Either Way

“We talk about our voices as writers- how they are strong and brave but how as people we are wimps. This is what creates our craziness. The chasm between the great love we feel for the world when we sit and write about it and disregard we give in our own human lives. How Hemmingway could write of the great patience of Santiago in the fishing boat and how Hemmingway himself, when he stepped out of his writing studio, mistreated his wife and drank too much.”

I wrote this down immediately after I had read it. To me, this quote encouraged thoughts of  bravery and strength. I contemplated how my writing represents me and how fair that representation  is in consideration of the way I carry myself in reality or “beyond the blog” so to speak.  It is easier to be decisive in writing. For me personally, writing is an outlet where I can feel strong. One of my favorite quotes, as it were, is ” it is important in life not to necessarily be strong but to feel strong”.  This is where I feel strong. This is where I can catch myself thinking and pick it apart. Learn how to improve on myself. Learn the importance of honesty in representation.

Today I was scheduled to meet an adviser  at the University to sift through the details of my English degree. While she went out of her office to photo copy my course history, I sat and waited in her pristine white office. The shutters of her 11th floor office space were open. Blue sky. I felt like I was in summer school again. I used to take Physics courses during the summer (two consecutive summers) to avoid taking it in high school. My Physics professor always had the windows opened. Old building painted white on the inside, open windows, minimal items, discolored posters, and the smell of sharpened pencils. Fabulous nostalgia. While I watched the blinds gently tap the window with every breeze, I felt safe and as though I  was doing the right thing. I was right where I needed to be. Inquiring about writing.  Giving myself time to develop my thoughts. I’m here for me. My best friend is waiting outside in the hall for me. These years won’t last long. Appreciate the process.

Although I have lived in Calgary most of my life (with the exception of the past two years) I know nothing about our city’s university. I know it is huge. One word: huge.  In the past I have been very overwhelmed by the prospect of transferring universities. For very personal reasons, I have been reluctant in the recent past to allow myself to truly be excited over the prospect of continuing and ultimately finishing post secondary school here in Calgary. For one, I had the intention of finishing my education elsewhere because I promised myself that I would. Second,  I met people, one person particular, that  I do not want to be apart from.  For these specific and personal reasons I have not allowed myself to fully accept this change. If anything, I have resented the consequences of “change” and transition. I have not been satisfied with these particular changes and therefore I have not truly accepted them.

Now and then we can recognize the source of our happiness in life or lack of. In consideration of “the source” we either honor it or do not. We either work to improve our attitude or sink in despair, blowing out candles and tossing pennies into “lucky” waters.  Most of the time our happiness doesn’t rely on hope, although it absolutely can. However, I believe it stems from the tangible- from reality. What is real are the choices that we make. The source of those choices are usually (hopefully) made by the individual heart.

The changes that I have come to endure and have pretended to fully accept and respect, have occurred because of decisions I have made. Influenced or not, bold or timid, this is my reality. I have tentatively accepted the potential of the next two years.  Tentatively. This is my demise.

I could be stronger. Rather than telling you that I want to finish school as soon as possible so I can return to a place that I’ve grown comfortable with, I could tell you that I’m thrilled to meet new people, learn new things, and find out the possibilities in those “new things”.  I could see the world as a student. I could learn a new language. I could have more people to rely on and to support. I could write “better” poetry (for lack of a… better word). I could tutor younger students in the art of English. I could strive for fulfillment and not just consider it as  an option.

Living with regret, guilt, worry and wishes is highly dangerous in my opinion.  It is life threatening. You could be stronger. You could be healthier. You could be so enlightened. You could be conversational and diverse.

It clicked that I have been weak since the reality of change struck. I didn’t truly accept change, rather I resented it and therefore could not accept or perceive possibilities in it. “I wish I were there”. And just like so, I avoided the “here” and “dreamed” about the day that I would be “there”. I had two years down the line, rehearsed in my mind. Imagine wanting something situational two years from now. How ignorant of the present. How insecure!

The present is all that exists. Literally. Exists.

While walking the new campus, I was in awe of its beauty. Sarah, my map, had shown me the book store, the library, the coffee shops, concert halls, and the travel agency for students. A flight to Paris: $449. Taxes to be included. It gave me a thrill. I could learn here. I could strive here. I could achieve something as great as standing underneath the Eiffel tower.  That flight is accessible.

Sarah showed me where she went to organize her semester in Amsterdam abroad. And it gave me goosebumps. I couldn’t stop smiling. Here was my best friend navigating me around a campus that we’ve both come to love and hate for the very particular reason that it has segregated us from being with our significant others.  Being enrolled in this particular university has brought change.

I am proud of her for pursuing her dreams, regardless of how difficult it has been. It’s tempting to follow love and forget the kind that makes up your dreams.  I think both Sarah and I know just how tempting it is to leave a dream that won’t prove real til five or six years have passed. Perhaps most students do, now that I consider it. It would be nice if everything came into bloom. Rather, here we are cultivating ourselves, sometimes absent of sunlight, finding light and growth in reassuring embraces that have overcome distance and time.

A dream inevitably implies obstacles. Only in sarcasm do obstacle-free dreams exist.

I am fortunate and truly blessed to have a best friend that shows me what bravery and strength looks like. It’s not ignoring change, resenting it, or partially accepting the idea of it but disagreeing with it nonetheless.  Bravery and strength, as Sarah has showed me, is accepting change willingly. To surrender to it and make the most of it. And Sarah has made the most of it. Incredible grades, a friend to all she meets, a beautiful relationship with her love, and an outstanding reputation at work- she is what motivates me to accept change. Because if we don’t, we live foolishly. We miss out on the things we want the most or perhaps the one thing: happiness.

It isn’t important to necessarily be strong- but to feel strong. I think the latter can work magic.  In preaching, through writing, the importance of strength, happiness, and love, which I usually write about, I believe it’s time that I put my words into perspective. I’m not Hemmingway and I don’t want to be. Here, in writing, is where we can feel strong- out there, is where we can be strong. Our lives are not fiction, though for the distracted, like Hemmingway, they can be. Live honesty and reality. Say what you mean and mean what you say. Fiction or reality, we can’t afford to be afraid. Ending’s are always the same when we’re afraid. Maybe we just need to listen to ourselves now and then. I wonder what would have happened if Hemmingway did just that.

