There was a minor meltdown yesterday that involved a lot of crying screaming bad words at my computer. It was about a large project due today that I didn't really know about. It was about a broken printer in my hour of need.
But I made a cup of tea, I wrote down a list, I fixed the printer, and I moved on with my life.
It's okay, now.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
free things:
I randomly applied for a job at Spruce Meadows. For some reason, against all logic, I really hope I get a phone call about it.
This is logic:
1. Spruce Meadows is in Calgary.
2. I do not live in Calgary. Or even near Calgary.
3. I can't afford to rent somewhere in Calgary by myself.
4. I have other plans and obligations here in Edmonton.
5. What about my horse?
6. This is not a parallel list. The grammar school within me can't believe I just threw a question into an otherwise non-interrogative list.
But the thing is, I secretly want to do something different than what I've been doing. Something that doesn't involve me settling for some lame, boring job the way I've always been doing. Something that involves change.
I keep daydreaming about driving down there with my car all loaded with all the aspects of my life I can't leave behind. So I guess my giant oaf of a horse would be sitting in the passenger seat, grooving along to Simon & Garfunkel, and all of my friends and my boyfriend would be in the back seat, playing my guitar, watching my TV, and trying on my clothes. And then we'd get there, and there would magically be a big house that we could all live in, and it would be fully furnished, and it would be free. And so would I.
This is logic:
1. Spruce Meadows is in Calgary.
2. I do not live in Calgary. Or even near Calgary.
3. I can't afford to rent somewhere in Calgary by myself.
4. I have other plans and obligations here in Edmonton.
5. What about my horse?
6. This is not a parallel list. The grammar school within me can't believe I just threw a question into an otherwise non-interrogative list.
But the thing is, I secretly want to do something different than what I've been doing. Something that doesn't involve me settling for some lame, boring job the way I've always been doing. Something that involves change.
I keep daydreaming about driving down there with my car all loaded with all the aspects of my life I can't leave behind. So I guess my giant oaf of a horse would be sitting in the passenger seat, grooving along to Simon & Garfunkel, and all of my friends and my boyfriend would be in the back seat, playing my guitar, watching my TV, and trying on my clothes. And then we'd get there, and there would magically be a big house that we could all live in, and it would be fully furnished, and it would be free. And so would I.
to remember:
"Somewhere behind the rider you've become, the hours of practice you've put in, & the coaches that have pushed you, is the little girl who fell in love with the sport and never looked back. Ride for her."
-- Anonymous
-- Anonymous
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Slovenia (Or How It Happened In Three Parts)
I am resisting the urge to exploit my personal life by writing postcard stories and sending them to various literary journals (such as Grain, Other Voices, et al.) for publication. Really, I have had so many glorious ideas for stories as a result of my own turmoil. Last night, while I lay in the fetal position on the floor in the shower, I was crafting sentences about how everything was slowly unravelling in a matter of three days. I even had a title. It was Slovenia (Or How It Happened In Three Parts). But I would maybe have to change the parentheses, because I stole that from a short story published three seasons ago in Grain. So maybe just Slovenia. Either way, it was brilliant. Either way I am sitting at a table with the incorrigable boyfriend, his parents, their business partners and a girl I thought was a boy watching old people polka their hearts away at the Slovenian Cultural Center. I was being the bigger person.
I was being the Biggest Person, because despite the fact that a night out with my friends the evening before was a complete disaster; despite the fact that there had been a huge fight in front of my friends; despite the fact that there was an icy cab ride home; despite the fact that the fetal-position-shower-thing happened there, too; despite the fact that one of us slept on the couch; despite the fact that he yelled at me; despite all of those things, I did my hair and put on a nice outfit and went to a weird Slovenian party in celebration of all of the big game they'd shot in 2007 and I rose above. I had a nice time. I made the best of the situation. I was the Biggest Person On The Face Of The Planet Earth, Including World Record Winners For Tallest Or Fattest Or Most Famous. However, there's a fight in the car on the way home and an hour-and-fifteen-minute shower where I lay on the floor and contemplate my life. Sketched stories. Crafted perfect first sentences.
I don't know how I could continue having relationships with people in my life if I exploit those relationships' misgivings with the written word. That is not my task, here. At least, I don't think it is.
