Fireflies

Fingers intertwined as we escape the crowd  into the sounds of the carnival rides

Puddles and Patsy Cline. The lights shine real bright tonight.

Shutter love, you’re my favorite Western

This town is never big enough for the two of us

Tell me about your heartaches tonight

I promise I don’t mind.

In my baby blues, I keep your paper heart

And I know, too well, the color of your eyes

Like the green of the other side

Love, you’re the thorn in my pride

I’ve stained every glass with lips of red wine

In ambivalence, I have feigned my sanguine

Culled the buttons of my blouse. Blinds down

Hive of a summer night, honey. I’m crazy for thinkin’

My love could hold you. I’m crazy for tryin’.

And I know that two hearts can make one

for she is, in definite, belonged. Recherche

The girl you love to sleep, your song’s parade

I wonder if she feels the fireflies I have for you

If I could, I’d keep their light in a blackberry jar

To testify there was a time when it was just you and I

And I know the way that you grow.

I’ve seen you seduced by love and sunsets

I’ve seen a boy with a heart in fine feather

An able man with a longin’ for brio

A smile that can turn the brazen, feeble

The boy with pebbles in his pockets

River bends and moonlight serenades

I’ve seen you skip a stone or two

I’ve seen you and I’ve known you

The girl who evades the sunrise in your eyes

Like the green of the other side

Love, you’re the thorn in my pride

Faith

On the eve of a new year, most people contemplate what it is that they wish to attain and sometimes, what it is that they wish to lose. More laugh lines and ten less pounds. A higher social income-more friends- or maybe just a higher income. Wealth.Prosperity. Recognition. The envy of others. The admiration of others. The ability to say “wow, this year was really something” or maybe something as honest (and improbable) as ” Gosh, I really outdid myself this year.”

Please.

In this way, I evidently  believe that one particular day can not  effect the remaining 364. 242199 days. Most things are processional. Cyclical. Sometimes gradual. Sometimes.

In one day- truthfully, in a minute, someone lost the ability to say, perhaps for the rest of her life, “I am so happy”. In one minute, there was no longer a bride that he would bring home, there would be no children belonging to him, nor diploma that he had worked for, for the past two and half years. He won’t be home for the holidays. He’s just not comin’ home.

Like most people, I have spent my entire life, thus far, wondering what his new home looks like. The one we’ll all get to see someday, too.  I hope there are sunflowers everywhere, that the ground is covered in sunflowers- that you can actually walk on them. I hope that he never has to wear shoes on his feet. His soul looks like the body that belonged to him. The feel of sand between his toes never leaves him. That he breathes like I do when I’m at the top of a swing and tempted to jump. I hope sunlight embraces him. That it always smells like the home he grew up in. Like his childhood. And every corner of his heaven is overgrown with green vine and overwhelms his soul with the smell of jasmine. I hope he’s warm. He can pick and chose by day  which castle he’d prefer to echo in. That his soul remembers every word it ever felt. Thousands and thousands of words to ignite him. That the ocean is his lullaby when his sun, our moon, bids goodnight.

He has to be there- or someplace beyond my weak words. Someplace undoubtedly inexplicable.

Where I am is different from where he is. He lives in ‘forever’ and I struggle, day-to-day, chasing moments that I believe I will carry forever. I realize in this, that there is more to life than the consumption of doubt. There is no need to ponder if someone will fall in love with me, with enough of me to want to be with me, for, (you guessed it) “forever”.  Nor is there a need to worry about my success as a person, or failed friendships that I have tried my best to mend and knowingly cherished.Worry is trivial and simply useless. I wish I believed this entirely. But I worry. I’m the 12th fret of your guitar strings.

In between lessons of forever, I think fate does not allow people to make mistakes. There is no such thing as a ‘mistake’ in destiny. If there was, it wouldn’t be destiny or fate, or whatever.  All I can do- all anyone can do- is try for forever. Even at the cost of heartbreak, tears, and occupying the appearance of a fool. Life is for the taking.