Maybe the sun will shine today
The clouds will roll away
Maybe I won’t be so afraid
I will understand everything has its plan
Either way

-Wilco

Milano

Subway station in Milan

August 29th

Tea stained blouse and dirty toes

Weary from the steps of the Duomo

Pigeons peck at the railroad tracks

 By the great clock I wait in a pew

I would give anything to touch you

I smile at a man that reminds me of a pocket watch

I watch icecream melt in the case of the gelato shoppe

August 29th, train station in Milan

Heat falls from the rafters and down to the pews

I watch babies bumble in their tidy shoes.

I think of how there is no one I argue with but you

“Tutto a bordo”  I sling my bag and walk with butterflies

Night has transformed the floor to newspaper print

I carry a map and a watch that refuses to tick

I do not want a sense of time but only ever place

I see lovers board, linger, love, and contemplate

The walls of the station are polluted and dark

Coins drop, eyes blink, bells ring, and steam gives

La stazione is a circus in a paper bag.

Postage stamps in my pocket, I miss your hands

Milan will never be the same.

I’m breathless and wait to shout your name.

Live ASAP

I bet if I asked you, dearest reader, how you spend your time while waiting for a flight at the airport you’d forget to tell me the truth. Now, whether we are friends or not is beside the point because I know that you, like myself and virtually everyone else capable of entering those automatic doors of the airport, indulge in staring at people. Before an hour has expired, your delayed flight is ready to board, and Tim Horton’s has run out of whole wheat bread, you will have done a complete 360 analysis of your surroundings, or rather, the people present in your surroundings. Now, I’m not sure how you do it. There are various ways, of course, I’ve noticed people attempt to be unassuming behind ‘The Globe and Mail’, on way to the bathroom and/or bubble gum machines, and even in conversation with baristas. I’ve noticed this through the years and I’ve come to presently conclude that we’re all guilty of it. I mean, we’re all guilty of staring at people while at the airport. Some people consider this whole…thing, poetic. One question penetrates the minds of us all while stalling for boarding time: “Who are you? Where are you going? Why?” Okay, so maybe that’s three questions and math was never my favorite, but ultimately, we want to know the stories of the people around us, the “who are you”? When we ask ourselves, individually, this particular question we can’t even completely answer it. I don’t know anyone who can, really. Why bother, for like Bob Dylan once said “All I can do is be myself, whoever that is”. There is no real answer. But some questions, maybe the important ones, we ask knowing there is no real answer. The wondrous “why’s”. Perhaps the curiosity in someone else allows one, unconsciously, to manifest ideas of himself or herself.

This sort of indulgence in quiet curiosity can become habit. A simple fix for the imagination. I’m addicted. It’s beyond the airport for me and onto the streets.

After spending my morning (yesterday’s morning, at work) reading the latest issue of Rolling Stone, I left at noon to meet my aunt for lunch. The clouds had bullied their way through blue and hovered just above the downtown streets. When it rains it pours. And it did. In white high heels and a pink petticoat I ran several blocks down 7^th Avenue in the pouring rain. On the corner of 4^th Street I caught something, or rather someone that made me slow my pace and nearly skid on high heels. Beside a rusty pub on the corner of 4^th street there is a men’s clothing store. I can’t recall the name of it but it is very upper class. There are three suits displayed in the window with uncoiled ties and shiny shoes. Very corporate. Very polished wood. Ironically, the outdoor speakers of the store was playing Pink Floyd’s ‘Money’. If I were rich, I’d take the scenario as a sign that I needed a closet make-over. Mind you, I’d have to be a man in that case. Sitting on the ledge of the display window was a homeless man. His skin tone and facial features suggested he was Puerto Rican. He had strong cheek bones and sat with water dripping on his weathered red baseball cap. A buggy containing all of his belongings was parked close beside him. His arms were folded as were his legs and he just stared at the items displayed behind the glass. At that particular moment I was fascinated only by what this person was potentially thinking. He was really evaluating the dark blue pin-stripped suit. I wondered if he was thinking about the last time he wore a suit, or if he had at all, or what he’d do if he could afford one. He didn’t seem to have the disposition of wanting to steal it. ‘Money’ was blaring from the speakers.

I was running late and I had another three blocks to go in the pouring rain.

One latte, a warm conversation, and slice of carrot cake later, I accepted the wrath of the gods and walked several blocks back to work in the pouring rain. He was still there on 4th Street. I knew I had to write about him, remember him somehow.

I came into work dripping wet, stockings soaked and make-up free. All around me were blue suits. I tended to my receptionist desk, a temporary desk, and opened my e-mail account here. It’s not actually my own quite yet nor will it ever be, mind you. I was still being addressed in these e-mails as Sara, the previous receptionist. The particular floor I work on only has twenty five employees. I’ve met every single one of them and I have introduced myself and wished them a good morning for the past two weeks. I’m still Sara. I’m neither insulted nor hurt but this example epitomizes the pace of my current work place. I order exotic fruit for this particular group of people and half of it is thrown out. I ordered pens because they were requested. When they were delivered they were not good enough. I thought a pen was a pen. And exotic fruit was exotic. When I am at work my life ambition is to comfort the directors of this company by making them fresh coffee three times a day and fulfill any other sort of request. I’m capable, sure. But it’s a waste of coffee. Easily. One to three cups per brew. All that wasted coffee could warm somebody on the corner of the building’s street or at least make somebody feel like talking. I don’t think anyone in my work place actually needs coffee. The assistants alone make coffee nervous. Personal conversations here are kept to a minimal. How’s the weather, how’s your morning, that’s good. I’m not looking down on the corporate life. It’s admirable in ways. My current co-workers work extremely hard. They don’t punch out at five. Their work carries on with them nearly twenty four hours a day. But I wouldn’t lust for a blue suit nor an assistant or a fresh cup of coffee every two hours. It’s threatening, I think. Everything is at the touch of technology. Everything is accessible, everything is based on consumerism, and everything is “ASAP”. I wondered if he knew that. Mr.Display window, that is. I wish I knew what he was thinking.

Lusting for a suit could leave you lusting for life. I know it can. And lusting for life could lead you anywhere- even undesirable places like the corner of 4th Street. While extreme ways of living exist, they can be conquered by ambition of living a quality life. Quality does not mean money nor does it mean having no money.

