Sunday morning. Stop. Can't leave sheets. Stop. Laughter, my roommate's, drifting from the bedroom down the hall. Sigh, stop. I've chosen this, but I wish it wasn't mine; this starkness. Stop. Sleep, but fitfully. In my state of half-wake, half-dream with an injection of self-pity, my mind wanders wildly. Green, pale, eye contact, water, damp salty hair, incomprehensible words (this is not my language), catching one train then another, rearranging cutlery, tracing the bony line of your back and not knowing why but it feels like perfection. Stop.
The black material against my skin is soft; worn. I don't know where it came from and I don't at all care. It feels like smooth hands and that is all that really matters. I make too much coffee, watch absently while it brews and once a cup coiling heat finds its way into my hands, I wander my apartment, immersed in thought (yet thinking nothing in particular). Sometimes, rather than reflecting or sorting out or analyzing, I find myself identifying emotions. Like, here I am leaning against the side of my hallway that is covered with art: sadness. I trail fingers along the wall, deep red and cool to the touch, and by the time I've transitioned into the living room in one fluid motion, there is also regret. They layer against one another, companions that lend comfort and also unrest. I twist myself into a corner of the couch, the sun-streaked one, drain the last of the black liquid warming my innards, and all I can hear is the softness of my own breath. There it is...confusion. It settles in like an old friend; a ratty t-shirt that you put on and remember its exact folds; how it falls and feels against your body.
My insides bleat for another coffee, and so I peel myself off the couch and slip into the dining room. That is where the fear resides, or at least where it preys on me. My steps falter for a moment; wondering, recognizing. I don't even need to look that one in the eyes to name it and know it. Being afraid is a sensation as familiar as exhaustion or hunger. It's there and I know it. I stand, wordless, as it joins the sadness, regret and confusion. They are an intimidating force, and it seems that they are a united front today. Bastards.
In the kitchen though, there is hope. As I drape the remains of the coffee pot into my mug, I feel it. Compared to the daunting gang of negativity, it is weak, but it is there. It beats like a baby sparrow heart, frail but determined. It strips a layer of the weight off me, and the lightness is a significant change, if only to myself.
It is there, and I know that it is not going anywhere. If anything, it has yet to fully flower and show itself. When it reaches the surface, I am confident that I will know it and embrace with a vengeance.
Until then, bisous.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Dream exorcism, and other endeavours...
The other day I stood in a bus shack listening to Charlotte Gainsbourg and feeling okay. Limber arms and cold breath made for a wait that I didn't at all mind; observation and motionlessness. A little girl with eyes--glassy, large--hovered next to me on the bus, chirping an endless string of questions into my ear, and I loved her for it. I didn't know her name but I pretended that it was Iris. She looked as if it would be.
It seems that lately a blazing topic of inquisition (directed my way) has been children and whether they are in my plan of action. It's strange because up until now, the odd question would snake itself my way, but it seemed cool and manageable, given the long stretches between. For some reason though, these days the mother interrogation ("Do you want to be one?") chases after me like a loaded gun. I don't necessarily mind it, but its frequency is becoming startling. I always feel as if I answer awkwardly and vaguely, which is not what popular demand seems to be looking for. To burn the spotlight on this issue by choice for once, my position is that yes, I think that I do. Want little beans of my own, that is. It just all seems so far off and not really at all relevant to my focus, and the rhythm of my days in the now. The thing is that, unlike a lot of people I trade words over this with, I can envision my life edging in either direction--that is, sans babies or with. When I leap ahead in my mind to the years that have yet to play themselves out, I don't necessarily see a sharp image. I don't see anything all that concrete; recognizable; detailed. I see, rather, warmth and meaning and balance and joy. I see taking pride in what I do, whether it is baby-holding or writing or office-inhabiting, or any other number of motions. If I am living intentionally and with a smile against my lips more often than not, then that is all I really care about.
