Jul. 30th, 2009

something

stars and sons

A few nights ago Dana rode cross-legged in Paul's bike trailer, as in a little wooden cart that attaches to the back of his bike and isn't meant for passengers. It was pretty fantastic, the six of us cruising our way up Shaw Street, crossing Bloor with human cargo. Now that I have a bike I feel like an official city-dweller, weaving through traffic, cursing car doors, ogling my bike through the window when I lock it up outside of Tacos el Asador.

Earlier this year I applied for a creative writing course that I've been eyeing since second year. I never thought I'd be accepted since, on the day that I went to edit my portfolio at Robarts library (incidentally the deadline for applications), I got stuck on a computer that wouldn't let me edit anything and so my application was all double-spaced and ridiculously formatted. But I got an email today saying that I would be registered on August 7th and that basically makes my life.

What else? Whenever we get the chance, Jacob and I go to farmer's markets and suck on honey sticks while we pick out produce and meat for dinner. On Monday we had a venison striploin with blueberry jus, home-grown beet greens and swiss chard and a potato hash gratin. He's kind of a genius. We sat on big rocks at Sorauren Park and ate a flaky galette that was smothered in caramelized leeks, onions, roasted garlic and sundried tomatoes while the sun lit up our backs. It rained and the rain fractured the sunlight like little drops of crystal.

On Saturday our friend Ben Whiteley played upright bass with Amy Millan at the Harbourfront, and I swear it was the most gorgeous night. The CN Tower blinked purple and green as Amy's buttery voice met the cool wind that blew in off the lake. Afterwards we went to the Roxton with a sliced nectarine and I sat next to Amy's manager, who is a thin blonde boy from Montreal who rolls joints in one hand. They all shared packs of cigarettes like it was nothing.

And then there are the psychadelics that have left me in awe of the circularity of nature, speechless beneath towering clouds and trees. Giggling like a little girl in a basement full of discarded junk, lights off, discovering car batteries and paint easels with a flashlight, like abandoned treasure.

Let's not be afraid of the things that we love, or forget about the joy that we can derive from ordinary moments. There is nothing particularly stunning or strange about the life that I live, except for the harmony that I recognize, the balance that I appreciate and the way that things always, just barely, work out. I think that's the most beautiful part of it all, really. I am constantly on the edge of something wonderful, teetering on something terrible, having faith that greatness will come. And oh, how it comes.

Apr. 9th, 2009

something

patriarch on a vespa



I just made matzoh crack to bring to Jacob's passover seder tonight. It's matzoh smothered in homemade toffee, melted chocolate, chopped toasted hazelnuts and fleur de sel. I have an exam at 6 and an essay due yesterday that I haven't even started. School is almost out for the year, but before it finally ends it's trying to beat me into submission. No such thing. Halfway through my 20th year of life and all it means is clarity.

Seriously, things are pretty hard. I'm not going to lie. But the more I think about it the more I realize that thinking about it is the problem. I can't overthink everything that does (or doesn't) happen to me because I'll get trapped in a state of tunnel-vision where my life feels half as good as it actually is, and I can't let that take over. Perspective, man. There is so much more to life than whining about myself or what I don't have or tricking myself into not feeling anything. I don't want to be jaded, I want to be liberated. Since when am I not a happy person?

Sometimes I wake up and it's like seeing his face for the first time, over and over again. In the sunlight his eyes are a handsome green and his skin is cream against mine. Small things. Big steps. He's so soft I can't even begin to explain the way his hips feel in my hands.

I feel like the past year or two have done a lot of damage to me. As in, I have zero mental control over the thoughts that flood my mind every minute but I need to work on this if I want to be happy. I can't spend the better moments of my life trapped in my head stressing out about my pay cheque or what I'm going to have for breakfast. Seriously, things as trivial as this can trip me up. It's no way to live.

I have a lot of work to do, but I'm starting to remember what it feels like to be comfortable and all I want is to get that back. Summertime. And the livin's easy.

The last time I did a poetry slam I lost, narrowly, but strangers came up to me and told me that I needed to keep going, and I will.

Feb. 24th, 2009

something

help! i'm alive, my heart keeps beating like a hammer



WINTER )

Jan. 2nd, 2009

golden slumbers

(no subject)

On Christmas Eve, my journal was hacked by the Russians. All of my entries covering the past 6+ years have been deleted by the hacker. I've been frantically cruising google caches to find anything I can, but the fact is this: it's all gone. If you visited my journal during the brief period preceding its suspension, and clicked on the link in the entry that I did not write (leading to a Russian website) I suggest you kick your spyware into gear... it could mean trouble. I'm sorry. I'm back.
something

July 2009

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