Some things, inevitably, are easier to verbalize than to believe, though there is a thin line. A dangerously thin line, commonly known as “doubt”.  I could have my heart broken for the chance at forever. I wouldn’t mind this. Yet, there is one person whom I cannot look in the eyes when I speak.  On demand, it is because I’m terrified. Of heartbreak. Of confusion. Of mistakes. Of all the things I’ve said destiny would take care of. I am utterly human. I have great difficulty relying on that which is not tangible. How the North Pole was lost. How the West was won.

What I once believed to be a “growing love” has evolved to friendship. I believe it was meant to.  And what was once a friendship has evolved to sleepless nights and the sight of pavement where there could be green. Deep green. With flecks of brown. I believe this is meant to happen. But I’m terrified. And it’s no matter of life or death. Possibly forever- the kind that exists in both life and the afterlife. Forever is, after all, forever. Unlike promises, moments can’t break, both good and bad.

364. 242199 days with the subtraction of one. Any day, forever begins.

For the taking.

The Emancipation of Cassandra J.

I don’t need to remind you or explain to you what it is that time can do to you. You, whoever you are, are physically changing, intellectually changing, and personally changing. Of all the things that have provoked to me write it is curious that I should feel compelled to write about my “changes”. The ones that I see, anyhow. I am becoming more aware, yet lethargic, about the changes that I have undergone and can physically see. It’s the strangest thing, really. I think these words, for myself to read, are necessary. I’ve waited some time to cleanse and acknowledge the changes I’ve found within myself.

I suppose that of all these things that have moved me to write, the idea of “self” emerges above all of them.

The wrinkles from my laughter don’t leave. They are becoming permanent.  My bottom lip is heavier. Hair dye is necessary every five weeks. My hair is progressively getting lighter in a city that seldom shines. My eyebrows are getting darker and thicker. I’m cold frequently. I have balls of tissue at the bottom of three fingers. Sometimes they disappear, sometimes they don’t. The doctor says this a consequence of over-working my fingers. I’m hard of hearing in my left ear. I’ve been waiting for it to “pop” for two years. I don’t think it’s ever going to.

Physically, I look different. Older. Thinner. I have stronger arms. More freckles.

Emotionally? I feel a deeper connection to mothers. I do not know why. Perhaps it is because I know a couple that are my age, perhaps it is because I am spending more time with children, perhaps it is because I work with mothers, perhaps it is because I want to be one more than anything else, as I have recently (and gradually) discovered. I’ve always wanted to be a mother but the feeling is stronger now. I do not completely understand why. The idea does not unnerve me but it is one of those thoughts you swallow down with your sugar and tea and think “weird” as you proceed to imagine what party dress you’ll wear to your next birthday.

I noticed that I’d rather walk away from negativity than understand it. I’ve noticed that I’ll read something twice if I initially do not understand it. I don’t know where this keen interest in words came from. Sometimes I’ll say things out loud that are  blatantly grammatically wrong, and I do not fix this, rather I smile and say “get it?” There are not as many corners in my mind. I don’t consider what I need to do to set my heart right. I just do it. I don’t make elaborate lists of what I need to do, I just do it. I avoid conversations about religion or occupation. I don’t mind talking about money and what people plan to do with their money. We all need to pay attention to our funds now and then. Sometimes it can be exciting to have a financial plan. I do avoid, however, talking about wealth in occupation. Occupation=occupation. Thoughtful people succeed.

I laugh when something is funny. I laugh with most people about everything.  I am more confident about my own sense of humor than I was a year ago or two years ago. I prefer hugs over handshakes. I’m not concerned about the past. I’m not concerned about being “better”. I’m not sure if I ever really was. Maybe. There was a time when I was, maybe. I think I am beyond being “better”. “Better” doesn’t exist in a world outside of ours. I yearn for happiness. It’s a feeling my soul will know and hold when I am indefinite alongside the stars.

I drink three cups of tea a day and a latte in the morning. It’s vital that I drink tea and coffee every day. Most days I don’t feel like putting on make-up. And so I don’t. When I do, however, I am not as reserved. Honest note. The idea of possessions that belong to people who are now deceased still obsess me. I know, morbid! But people are precious. Their lives are precious. I don’t read obituaries, they always make me cry. I love the smell of new-born babies. I want to know every story and every detail, still. I’m starting to like the color orange. I don’t mind eating purple olives, either. The lack of definition that the stars and Christmas lights have still drive me mad. I’d rather listen than talk. Feelings of “what am I doing?” still overwhelm me. I don’t like feeling existential or thinking too hard about complete abandonment. Most trivial things that upset me, I keep to myself. I’m trying to, anyhow. I consider how I make people feel when I leave them. I want to be in love. I always want love. I want to always give love.