A few evenings ago, Meg, Kit and myself had a lovely reunion over dinner with our friend Beatrice from Belgium. She is sixty-eight years old and one of the coolest ladies I know. She has skin that is bronzed like pale leather and eyes that radiate light and energy. She has a husband named Raphael, and a slew of dogs, and a gorgeous spread of home in the Belgian coutryside, and a secret garden, and a vocabulary that would make you reel. Her French is smoking and all throughout the evening, she and Meg's Auntie Daryl flipped, smoother than rushing water, from one language to the other. It was amazingly beautiful to listen to. The evening was dominated by the sounds of those two twining languages, but when Lady Bea fround out Kit and I are flinging ourselves onto South American soil in a matter of weeks, she obliged us by layering some boisterous Spanish into the mix. Draped around the dinner table, us five bodies, in the heart of Auntie Daryl's breathtaker of a lanky apartment (I would die to inhabit a space like that at some point in my life, even for the briefest interval), something fell into place. There was a click; a sigh; a distance broached. Two elders and three young, wispy individuals with so much to discover; so much yet to learn...it was like we just relaxed into our respective roles, and it felt right. It felt better than good, actually. We poured over photos from those months spent an ocean across, and we laughed and stories flowed and we all three missed it very much, I think. Long after the warm, delicious arrangement of food was consumed, long after melting wedges of chocolate cake had found its way to our bellies, we lingered there at that table, sipping at the last dregs of red wine and exchanging words. I sincerely hope one day to be with my best girlfriends as these two are, Beatrice and Daryl. They extracted stories of insane love and lust and humour and injustice like plucked blossoms from a source from which I am sure held endless amounts more. These women have had passion and they have had devastation and they have lived abroad and traveled everywhere and cascaded down into despair and been left alone only to be picked up again, whether it be by a kindred spirit or a lover who just knew what to do and how to do it well, or by one another, or most importantly themselves. They inspired me in a unique way that night, and I would want them to know that. Aging gracefully has never taken on such a lighthearted, appealing air as it did for me during those hours, in the presence of those women. I left altered, in a subtle way but also in a permanent way. It was almost as if I was flown back to Europe for a single night, in the company of a lot of wisdom and laughter and good food and it was absolutely perfect.
I passed yesterday afternoon, Sunday afternoon, quietly hidden away in a Bar Italian nook. Both halves of the room were mayhem; apparently the whole of our neighbourhood congregates on the corner of McMillan and Cockburn, in that lovely dingy space, come mid-day Sunday?! It felt somehow nice to be a part of things, yet definably removed. At one point, I glanced over the array of objects littered across my table, and thought to myself, if I were to step away for a few moments, would somebody be able to tell it was me hanging out here just by my belongings? It is an interesting thought. I took inventory my possessions in the present--one coffee (half-drained, second round), one book ("The Mysteries of Pittsburgh" by Michael Chabon, courtesy of Hilary's intimidating book collection), one issue of British Vogue (outdated; October 2008. but still alluring in every way.), one pen, one folder (containing all four glossy issues of G.Love; a portfolio of sorts I guess), one pair of mittens (green, containing rips, stolen from my brother one season ago) and one heavily-laden snakeskin/paisley tote bag. I would like to think that anybody who knows me well would attach me to this paraphernalia. Any takers? Madge? Drewber? Lopez? Etc. etc. etc.
My dreams in the dark have been haunted as of late. I don't like it; they cause me to sleep fitfully and wake feeling angsty and scattered. These days, the content is always similar and it leaves a wretched taste on my lips. Space and time seem all fucked up by the time that I pull myself into wakefulness, and it takes some intention to feel reality out again. I am learning, though. Lessons weathered and perspective gained, right?
I'll find you after dinner, in that place we call summer.