Balance, I suppose, is quality. I wonder how we make transitions in our life without realizing it or if we do realize it, how we can accept transitions that aren’t necessarily positive or fringe upon our quality of life. I wonder how some people can work more than twelve hours a day or say someone else’s name twenty times more than they say their own name. I wonder how some people end up on the streets, just as capable as you and I. I wonder a lot things. I think today really helped me to access what quality of life means. It’s not working 15 hours a day and it’s not calling the corner of 4th Street a home, either. At least not in my opinion. Evaluating what we want and how we want to attain it in life is something that we may have to remind ourselves on a daily basis or from time to time. Perhaps this is what this entry is. A reminder.

Happy Birthday

I’ve always thought to myself that if I could sing, I would. If I possessed some great talent in the art of singing, you would hear me in the streets and see me on stage. Boy, would you know. I was apart of Calgary Girl’s Choir for a few years and loved being apart of something that could be performed. I was an Alto and I always stood third or fourth in from the left side of the front row. I loved my choir conductor, Ms.Quilichini. She was (and I suppose still is) 5″0. She always wore these beautiful cream dresses at our Christmas recitals in December. I loved when she received roses. It bewildered me. I loved her and trusted her for what she gave me: happiness. How’s that for an introduction.

When I first auditioned to be apart of her choir I was not nervous. I was twelve at the time and I had never wanted anything more than to be apart of her choir. I sang “happy birthday” at my audition and it made my mother cry. Boys were not of great interest to me yet, nor did I want them to be. At this time in my life I was still collecting rocks and spending the majority of my life outside (at least til it was dinner time). My piano, my books, and my family were most important to me simply because I loved them all (obviously one deeper than the other) and they all gave me happiness that I could seldom contain. As I write this I am recognizing what a special childhood I had.  And I suppose it was.

I still remember one of the greatest days I’ve ever had. I was in choir and I was very serious about my piano. On this one particular day I had played my piano for eight hours with no breaks.  It was a hot day in July and it was the one day that I did not step outside. I was thirteen, I believe. I remember my hair was tied in a loose ponytail and the fly-away strands were pressed against my neck.  It sort of bothered me when I wasn’t playing. The room with my piano in it was incredibly warm and our fan had broken in that room. This was, as you can tell, years ago when fans were the best accessory for a room. Loved the 90s. Practicality!  Yes, this was years ago. And I will never forget that day. Eight hours felt like two and I did not recognize how much time I had spent in that room playing my piano. That day my mom took a picture of me. I’m not really sure why. She used to go on photo binges. We have albums that consist of two or three average days from years ago. I think it’s rather brilliant.

She had taken a picture of me on that piano day.  In the photo I am slumped over on my piano bench, partly facing her. My hair is pressed against my (then tanned) skin, I am wearing an over sized white t-shirt with bright green spandex shorts. You can see the freckles on my nose that only come out when the sun does. I’m holding my glasses in my hand and I’m smiling with my lips stuck together, like I’m weary of something or I’m a mad conductor.  When I feel like it, I look at that picture. I pulled out this particular photo after coming home from a concert with my friend James just last Friday.

James had taken me to a concert hosted by Revv 52 which was a night of “music and life”.  It was at The Grace church in Calgary, just a few blocks off of 17th avenue by the coffee shop Beano where all the Europeans at the center of Calgary gather for a late night espresso. Sanity in an espresso cup, as I like to think of it. I loved the church. And I loved the people that I had been introduced to that evening.  Over James’ own musical career, which I’ve been following for years now, he has introduced me to people that have had a significant influence over me. People that I tend to think about quite a bit considering that I know relatively nothing about them beyond an evening that we have shared.  I was introduced to James’ mate Russell and his wife Mernie or Minnie. James didn’t know.  I suppose it’s too late in the game to ask your band mate what his wife’s name is after months of playing together! I suppose we’ll find out one day! Anyhow. Perhaps the most simplistic and enjoyable people I have had the honor to meet in a very long time. Russell’s shorts were rather embarrassing (for his legs and reputation)  but James and I found this to be quite funny. Russ has great blue eyes. They are incredibly soulful. Minnie wore a jean jacket and jeweled sandals and was very tranquil. Our initial conversation, beyond introduction, was about yam sandwiches, feminine bubble gum, and air conditioning. I found myself laughing with them and completely comfortable.  Aside from music and our obvious connection to one another (James) we all shared a very apparent admiration for Brian Farrell.  Brian has been James’ mentor for quite some time now and is well known in the Calgary music scene. He is essentially a vocal coach, mentor, and conductor. He had conducted and assembled, I’m assuming, the entire concert of this particular evening. His taste is impeccable, and although other musicians that I am friends with have described him as difficult or critical at times, one cannot overlook that this is simply apart of what he does. If he was not critical or attentive to beauty and flaw, he’d inevitably lose his fabulous reputation in music.  Now, I’m no musician brought to light by him, but I’m sure, just by his disposition when I speak to him, that he is passionate and incredibly so.  The one thing that I look for in anything and anybody. I admire and cherish passion. So that evening, James, Russell, Mernie/Minnie and I sat in a pew and listened to a choir. Between each song, or every other, a member of the choir would share something personal with the audience about music and its presence in his or her life. The songs that were sung ranged from Billie Holiday’s “I’ll Be Seeing You” to Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” and Aretha Franklin’s “Bridge Over Troubled Waters”.  It was a simply divine set list with the occasional “hallelujah” song.

I had no idea what to expect when we sat in that pew. But I did catch sight of the tails of Brian’s long jacket when he stood before his choir and I thought of Ms.Quilichini immediately. I recognized passion and commitment.  I found memory and the feeling of nostalgia burned inside of me for hours that night. The choir- a well sized choir was no more than 60 people, I’m sure. Maybe 52?  Everyone was of a different age. Some in their 30s, others in their 50s and 60s, maybe even 70s. The men wore pink shirts with black pants and the women wore white t-shirts (some with a black vest) with a design of a woman in shades printed on the front.  Much more contemporary than the brooch and plaid skirt I used to have to wear. Gosh, I hope that’s changed.