I appreciate the person I share everything with more and more. Sometimes, now, I wish I could un-do some of the superfluous things, negative things, I have ever said to him. I wish I continued to laugh with him after we first met, instead of obsessing over the past and the future. I think we’re laughing more, now. I appreciate him more and more.   He avoids chaos. Always. I still have my moments. But it’s a new ambition. There are too many things about him that I will always love, no matter what happens.

I want to be married one day. The idea of a white wedding dress, frankly, scares me. Sometimes my feelings overwhelm me and I think I know what marriage is all about. Sometimes I think all it would take is one wild night in Paris and I’d keep the last name for thousands of days and nights. But people who are married are still learning what marriage is. One of those things I’d rather take note of in the movies and gradually discover.

I’m not green enough to be blue.

My friends are so beautiful. When they worry, I think it’s adorable. I am so confident in each and every one of them. Soul wins. Always. They know more than they think they do. Each of them.

I never want my parents to be lonely. They gave me a childhood that was happier than a helium balloon.

I think I’m growing up.

The Fall(ing)

The leaves are falling

A tree once fruitful, budding and pregnant with blossoms

Now leaves crabapples beneath the dirt

They are bruised, too green and unripe

They are dirty and unripe

I see them scattered beneath the black, black dirt

I cannot meditate on their organic being

For it hurts below my heart

To see them beneath the dirt

The leaves are falling

No bubbling spring, nor buds or blue birds

Is it the Autumnal that is my favorite

I’m not so sure, anymore

Delicate, dedicated cotton kisses

I see the ‘v’ of a trunk where we had kissed beneath the canopy

The perfect climbing tree, kissing tree, anything

Five weeks gone, I am alone and the leaves are falling

Green beneath the black.

I want to feel dirt under my nails.

I want to collect the fallen apples. I want to collect and cradle them.

I want to string them back onto branch by memory.

They were not meant to fall

In a photograph I have seen, you are sixteen

In a paper box, I am sixteen

We had the same smile

And I know, they were not meant to fall.

I want to sleep in the air that you breathe

The leaves are falling. It is raining gold.

And I cannot catch their color, not even in my hair

I can not catch them nor rake them.

Not even with the bottom of my boots.

I loved that tree maternally.

I would be the sun if it needed light.

I could be the sun, I could.

I could water its roots. Even with emotional residue.

Take my tears.

I could prune its branches.

Wrap its apples in warm pastry.

I refuse to catch or rake its leaves

Even in my favorite season.

I will be forever stuck

under its leaf-less canopy

under bare branches, I plead:

Please come back to me.

It’s A Boy.

While riding the elevator of a hospital today, I could not help but notice the many expressions around me. I am that fraction of the population that would prefer to be anywhere else other than the hospital or to know anybody that is residing in one. I suppose this fraction is quite significant but I will not deny that hospitals genuinely frighten me.

And I want to die in your arms
In a cabin by a meadow where the wild bees swarm

I wonder why it is that hospital walls are often painted with a tinge of yellow or green. These colors don’t soothe me when they ought to, in fact, they epically fail in objective.  At least to me. People can be charming in a hospital. Circumstances often are not. The hospital is usually a place that we forget about  from time to time until a friend or family member has  minor surgery or someone we know is actually expecting a baby.  Unfortunately for my (rather new) friend, her surgery was quite substantial.  And the recognition of her circumstance frightened me until I found myself lightly snapping my fingers to rid my nerves. I inhaled the flowers I had bought her while in an elevator full of people.  The begonias were a Tuscan orange. I thought they were capable of making anyone smile just by nature. Unlike the vaguely colored walls around me, the scent of these begonias soothed me.