Time to start the day,
RB
It seems that lately a blazing topic of inquisition (directed my way) has been children and whether they are in my plan of action. It's strange because up until now, the odd question would snake itself my way, but it seemed cool and manageable, given the long stretches between. For some reason though, these days the mother interrogation ("Do you want to be one?") chases after me like a loaded gun. I don't necessarily mind it, but its frequency is becoming startling. I always feel as if I answer awkwardly and vaguely, which is not what popular demand seems to be looking for. To burn the spotlight on this issue by choice for once, my position is that yes, I think that I do. Want little beans of my own, that is. It just all seems so far off and not really at all relevant to my focus, and the rhythm of my days in the now. The thing is that, unlike a lot of people I trade words over this with, I can envision my life edging in either direction--that is, sans babies or with. When I leap ahead in my mind to the years that have yet to play themselves out, I don't necessarily see a sharp image. I don't see anything all that concrete; recognizable; detailed. I see, rather, warmth and meaning and balance and joy. I see taking pride in what I do, whether it is baby-holding or writing or office-inhabiting, or any other number of motions. If I am living intentionally and with a smile against my lips more often than not, then that is all I really care about.
A few evenings ago, Meg, Kit and myself had a lovely reunion over dinner with our friend Beatrice from Belgium. She is sixty-eight years old and one of the coolest ladies I know. She has skin that is bronzed like pale leather and eyes that radiate light and energy. She has a husband named Raphael, and a slew of dogs, and a gorgeous spread of home in the Belgian coutryside, and a secret garden, and a vocabulary that would make you reel. Her French is smoking and all throughout the evening, she and Meg's Auntie Daryl flipped, smoother than rushing water, from one language to the other. It was amazingly beautiful to listen to. The evening was dominated by the sounds of those two twining languages, but when Lady Bea fround out Kit and I are flinging ourselves onto South American soil in a matter of weeks, she obliged us by layering some boisterous Spanish into the mix. Draped around the dinner table, us five bodies, in the heart of Auntie Daryl's breathtaker of a lanky apartment (I would die to inhabit a space like that at some point in my life, even for the briefest interval), something fell into place. There was a click; a sigh; a distance broached. Two elders and three young, wispy individuals with so much to discover; so much yet to learn...it was like we just relaxed into our respective roles, and it felt right. It felt better than good, actually. We poured over photos from those months spent an ocean across, and we laughed and stories flowed and we all three missed it very much, I think. Long after the warm, delicious arrangement of food was consumed, long after melting wedges of chocolate cake had found its way to our bellies, we lingered there at that table, sipping at the last dregs of red wine and exchanging words. I sincerely hope one day to be with my best girlfriends as these two are, Beatrice and Daryl. They extracted stories of insane love and lust and humour and injustice like plucked blossoms from a source from which I am sure held endless amounts more. These women have had passion and they have had devastation and they have lived abroad and traveled everywhere and cascaded down into despair and been left alone only to be picked up again, whether it be by a kindred spirit or a lover who just knew what to do and how to do it well, or by one another, or most importantly themselves. They inspired me in a unique way that night, and I would want them to know that. Aging gracefully has never taken on such a lighthearted, appealing air as it did for me during those hours, in the presence of those women. I left altered, in a subtle way but also in a permanent way. It was almost as if I was flown back to Europe for a single night, in the company of a lot of wisdom and laughter and good food and it was absolutely perfect.
I passed yesterday afternoon, Sunday afternoon, quietly hidden away in a Bar Italian nook. Both halves of the room were mayhem; apparently the whole of our neighbourhood congregates on the corner of McMillan and Cockburn, in that lovely dingy space, come mid-day Sunday?! It felt somehow nice to be a part of things, yet definably removed. At one point, I glanced over the array of objects littered across my table, and thought to myself, if I were to step away for a few moments, would somebody be able to tell it was me hanging out here just by my belongings? It is an interesting thought. I took inventory my possessions in the present--one coffee (half-drained, second round), one book ("The Mysteries of Pittsburgh" by Michael Chabon, courtesy of Hilary's intimidating book collection), one issue of British Vogue (outdated; October 2008. but still alluring in every way.), one pen, one folder (containing all four glossy issues of G.Love; a portfolio of sorts I guess), one pair of mittens (green, containing rips, stolen from my brother one season ago) and one heavily-laden snakeskin/paisley tote bag. I would like to think that anybody who knows me well would attach me to this paraphernalia. Any takers? Madge? Drewber? Lopez? Etc. etc. etc.
