to offer to them. It makes my heart ache.

I love my family. And i love my friends. Truly. I appreciate them as they are, screwed up & dysfunctional, mad & loud & obnoxious, naive or bitter, but marvelously mine. And i am grateful for every minute i have with them. I just wish... I just wish i could be more.

To everyone, i am this open, and honest, and grounded young woman. Yet...there is a place, a small turbulent crater inside me that i jealously keep guarded. And to the rare few who are aware of such a place, i instinctively try to shield them from it as much as i can. Because i don't want to impose. Because i don't want to drag. Because it's nobody's business. Because i don't know what to say. Or how to explain. Or where to start. It's just there. And there's nothing i can do to get rid of it. Nothing.

And i wish i needn't feel i have to edit myself. Pretend & hide. That i am not overwhelmed, and paralysed with fear & pain to do more. To be more. For them.

I hate it. I hate how i havent' got the nerve to let anyone know about this. About me. I hate how i am unable to be completely honest with them. I hate how eventhough no one in my life is aware of this virtual space, i am still scared about revealing too much of myself here. I hate how i cannot be as nice, as brave, as strong or as generous as i would like to be to those i care about. I hate how i care so easily. I hate how i hate. The ignorant, the judgemental, the close-minded, the complacent, the passive. I hate how they pull me down. So easily. I hate how i can be ignorant, judgemental, close-minded, complacent, and passive. I hate how selfish i am. I hate how after everything i've been through, after all the help i've gotten, i still end up here. I hate this endless route. It's a cul-de-sac.

And worse, i hate how i miss JP. And Mr. S. And K. I miss all these people who i secretely took refuge in, who have meant so much to me when i needed them to, and who could mean so much to me had i let them. I hate how i am unable to forget. And how i keep hoping.... Eventhough i know better.

And i know better. That i don't want to be 'saved'. That anyone who will - who could - save me would mean nothing at all. And i know no one is a hero. Least of all me.

It's just that i am so tired....







But I know it's not anything to be alarmed about. I know i'm not the first, or even the only one to feel this. And i know i will feel better. And i will keep trying. Because i still can. Because i still want to. Eventhough in a while, i will stumble back. Right here. Again. To this place that will not go away.