When I had reached my friend’s room I discovered that it was not yet time for visiting hours. I found her significant other, her other “half”, no doubt, standing in the hall outside her hospital room  trying to hear the faint whispers of the nurses and moving side to side to catch a glimpse of his love.  He was deeply conflicted as he hardly heard me approach him and could only talk about the shirt he had bought for her. I had never seen him so concerned. I don’t think I have seen anyone that concerned, quite honestly. I felt as though I was not needed, and left him with flowers and a fashion magazine to give to his lovely. I turned my heels rather fast and met an older couple waiting by the elevators.  It was a female in a wheel chair who had some work on her heart done. Her sweetheart, likely in his 80s, was pushing her wheel chair and winked at me as I approached them for I had seen them minutes before finding my friend’s hospital room.  Something inside of me wanted to bleed compassion and admiration. When emotions this strong, and thoughts, such as the ones I had, overcome an individual, the only way to bleed compassion and admiration is often through the undermined art of crying. I did not cry but I felt like it.

I think I recognized in just a wink, that the couple I had only met with my eyes happened to be an aged version of my friend and her significant other which I had just seen. It’s the kind of love that waits outside a hospital room.   It’s the kind of love that can overcome distance. It’s the kind of love that is patient and compassionate- and more than anything else, understanding. It’s the kind of love we all dream and wish to have but sometimes aren’t willing to make sacrifices to possess. The kind of love we strive for.  I am the product of a solid marriage. But never before today have I ever seen the power of love or felt it as I did today. It’s in expressions.

And I’m going to make you a promise
If there’s life after this
I’m going to be there to meet you with a warm, wet kiss

It’s in the reality that if something were to happen to the one we love and wish to spend the rest of our days with, life would be derived of its colors. Poplars would be still and most of us know that they are most beautiful when they are pushed and adored by the wind. In simplest terms, nothing would ever be the same. And “the same” is complete bliss and comfort. It is the art of breathing.  Often times people forget how to when abandoned by the death of a loved one or by choice.  Some things are in explicable. Unfortunately for myself, as one who genuinely enjoys writing, I cannot explain the feelings that crept inside of me today.

While I was experiencing these emotions or rather, recognizing how similar the aged couple were to my friends- a much younger couple,the woman standing directly in front of me was asked “is it a boy or a girl?” The woman in front of me was Asian and very pregnant. Her long dark hair had subtle streaks of light in it, and it looked healthy. She looked strong- like a mother ought to, physically. “It’s going to be a boy. I’m excited but I’m really nervous” is exactly what she had said.  She wore a bangle similar to mine and it jingled as she placed her hand on her belly.  I found my thoughts of love, aged and promised, change to thoughts of new life and how “is it a boy or a girl?” would be an inquiry I would have to make perhaps three or four years from now to my friend waiting upstairs to see his sweetheart, whom I planned to see, after her surgery. The resilient part of me smiled at this woman’s recent news. And the part of me that identifies with the emotional- the biggest part of me- wanted to hold some body’s hand and just cry at the cruel brilliance of this world. Everything is so cyclical.  Love can last a lifetime. It can be embodied in the one destined for you, or the one growing inside of you. Love is always going to be that thing that concerns you. That thing that makes you nervous and excited. That thing that challenges you and confuses you and shows you that you know how to feel even in moments where the world forgets how to in its depressed falls.

I feel lucky to be alive today. I feel like I’ve been told a secret.

And I think I have one of my own.

sparks flying in the dark

Sleepless nights are invaluable.

Memories seem to emerge from the shadows. When I was much younger, I was convinced that there were moths on the walls of my bedroom. They were just shadows. Sometimes I still see their shape and I remember how scared I was of the dark and the presence of those fluttering things. As I’m growing older my vision is, too and although things merge to look like moths more often than not, I am beginning to enjoy the dark. In the thick of a dark chocolate night, I am alone, thinking, remembering, and tempted to leave a message for just about anyone I’ve ever admired.  So here is one of those nights.

This particular memory has put two pillows behind my back, turned on the lamp, and has me ready to try my way with words.

When you meet someone or catch someone in the same room or situation as yourself, what do you notice? If your middle name is Suave you might suggest that it’s the “eyes”.  And it very well could be.