I noticed an older woman in the choir that was either first or second  in the front row of stage left. She was a tiny woman, perhaps in her mid 50s or early 60s. Before the choir had begun to sing, I watched her admire the stained glass windows at the back of the church and I saw her beam towards the people sitting in the balconies. She was making a memory. I used to do it, myself. I used to think “okay, this won’t last long” and I’d try to remember the faces that I saw and the feeling it gave me to know that I was on stage and I was going to give something that night. I was going to help whoever it was out there to forget their worries and causes of tension. And if I was lucky, I was going to make somebody cry. Something was going to get through to them. A harmony was going to change their perspective on, well, life- even if only for a moment.  A sound was going to make them feel- and it was going to come from me and my friends standing beside and around me. We were going to do it together. We had been practicing twice a week, five hours a week, and probably had practiced twice as much individually.  I used to take really long showers when I was that young.  I never wanted the song to end under the shower head. When it was time to perform, especially at our sold out Christmas concerts at the Jack Singer, singing and performing was all I could think about just days before and even days after. Nothing can compensate the thrill of performing. When that curtain reveals you to the audience it is a rush. The smell of make-up, an old stage, hairspray, and the effects of humidity on an old building is like no other.  The smell of roses after the show is rather remarkable, too. The beauty of the night is epitomized in a bouquet.  One of my favorite indulgences of performing. Roses. After every show I never felt once like there was somewhere else I needed to be nor did I feel the pangs of wanting to be somewhere else or even someone else. I felt right.  I felt like I was doing what I was supposed to and my entire family couldn’t be more proud. There were always tears and I perceived it as a good thing. And it was. I know this, even in retrospect.  I was right satisfied.

And so was she. The woman in the front row. Gee, did she sing and did she move. Snapping her fingers and closing her eyes.  A seemingly hysterical image. Sometimes it was. Sometimes not. Something genuine. I saw passion. I saw life at its greatest. An as semblance of talent, commitment and beauty. Sitting in that church felt so good.  For the longest time, well, for the past two months or so its been a lot of oysters and no pearls. It’s been a lot of red lights and running late. The changes that I’ve experienced in some very important relationships I have, one in particular, has consumed me for the past two months. I have not dealt with it very well at all. I cannot get over that I really am individual now. My love is in a different city and my friends are very separate from one another.  It’s the city and me and oh how it consumed me for a good two months. A lot of rain on my pillow. Why must things change. And why couldn’t I be stronger about it. Huh.  I don’t take down pictures when things “happen” or, in other words, change. I don’t reduce myself to a pessimistic entity. I try to objectify what has happened and be wise about it. “This happened, okay. What can I do?” and then to “I wish it didn’t but it’s time to move on” and finally “I’m moving on”.  Yep. Just in case you wonderin’, I guess. But you probably weren’t…at all.  Nonetheless, I needed the music that night, I needed a friend to share a martini with, and I needed to meet passion and people who had it without focusing on the fact that they did.

In my mind, it felt like New York all over again.  Like the first time I saw it from above the empire state building. What lights and smug satisfaction. The night was not only New York to me, but the thrill of walking a warm winter night when the flakes fall like paper tissue. It felt like hot chocolate and window shopping at Christmas. It felt like black leather boots and trudging through snow to choir practice.  It felt like watching a highly anticipated movie in theaters. It felt like the first time I saw my grandfather cry when I sang for him. It felt like that photograph. It felt like me and the life that is my own that I would not trade for any other.

I’m not writing this out of vanity- truly, I am not. This is me recognizing what was and how it’s given me what is.

From this concert I shared with a friend, I rediscovered that we all can sing. For better or for worse. More importantly, that we need to- at all humiliating costs. Take it beyond the literal sense. We need to sing. We need to accept that change happens, you can be abandoned, you can be confused, you can be loved and unloved, and you can cry because of all of these things. But we need to be gracious and resilient. We need to sing. Resilience. Always. There is always going to be a time where things couldn’t get worse in your opinion. And there are times in your life where you realize that things could and it scares the hell out of you because what you have is so precious to you. You are the keeper of your memories and your life. Nobody knows in absolution, what you have experienced and what you have felt from these experiences. Only you know this. When you walk, you walk with a history and as a  consequences of that history. You walk with experience and secrets that you wish to share with nobody but yourself. Recognize how valuable your life is. Realize how valuable you are. There is no need for a best friend to tell you this when you’re down and blue. You can be your own best friend. And you should be. Because in any relationship you have, in particular, any romantic relationship that you pursue, you can’t understand someone if you don’t understand yourself and this is perhaps the root of some, not all, arguments that couples have with one another- even friends. Know how valuable you are and the great and brilliant investment it is to get to know yourself.

I think when somebody does something for herself or himself, he or she consequently does something for another person. Sing and I will hear you. Write and I will read.

To myself, I must, although this should be in private,  play the piano. Run outside like I used to. Mediate in church like I once did although I do not believe in religion. I need to photograph love like I want to. And to make plans that pertain to the “now” and nothing more. To live every day, however cliché, like it is my last. To spend time talking with my family and friends. To make memories. To impulsively purchase a ticket to Scotland because I’ve wanted to go for as long as I can remember. To make friends in a pub somewhere foreign to here. To really get out there and live- not plan to.  To remember that younger person in the photograph who once wanted to play in an orchestra and wear a gown. That’s what I wanted once. I don’t know who you were when you were little but it’s important that you do. Because that will guide you in more ways than you can imagine. Way back when you weren’t touched by change. Don’t let it get to you. It happens. And we sail on. The telescope just looks a little different. That’s all. We are valuable.

For what it’s worth: it’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.

Unknown.

The initial realization that “things” have changed provides the most frightening and daunting feeling one could begin to understand. In any relationship, say a boyfriend or girlfriend, this is perhaps the most unnerving realization, especially if it is not a mutual one. Heartbreak. Responsibility. Unknown.

In the context of a friendship, it is simply tragic when things are lost and beyond repair. Calls grow infrequent, and the things we are bursting to share with that particular friend, ends up burning into oblivion among the cloud of many things that will always be left unsaid. Lonely. Independent. Unknown.

The bonds solidified in family. What happens when one recognizes what he or she wants is vastly different from what others want for them? Differences in family, so I’ve seen, are either understood and respected or not at all. I believe this to be true on account of the many people I know who are segregated from and by their families on account of mild difference. I find in moments of misunderstood difference, the things that excite or inspire me the most are repressed in conversation. I save it for that cloud of oblivion. Now this does not happen all the time for I am incredibly blessed with a family that attempts to understand the things that they initially do not. But there are times, no doubt, in every family where intensely personal or excitable things are left unsaid because they are better left untouched by commentary or critique. Some things we’d rather enjoy in privacy. Caution. Respect. Unknown.