So I'm not going to write Slovenia, despite its literary genius. And I'm not going to submit it. And I'm going to work on coming out of the hole I've created over the past two days, and I'm going to finally return the phone calls of my anxious and caring friends.
I was being the Biggest Person, because despite the fact that a night out with my friends the evening before was a complete disaster; despite the fact that there had been a huge fight in front of my friends; despite the fact that there was an icy cab ride home; despite the fact that the fetal-position-shower-thing happened there, too; despite the fact that one of us slept on the couch; despite the fact that he yelled at me; despite all of those things, I did my hair and put on a nice outfit and went to a weird Slovenian party in celebration of all of the big game they'd shot in 2007 and I rose above. I had a nice time. I made the best of the situation. I was the Biggest Person On The Face Of The Planet Earth, Including World Record Winners For Tallest Or Fattest Or Most Famous. However, there's a fight in the car on the way home and an hour-and-fifteen-minute shower where I lay on the floor and contemplate my life. Sketched stories. Crafted perfect first sentences.
I don't know how I could continue having relationships with people in my life if I exploit those relationships' misgivings with the written word. That is not my task, here. At least, I don't think it is.
So I'm not going to write Slovenia, despite its literary genius. And I'm not going to submit it. And I'm going to work on coming out of the hole I've created over the past two days, and I'm going to finally return the phone calls of my anxious and caring friends.
Monday, February 4, 2008
secrets
There are a lot of things that I am not willing to admit out loud. I mull over them in my head when I lie awake at night, or when I am on my constant commute to and from the west end. Things that I like to keep a secret from my own ears. Once they hit the air they'll be true, and I'd prefer if they weren't.
Things like the fact that it's not getting better. Missing her. Feeling physically sad about the lack of her presence in my life. It feels like there's a string tied to my heart that leads straight out the front of my chest, and she's holding the string, and she's so far away. So far away that my heart wants to press itself against my rib cage, come right out of my body, and fly away to be closer to her. Sometimes, when I'm doing trivial tasks, like tying my shoes, or washing my hair I suddenly think, "I can't believe she died. It doesn't make sense. She was there. She had permanence. And now, it's all gone."
Today I used company resources to make dozens of copies of the newsletter she used to put out at the barn. Reading through her honest, straightforward writing and reminiscing about how thoroughly and perfectly she did her job made the string on my heart tighten. Thinking about Beau and his recent death made the string tighten. Thinking about my own horse, unridden, makes the string tighten.
I feel guilty for not being more motivated. She was motivated. She motivated me. She helped me make plans and move forward and decide things. I'm not good at any of those three. I wish I could just feel motivated to ride and train and be the athlete that I was when she was there to encourage me.
And my constant longing for my wisest friend to be back in my life, or at least back on earth in someone else's life isn't even the only thing. I am feeling this winter in bones. Every day, I wish it would just stop. I think I'd be a lot happier if I wasn't worrying about plugging in my car and shoveling the driveway. I think I'd be a lot more motivated if going outside weren't such an ordeal. And I am feeling the strain and drag of long-term relationships. Of having the exact same arguments where we each say the exact same thing that we did all the other times, and coming up with no solution. Why?
And I am feeling the exhaustion of another semester at school. It feels like my life energy is being pulled down towards my feet and into the ground. It feels like I don't have the right words for the right assignments. I feel stressed out about it, but at the same time, I feel like calling it quits. Just for a little while. Just for a few months. Just to regroup. Just to rejuvenate. Just something. I am feeling trapped within the life that I've been chosing. This school-work-school-work-ride-school-work life that I've mapped out for myself for the next few years.
And so it's just a few little things that nag at me constantly that are beginning to wear me down. And I could really use a nice, long nap and a hot shower and an all-inclusive Costa Rican resort.
Things like the fact that it's not getting better. Missing her. Feeling physically sad about the lack of her presence in my life. It feels like there's a string tied to my heart that leads straight out the front of my chest, and she's holding the string, and she's so far away. So far away that my heart wants to press itself against my rib cage, come right out of my body, and fly away to be closer to her. Sometimes, when I'm doing trivial tasks, like tying my shoes, or washing my hair I suddenly think, "I can't believe she died. It doesn't make sense. She was there. She had permanence. And now, it's all gone."