Until I had seen this particular person, I never knew that it was possible to want to know someone just by the feeling their presence lent in vicinity. I know, let the violins swell and let’s try for three stars– by Woody Allen’s standards.

I noticed the days he came to class and I noticed the days he was absent. We always sat a row apart. Some days I would be late for class, wondering if he’d be there. I didn’t even know his name. He was just “that guy” who I sort of knew but not at all. “I wonder if that guy is there” I would think to myself.  On the days that I was late for class, more often than not, someone had already snagged my seat, parallel to his.  I remember one day when this had happened, previous to name introductions, he looked mildly concerned with his back straightened trying to spot out a place for me to sit. I found one, eventually. My legs made of rubber after his gaze. I wondered what his ethnicity was as I fumbled to my chair apologizing to all the toes I had stepped on along the way. One history class, he surprised me and had been seated long before everyone else. To me, he seemed to be the kind of guy that would fix a hole in a pipe with a wad of chewed bubble gum. It was unnerving to find him early for class.  Somebody said “hi”. I think I asked “how’s it going?” Most commonly asked question among University students.  Trust me. How good can it get? I lent a hand and told him my name.  He told me his and I asked him again what it was. I didn’t want to get it wrong. “Oh, really? Are you Italian?” He said “no” and we made a point of sitting by one another during class…not because he wasn’t Italian but just because…well, of everything. Often times we’d be on the verge of smiling uncontrollably. Which, of course, only leads to inappropriate laughter. Sometimes it happened. I couldn’t tell you why.

This memory, he knows about. When we drink wine together, I’m inclined to talk about how we met. To me, it will always be the ultimate. I muse over the chances quite often.  Lucky, lucky.

My other memory is of the first day we spent entirely with one another. One day I met him at the gym to shoot some hoops. I’m not quite sure what girl agrees to doing this with someone she’s interested in, especially when she’s vertically challenged and hasn’t shot against a buzzer since seventh grade. But I agreed to meet him at the gym. We shot hoops, dribbled and juggled a soccer ball for a while, and walked and talked in circles. “You never told me you played basketball”

We changed into jeans and went out for lunch. Completely casual. It was supposed to be the end of our day together. We both agreed that we wanted to do something else together. After lunch we went to Starbucks and I  pretended I had to go to the washroom so I could smother on lip gloss and pinch my cheeks for a “natural” glow. I sat down to our coffee table and he asked me if I wanted to go to a movie when I was done my tea. If the day had ended right there, it would have given me enough material to write poetry for a year. He was interesting, honest, and natural. Three weeks after exchanging names, he was asking me if he had anything in his teeth and I was giving him a bite of almost everything I ate. Even apples.  That generally didn’t happen before. It is rather gross, isn’t it? “Here, put half your face on this, and I’ll eat it, too”

We went to see ‘No Country for Old Men’. I was terrified, confused, suffering from mild heat exhaustion in the theater, and completely nervous. Although we were sharing straws, skittles, and notes at this time, there was that inevitable tension that hovers between two people who want to kiss and are trying to prolong it as long as possible. It would seal it. That would be it. What would be the protocol for the movie? When I cross my legs, do I move an inch to the right when they accidentally bump his knees? I always dreamed of receiving my first kiss in a movie theater. Although I had experienced my first kiss years before I had met him, the anticipation felt brand new while I sat beside him. He never kissed me but he did reach for me. After that night, ‘Titanic’ sunk to second in my list of “longest movies ever” list.

I dropped him off at his house. He wore his red sweater. It used to be Jon’s.  We listened to music for a few minutes. Sat on “see you later” for another several minutes and I drove back to my apartment shortly after. I said “wow” out loud in my car while the radio was blaring REO Speedwagon. Homework crossed my mind. I made no attempt that night to pick through it. I brushed my teeth and watched the moon without consideration of what had happened, what would happen and what was happening. I’d talk to him tomorrow. That’s all I needed to know. I basked in the idea that I would talk to him tomorrow. The day made for a sleepless night. The first of many. Same memory, moons ago, months ago, almost years ago, and my chamomile is knowing that I will talk to him tomorrow. Time can be so relative.

Like a moth to light, I am beginning to enjoy the dark. Immensely so. It has become my companion to light.

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.

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.