We grow and we grow to find that the things that once comforted us or made us feel earth bound can alienate us in one respect or another and inspire feelings so strong that any place but the present one occupied would provide a greater sense of comfort. A new place, unlike a past one, is unknown and therefore not comparable to change. I find the experience of returning to a past place to be discouraging, as though I’m supposed to fade into who I used to be and laugh at the jokes that just don’t make sense anymore. I have changed just as the people who I thought I knew have. I suppose the art and beauty in this sort of repression and state of standstill, is to create the new in the old. To accept that abandonment is an opportunity to fly. Find something new. Find something very “you”.
Two years happens to be a long time when you leave a so-called “place” to pursue another. Perhaps my future ambitions were taken personally by the friends I had to leave, in a way, in this past place. I really do not know but things have immensely changed. I’ve deliberated over this for the past week or so. Me or them? How about both. How about “it happens” or how about “it’s suppose to”. People that we love or wanted to love for seemingly endless days, come and go. Perhaps it’s not a reflection of myself but perhaps nature or destiny itself. What can I say? I’m a victim of incredible change. We usually are.

The link below was sent to me by Noah. In evaluation of it, if change is my problem, here’s how to solve it:

http://www.illuminatedmind.net/2008/12/11/the-best-way-to-solve-a-problem-give-up/

Red Light

My desk faces a new window.  There are boxes everywhere that are full of things I have forgotten I posses.  There are new clothes with tags on them. Hampers full of blankets and sweaters. Books everywhere. Designs for a shelf on my bare desk. I cannot see the floor. There are too many things here. I thought about starting. Again. I thought about making this room my own. I picked up a vase from Tunisia that Kayla had bought me in Africa and placed it on my desk. I began to crumble and realized it was too early to unpack boxes. I opened my type writer. The only thing I am capable of doing at this hour.

Today I was in a grocery store and I wandered aimlessly. I was there to purchase flowers and ribbon. It took me nearly thirty minutes to do so.  The red on the tomatoes never made me so nervous before. In one particular aisle, I found the neatly stacked cans of soup very teasing. I thought of Andy Warhol and my anxiousness only worsened. Warhol is lame in my opinion. No offence intended. My heart was beating at an exceptional rate. I wandered with a lump in my throat, past the bakery and the orchids. It would not subside despite the freshness my senses pursued. I never found a market so undesirable nor frightening.  The lighting bothered me, too. I wanted to leave as fast as I could. When I reached the cashier, she did not understand this. How could she? Nonetheless, she had one item to scan before mine. The old man was purchasing flowers for his wife. “She’ll like these”. His words were languid and I wanted to find and swipe his credit card for him. One item and six minutes later I was asked if I found everything alright. Sure.

My heart continued to accelerate and I did not pay heed to the speed bumps in the parking lot on way to my exodus.  I remember noting that I needed to cut my nails. They were driving me crazy. I needed to pick him up. I needed to leave the city by 5:00pm. I needed to say goodbye. Aside from my heart rate and nervous fingers drumming on the steering wheel, I was able keep my eyes dry.  Until he drove my car and we stopped at a red light.  I looked at his hands on the steering wheel and they were strong.  His eyes were directed ahead of him and he was concerned. Not about my departure but about his grades. He was still my handsome graduate regardless of pass or fail. I told him I didn’t know what I was going to do. And I don’t. I don’t know what I’m going to do without him or how I will spend my summer, or what school I will be attending in the fall. I know absolutely nothing.  And for the first time in a long time I am completely paralyzed by no absolution. I haven’t felt this paralyzed since Junior High. Years ago. And I don’t know how I dealt with it. Eventually, I made the decision to be happy. I suppose this is one of those “create happiness” type-situations. It feels very far away, though. Tonight feels like the first of my one hundred days without him about a year ago. There’s no rain to keep me company nor friend nearby that I can call or write to. Some things we have to deal with alone, I suppose. This is much more difficult than I had thought it would be.  Moving back home, that is.  There are many things unfamiliar to me, here.  I am insulated in silence and surrounded by bare red walls. I know, at this very moment, that I do not have the energy or motivation or ambition (or whatever) to begin what really is a “new life”.  There is the great public assumption that I am returning to an “old life” or my previous ways of living. I couldn’t even if I tried. Too much time has elapsed, thankfully. I quite enjoy who I spend my time with now. It is the now.

I’ve thought of things that I can do to pass the time, here. I’ve thought about raising a puppy, building a book shelf, and running a marathon.  Any one of the three would be a distracting option or “helpful”.

There’s no true climax to this particular entry, by the way.  This is just a documentation of this very night, I guess.  An illustration of my attitude. Something I could change (positively) given time. I reckon I can if I’m thinking about it.

The start of the next two years. Twenty-four months.  My folks tell me, between simultaneous conversations, that I will make more friends and find my true ones.  They tell me that they saw one another once a week when my mom was in university. I suppose this is supposed to make me feel better. I just want to be victim of a killer smile. Feel like everything is going to be alright.

The beginning of the rest of my life. I truly wonder. Days can be so mundane. One can be so radically different from the previous. It is simply unreal. I wonder how much of our happiness has to do with our willingness to adapt.

I’d like to see my friends tomorrow. Any one of them.  And I’d like to talk to Cullen soon.  And have hot chocolate with James. I want to go out for noodles with Kayla and watch movies all day with Bailey. I want Noah to help me pick out an Indian rug for my bedroom.  And I’d like to pick out my outfit for when I pick “him” up at the Greyhound station. And I’d like to make a reservation at that posh pizza place in Kensington for Saturday night.

My boyfriend (”him”) and I tell one another that the best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time. It’s an optimistic thing to say, really. And I think we have to be, though tonight it’s too hard to try to be.

Thinking about the ocean waves of the Pacific sometimes helps to calm me.

It is inevitable that tonight I require the pulse of those waves.

When this is over, we can walk on water.

I might as well hang my pretty dresses.

216

Often times I’ve heard people quote life as being a “balance of holding on and letting go.” I’ve come to believe in this entirely. I anticipated to write something surrounding this quote for the past five weeks or so. I’ve always been a mindful girl. I think about longevity, I think about things in terms of the linear. I think about the eventual. And I think about the blissful end.  This tends to happen in almost everything I do. Accessorizing  for a wedding, planning a trip, or even setting a dinner table. I always think of the beautiful end. Photographs, footprints, sounds and conversations. What I want. This is not to say, however, that I think all the time or I need therapeutic sessions preaching of the “now”. I can do the “now” but I can also see beyond it and sometimes this feeds my soul. Other times it shakes it. Maybe I’m referring to faith. I really dunno.