Today I used company resources to make dozens of copies of the newsletter she used to put out at the barn. Reading through her honest, straightforward writing and reminiscing about how thoroughly and perfectly she did her job made the string on my heart tighten. Thinking about Beau and his recent death made the string tighten. Thinking about my own horse, unridden, makes the string tighten.
I feel guilty for not being more motivated. She was motivated. She motivated me. She helped me make plans and move forward and decide things. I'm not good at any of those three. I wish I could just feel motivated to ride and train and be the athlete that I was when she was there to encourage me.
And my constant longing for my wisest friend to be back in my life, or at least back on earth in someone else's life isn't even the only thing. I am feeling this winter in bones. Every day, I wish it would just stop. I think I'd be a lot happier if I wasn't worrying about plugging in my car and shoveling the driveway. I think I'd be a lot more motivated if going outside weren't such an ordeal. And I am feeling the strain and drag of long-term relationships. Of having the exact same arguments where we each say the exact same thing that we did all the other times, and coming up with no solution. Why?
And I am feeling the exhaustion of another semester at school. It feels like my life energy is being pulled down towards my feet and into the ground. It feels like I don't have the right words for the right assignments. I feel stressed out about it, but at the same time, I feel like calling it quits. Just for a little while. Just for a few months. Just to regroup. Just to rejuvenate. Just something. I am feeling trapped within the life that I've been chosing. This school-work-school-work-ride-school-work life that I've mapped out for myself for the next few years.
And so it's just a few little things that nag at me constantly that are beginning to wear me down. And I could really use a nice, long nap and a hot shower and an all-inclusive Costa Rican resort.
ivory lines lead
I feel like writing postcard stories lately. I feel like sitting outside in the sun, writing postcard stories. There are two problems with this scenario:
1. It is -20 degrees outside, and frankly, not very sunny.
2. I have writer's block.
I can feel creativity bubbling up inside me, but it has nowhere to go. I'm just thinking over one sentence that I'd like to use; chewing it up and spitting it out and trying again. This is the sentence (in one of its multiple variations):
Your words go down easy: they just leave your lips and slip into my own, and I can roll them around and really feel their weight before letting them in all the way.
I've been listening to a lot of folk music lately. I think I could be folksy, if I tried. I could run around quoting Simon and Garfunkel, learning simple songs with sweet melodies on my guitar, drinking herbal tea and trying to be bohemian. In addition to the folk music, I've been reading poetry written by musicians. Leonard Cohen, Billy Corgan, those kinds of people. The kind who write about longing and loneliness in the middle of the night. The kind who mark their time with cigarettes and ashtrays and empty bottles of what once was red wine, but is now the blood that travels through their veins.
Death Cab for Cutie wrote a song called Lightness that talks about the heart as a river and the brain as a dam:
Your heart is a river that flows from your chest
Through every organ
Your brain is the dam
And I am the fish who can't reach the core.
I guess that's all I have to say, right now.
1. It is -20 degrees outside, and frankly, not very sunny.
2. I have writer's block.
I can feel creativity bubbling up inside me, but it has nowhere to go. I'm just thinking over one sentence that I'd like to use; chewing it up and spitting it out and trying again. This is the sentence (in one of its multiple variations):
Your words go down easy: they just leave your lips and slip into my own, and I can roll them around and really feel their weight before letting them in all the way.
I've been listening to a lot of folk music lately. I think I could be folksy, if I tried. I could run around quoting Simon and Garfunkel, learning simple songs with sweet melodies on my guitar, drinking herbal tea and trying to be bohemian. In addition to the folk music, I've been reading poetry written by musicians. Leonard Cohen, Billy Corgan, those kinds of people. The kind who write about longing and loneliness in the middle of the night. The kind who mark their time with cigarettes and ashtrays and empty bottles of what once was red wine, but is now the blood that travels through their veins.
Death Cab for Cutie wrote a song called Lightness that talks about the heart as a river and the brain as a dam:
Your heart is a river that flows from your chest
Through every organ
Your brain is the dam
And I am the fish who can't reach the core.
I guess that's all I have to say, right now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