What happens when you’re holding onto as much as you’re letting go? What happens if you can’t foresee the so-called “blissful end”? Some vague walking watch suit might say “that’s life for you” but that does not answer my desire or thirst for contemplation.  You might wonder what I find so conflicting. I’d rather not be ambiguous.

 I  left the city I grew up in two years ago and moved away to another city, not so far away, under conditions of a university student. I was so scared but I knew it was the greatest thing I had ever done. Even if it was just under three hours away from the familiar.  I was also beyond excited. I had an entire world to learn. How to cook and domesticate myself in such a new and unfamiliar place. I had to learn how to share who I was with others. Where I had come from, I was rewarded for being myself. I always had a spot reserved on the football bleachers. I loved the people I knew and they loved me. It was such a pleasant upbringing. It was open and caressing. I had to learn new people. And, ultimately, I had to learn me. When there was no one around to ask me how my day was, I’d ask myself and I’d think about it. I’d fix where I’d gone wrong. And when it was Friday morning, I’d load up the car and head 3 hours North- where they knew me, just to feel confident again. But those visits gradually grew infrequent. I learned how to walk from a local pub in two inch heels. I learned that “let’s go for coffee” meant “let’s be friends”, I learned that laughing attracts people. I learned how to create a life with new people who were just as brilliant and beautiful as the people from my fresh history.  I still cherished my friends from senior year, but also learned to accept change and the people it had invited into my life. I met someone I completely fell in love with unexpectedly. A pack of skittles and a history class. We used to study Rock n’ Roll together. He kissed me after reviewing Carole King and James Taylor. I didn’t hear a thing.

I grew to love the place that scared me. And I just grew. Some people refer to this place as a geographical dud. Maybe it is. There’s no ocean, nor boardwalk or lantern restaurant. But that’s not why I love it. I love this place because of the people that have invited me into their lives without contemplation of who I am or where I come from.  And now I am leaving it for very convoluted reasons. Ultimately, I’m leaving it for schooling. And I’m back at one. And I’m back to being scared. And I doubt that it’s the same kind of “I’m scared” as before. This is much more emotionally confusing than that. And I can’t put my finger on it. I think this time I really am broadcasting from ‘Radio Nowhere’. I truly am lost. I have beautiful people, loving people in the city I grew up in. I am thrilled to see them, too. But I feel as though I am leaving in the prime of a new life. Like a baby wearing shoes for the first time after she has learned to walk barefoot. It’s trippy. Or maybe like that kid who learns how to ride a bike without training wheels only to have them screwed on again. I feel like I am perhaps moving backwards in the motion of moving forward and it is exhausting yet hilarious to recognize.  Even so, the people I have met and fallen in love with, if genuine, will always be there, training wheels or not. And I suppose in moving backwards this is my motivation. To appreciate and love the people who tell me “it’s okay” and truly believe that it is. I couldn’t ask for anything more.

I leave in under four weeks. I’ll be 20 soon. Big deal, I know. The only thing I am completely sure of is the highway, the one I drive three hours North of this place and three hours South of that place. You should see those fields when the sun’s rays are upon them. A scarecrow would even appreciate them. It’s good stuff. And you should see the Honey Bee Farm. The white sign is faded. Perhaps the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. And you should see how fast those lines on the road pass you by. When you’re about 45 minutes away from Calgary, Alberta, 15 minutes from Nanton, you’ll see a farm with a smiley face painted on the siding of it. That’s when you know you’re close. On exceptional sunny days, the sky is completely blue and you can see the windmills in the distance. A Bruce Springsteen album shot. Makes you want to kick up dust with your boots or wander in your jeans. Makes you want to touch everything. Makes you want to feel everything. Your senses are alive. It’s like understanding a Bob Dylan song for the first time without the raindrops.

Ev’rybody knows
That Baby’s got new clothes
But lately I see her ribbons and her bows
Have fallen from her curls.
She takes just like a woman, yes, she does
She makes love just like a woman, yes, she does
And she aches just like a woman
But she breaks just like a little girl.

I think that’s what I know best right now. 216 Km. I thought I’d know a lot more than that by this time. Not really.  I remember a lot of things and I’ll be 20 soon. My room here is empty. I have a fully charged camera.  I plan to document my attempt at flying a kite in what could very well be the windiest city EVER. Beyond that, I plan on fishing with my love, sharing champagne with him in a field (lame? you haven’t lived),  painting a canvas, going out for cupcakes and tea, hiking, cooking a Martha Stewart envy, and doing something irrational like sleeping in a motel for an evening. Possibly try a cigar. No doubt, dance in a country bar ’til the lights bring me back to some Memphis country fair I might have seen in a past life.

My start to 216. Radio Nowhere. I remember a lot of things. I’ll be 20 soon.

Then he said yes I think it can be easily done
Just take everything down to highway 61

Lucky

I didn’t realize how lucky I am until I thought I had been cheated on.

Even on this frosty March night  in my plaid pajamas with my cup of neo-citron placed near his book titled The Year of Living Biblically by A.J. Jacobs, I cannot help but giggle about it still.  I remember not so long ago, perhaps two weeks ago, wanting to rip out every page of that book in fear and hurt. I remember wanting to box everything of his that I had or anything he had ever given me and sending it back to him with a vague, pristine note on the very top of that box.  “Oh, boy” I remember thinking. I sat down on my bed, overwhelmed.

Perhaps I should explain the situation a little better?

I had just received a blackberry thanks to my parents who had  provided me with one free of cost. Some sort of Telus plan where a free blackberry could be tossed in.  Should ‘blackberry’ be italicized? Not sure. Anyways-

 I never imagined I’d have one, just as I had never imagined I’d fly first class, namely because I don’t want to. I like riding economy class, it allows me to say implicitly “I’m just like you and I’m going somewhere”. I also prefer telephone wire.  I suppose a part of me, however,  felt it would be convenient to check my e-mails at hand, thus I accepted the prospect of a blackberry. Might I mention I’ve also flown first class- by accident. Naturally, this is beside the point. I am a person of paradox. You’ll never see the end of the road when you’re with me.

 So I now own a blackberry. Installations of all sorts are required, one being my e-mail account.

I was notified about two weeks ago that I had received an e-mail from my boyfriend. I thought it was so strange considering I scarcely use this particular account installed on my blackberry. I did, however, use this particular account twice a day, every day for three-almost four- months while he was traveling Europe. This of course was almost a year ago, so I was very surprised that he had written me on this particular day for I was to see him that same evening . I truly was mystified as to what this e-mail entailed.

He writes: “I just finished reading your letter. Thank you, hun”

I was captured. I hadn’t written him a letter. What was he referring to?

“I’m sure you will bust through the workload and go home at 4, after all you said you can get a lot accomplished in a short amount of time once you get down to it. Are you gonna call at 430 still or after work?”

But I’m not currently employed. Who is he e-mailing? Did he accidentally send me an e-mail intended for someone else’s eyes?  Holy Moses…HE DID

I scrolled down in a panic. I told myself to breathe. “Just breathe.” Among telling myself to breathe, I thought of the many ways you can slap a person. There’s always the solid back-hand. I’d never try to physically hurt him. But it felt good just thinking about it. Nobody plays me like a slide guitar. Nobody.

“You are my sunshine”

But he says that to me. Just me. I began to crumble. Confidence shattered, I stared bleakly.

I could feel my hot tears ready to charge upon my cheeks, armed with anger. CHAAARRGEE! I sat on my bed and placed the “berry” down beside me. I wondered how this could have happened to me. How he could have made the mistake of sending it to me in the first place? Nonetheless, caught.

 I wondered what I was going to do. Killing him was not an option. I glanced at his book on my desk, among other things, his chocolates for one. I delved into the chocolate box, overwhelmed with streaming cheeks. Oh, the epitome. I’d pack up his things- minus the chocolates. 

I increasingly grew aware of my defence mechanism: to rid the evidence.  I would rid the evidence that he had ever entered my life, let me fall in love with him, and left me heart-broken with a box of chocolates. So, so terrible. Packing up his things would be the best thing to do. Why would I even want the  physical memory of him. Nuh-uh. “So long, baby” as Aretha would say. But I cried like any tough girl would.

I didn’t even recognize that I had received a reply to an e-mail, thus I was oblivious to the fact that he would have had to “forward” an e-mail to me, in order for me to view it if he had, in fact, “replied” to someone other than me. I started getting to work. The books he had given me I had wanted to read. “So much for that”. I started a pile.

“Who is she?”, I said out-loud.  Bitterness swirling in my mouth. I knew it really didn’t matter. She could have been a beauty queen, a cocktail waitress, or an intellectual- it didn’t matter for  I had been cheated on. It didn’t matter why for I had done nothing to invite such betrayal. I can’t imagine many people who do deserve to be betrayed. What a simply horrible thing.  I was furious. Tears still hot. Furious.

 I picked up my blackberry and scrolled, nonetheless.

I wondered who she was. Some big-shot. Yeah, some big-shot.

I scrolled to  read the e-mail she had sent him.  I disliked her already- she was kinda funny in an un-obvious way. Just his type, I thought. Sarcastic. Potentially cultured.  Punctuation could use some work.  For whatever reason, likely the fact that I was overwhelmed, I completely overlooked the fact that this “big-shot” liked the same spicy chicken meal by President’s Choice- enough to include it in a lame e-mail. I love those things. Great micro-wave food.

An affair to remember, indeed. I continued to scroll, contemplating how she signed off.  Did they love each other? I clung to the prospect that his belongings were on their way out. A nice pile by the head-board.

“Love, Cassandra”

That’s how she signed off.

It was me. It was us.

This was an e-mail from June of last year. He was in Europe and I was in Calgary. I suppose my blackberry was trying to load my e-mail history and I had received an e-mail from our relationship history. So much for the tears, and the chocolates, and the jealousy, and the hurt, and the temper. I left my room and paced the hallway outside of it. I dried my tears with my scarf  and felt my heart beat steady itself.

Moron

Needless to say, I felt like one of the world’s most unintelligent people. I could see it- front cover of People magazine, me and my sheepish smile, eyes nearly shut, sub-title reading: ” Are you smarter than Cassandra? Take the test!”

That’s just what that moment was- illogical, irrational, unintelligent. I am head over sneakers for this person. He is not capable of betrayal. Truly, there is not a bad bone in this person’s body. He corrects me when I’m wrong, he explains things to me, he refreshes my perspective on most things, he reads poetry to me, he holds my hand whenever he has the chance to… the list is infinite. This is a person who allows me to recognize the enormity of the infinite. I only knew the definite before I had met him.

Why in the world, would I imagine that betrayal could stem from such a relationship? Impossible.

Calm down. Get real.

I spent the remainder of the hour reading old e-mails from him while he was in Europe. Upon every e-mail that was listed by his name, my heart skipped a beat. Gushy, I know!  Every emotion compressed within 10 minutes, I had exhausted myself and retired to lying on my back on my bed.

I couldn’t help but think that we have such great capacities to love. We often don’t recognize what we have until it is threatened or gone. I think our capacity to love is a miracle. But we have tricked ourselves and deluded ourselves into thinking that when things are good, they are too good, and thus something is wrong or bound to go wrong.  We find reasons as to why things crumble. It is, essentially, a very threatening way to live. It is a very mindful way to live and, ultimately, a very defensive way to live.  We can hurt people like this- we can hurt ourselves, I believe.

We try to prevent things from happening, or we take responsibility for things that are evidently out of our control. We try to blame something or someone for our unhappiness. We do many things. We fix many things and we solve many things.  But we do not surrender to the “now”.  We do not recognize that it is an honor to be in love, nor do we recognize that it is an honor to have friends that we can express ourselves to. We do not recognize the honor it is to be loved and to love someone in return. We can take particular relationships for granted because we try to protect them more than we try to honor or appreciate aspects of them. It’s a motherly flaw and it’s a loving one. We try to protect what we have all the time. We try to avoid threat. We delude ourselves into thinking there is a great negative force out there  that can ruin us all if we let it. Love doesn’t stand a chance in sight of it. Such delusions.

I believe, from this experience, among others, that the only thing there is to be conscious of is love.  There is no reason to evaluate, underestimate, or be weary of love. It is simply there. It is simply present.  We hurt ourselves by rejecting love that we delude ourselves into thinking isn’t real- for whatever reason. It can happen and it does. Divorce rates are at an all time high. Over 50% are failed in North America. Delusions?  Doubts? Could be so many things beyond my 20 years of understanding. Nonetheless, I can’t help but think of what William Shakespeare once said:

“Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt”

Portobello

Portobello Road in west London, England. 

Market in mid July.

Between Golborne Road and Westbourne Grove.

Give me Portobello

 

I shot the moon

And now feel the color blue

I said ‘ I love you’

I shot the moon.

 

Give me Portobello

So I can find my way to Notting Hill Gate

So I can escape your mode of  ’deliberate’

 

I shot the moon

And now feel the color blue

I said ‘ I love you’

I shot the moon.

 

You are my wine and honey.

You burn me with all your sweetness

You asked me how I knew

And to you I said that I saw you

In Milan, Venice, and Torino

On all the dusty trains

I wrote you letters and cried when it rained

 How I missed you so. It’s how I knew.

You are my four seasons

I have one hundred and ninety three reasons

 

Give me Portobello

To distract me from your doubt

To heal me from what I had to say out loud

I love, I love, I love you

Forgive me for catching my breath

I just had to without your consent

I mean true with the courage I didn’t know I possessed

Without regard for what you could or could not express

 

 

So give me Portobello Road. Give me this.

To rid my blue and the smoke left

From shooting the moon

After all, I love you

Critic.

  My recent, yet very frequent, conversations of “direction” have bothered me so very much I have adapted to concealing my feelings and thoughts of contrast. 

There.

Dinner parties, telephone wire, introductions… it’s all about “direction” in life. What are you doing? What is he doing? I am exhausted of it and offended by it for I never base a conversation or my feelings for a person by their “direction”. I want to know what makes you satisfied, I want to know what you’ve heard lately, I want to know how you feel about the places you’ve travelled, I want to know if you’ve read anything or said anything that made you realize something. I want to know if you care for others, I want to know what you dream of or long for, I want to know what you think about destiny, how you feel about nature or the destruction of it. I want to know your profound moments. I don’t want to know how much money you think you’ll be making in the future. I don’t want to know if you surround yourself with successful people. I don’t want to know what possessions you think you can attain in the future. I don’t want to know if you can “make it”. Of course you will. And  I want to believe in who you are.

It’s been driving me mad. A friend of mine recently flew in from Ottawa and we conversed over a cup of tea discussing what “life” entailed for us. We both contributed our idea of “life” to be a giant playground. It was most uplifting and I felt, however fleeting, that the world is a playground, it is not something similar in idea. There are so many experiences to be had, so many things to be taken from the every day. If you just say “yes” to opportunities that unveil themselves to you, you could be frightened and fulfilled. My friend and I agreed that if a person were to do what made he or she happy and fulfilled that happiness in the every day, no one would feel inadequate or feel the need to revise and edit ones self.

I am frankly exhausted and jaded of convincing significant people in my life that I am sound in direction. No one knows what their direction is. It just happens. It’s like telling someone that on June 23rd of 2009 you’re going to fall in love. You can’t say something like that. You can’t tell someone the details of your future either, a future that is not theirs but only ever yours.

Through these mixed emotions and struggles and tears of facing the arrogance in the question of my direction or the ones that I love I can only ever really turn to three people at the present moment. The very thought of these three individuals makes me weep for my very gratitude for their constant presence in my life. These three individuals never ask me what material things I think I can attain in the future, how much money I think I will make, or any other artificial, meaningless persuit. They believe in me. They don’t ask questions like that. It doesn’t mean anything to them. I’d like to talk about one of them. I’d like to talk to her now as if she were here.

Sarah,

I have your sweater here. I was cleaning my room, packing and unpacking and I chose to wear it. I apologize. It’s a really comfy sweater and it smells like you. Creepy? Probably but I chose to do this anyhow. I’ll wash it and give it back to you tomorrow.  I was thinking how that corner of this room needs attention. Postcards, picture frames, picture cut-outs and I thought of how you won’t be here next year to sit in that little corner with me. How you won’t be here to understand my thoughts or my doubts. I wondered today how I’m going to be here without you. It’s not a teenage-like phase; “who am I going vent to?”  It’s a soul thing. I see the ocean and I think of you, the frosted windows of coffee shops, intricate patterns, newspaper print,  the color yellow, the smell of rain, and muggy sunlight… I think of my dear friend. So you see, it’s a soul thing.  I had a very brief conversation with someone this morning. For identity purposes, I’ll persist with the confidentiality. I’m sure you can guess who. But the direction of someone dear to me was in question. And I know this was all said unintentionally but it hurt me so. Since when were we defined by the unknown or that which we cannot honestly confess to know? Do you remember that one dinner party? I know you know the one I’m talking of.  Most of the questions we were asked and judged by were questions that we can only pretend to know the answers to.  We know our passions, we know what makes us happy, we know what we are capable of, yet it’s not sufficient. I want to know where you’re going to be in ten years. Ha. I know that you are my best friend, among three, because you don’t ask me what I’m capable of. You just know. This is my inspiration in writing. Those that truly love you and know you, are not preoccupied by challenges you might face. They are just there to believe in you and have faith in you. I want to thank you for this. You ask me questions. But they never question my integrity as a person or simply who I am. You accept, accept, accept. And you love, love, love. You know something the old sometimes don’t understand. Something that makes you wise, literally, beyond your years. Beyond our years. You know that “…without people in your life to love and share splendors and doubts of this place, you are nothing.”

A professor once said this to me. And I know you understand it. And I know you understand it for soulful reasons not the lame logic of contacts for prosperity reasons.  I don’t really know where this is going. But thank you for loving me enough not to question who I am or who I can be but believing in me and who I can be. Your love gives me the courage to venture out into the open without regard of judgement.  You give me the courage to live (the way I want to) and I want to thank you for your faith. You don’t demand your faith in me to  be proven by my success as a person. You don’t make a mockery of my life and prove your faith like science. Thank you for your faith and for something beautiful.

I guess that would be all. I have yet to sort the attic. I’ve started collecting things for my own home in a short few years. It doesn’t scare me like it used to. I’ll have to show you the wine glasses my mom gave me. I think they’re quite charming.  See you tonight at Adriane’s house.

Love,

Cassandra

 

 ”Faith is the sense of life, that sense by virtue of which man does not destroy himself, but continues to live on. It is the force whereby we live” – Leo Tolstoy