My dreams in the dark have been haunted as of late. I don't like it; they cause me to sleep fitfully and wake feeling angsty and scattered. These days, the content is always similar and it leaves a wretched taste on my lips. Space and time seem all fucked up by the time that I pull myself into wakefulness, and it takes some intention to feel reality out again. I am learning, though. Lessons weathered and perspective gained, right?
I'll find you after dinner, in that place we call summer.
Time to start the day,
RB
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Desire and decay...
I read the other day somewhere that "love is a brittle teacher." I think that I agree. It's not negative; just honest in a refreshing way.
---
brit⋅tle [brit-l]
adjective, -tler, -tlest, noun, verb, -tled, -tling.
–adjective
1. having hardness and rigidity but little tensile strength; breaking readily with a comparatively smooth fracture, as glass.
2. easily damaged or destroyed; fragile; frail: a brittle marriage.
3. lacking warmth, sensitivity, or compassion; aloof; self-centered: a self-possessed, cool, and rather brittle person.
4. having a sharp, tense quality: a brittle tone of voice.
5. unstable or impermanent; evanescent
---
Yesterday evening found me curled, chin on knees, at Meg's kitchen table. We made dinner; translation: I listened to her banter (always intriguing) and watched her cook. This is the usual scenario when the two of us peel ourselves away from our beds/bars/studios/etc. and break bread together. I sip at my glass of wine and hunker down in perching mode, and Madge whips magic together over a stovetop. Bless her. I think that if I am ever a mother, I will force her to teach me her ways. I know that she will be more than game; gleeful even. Bitch. I'll read aloud to you, poetry and fashion literature, while you coo my babies to sleep and sling cakes and casseroles in and out of my oven, okay lover?
The night was eventless and effortless; it was exactly what I wanted. Exactly what I needed and she knew it; I knew it. One of my most cherished things about this lady (and there are many) is that I don't have to pretend around her; ever. I can cry or rant or make slim to no sense or say absolutely nothing at all, and it is always okay. She is a tirelessly graceful audience for all of the glaring highs and lows I have pulled, and everything in between. We just mesh in a way that I cannot explain and I carry the mystery of that around like something very dear and rare. Je t'aime, Francie. You are one in a trill.
On a complete subject skip--Argentina count: one month, less three days. I feel so so ready for heat-streaked mornings, and fresh cool nights. Drapey dresses and damp hair and sand against skin and Spanish lilting through the air and water. Water, water, water. I want to walk and write and lay and listen and feel and observe and learn and reflect and be.
I am chasing it and it is near, nearer than I think. Somehow our take-wing date seems a lofty distance away still, but it is creeping like an insect and it is moving with haste.
Going going going gone.
Rab Louise.
PS. Apologies, Demetra, if this wasn't the profound collection of words you were hoping for. I owe you one.
---
brit⋅tle [brit-l]
adjective, -tler, -tlest, noun, verb, -tled, -tling.
–adjective
1. having hardness and rigidity but little tensile strength; breaking readily with a comparatively smooth fracture, as glass.
2. easily damaged or destroyed; fragile; frail: a brittle marriage.
3. lacking warmth, sensitivity, or compassion; aloof; self-centered: a self-possessed, cool, and rather brittle person.
4. having a sharp, tense quality: a brittle tone of voice.
5. unstable or impermanent; evanescent
---
Yesterday evening found me curled, chin on knees, at Meg's kitchen table. We made dinner; translation: I listened to her banter (always intriguing) and watched her cook. This is the usual scenario when the two of us peel ourselves away from our beds/bars/studios/etc. and break bread together. I sip at my glass of wine and hunker down in perching mode, and Madge whips magic together over a stovetop. Bless her. I think that if I am ever a mother, I will force her to teach me her ways. I know that she will be more than game; gleeful even. Bitch. I'll read aloud to you, poetry and fashion literature, while you coo my babies to sleep and sling cakes and casseroles in and out of my oven, okay lover?
The night was eventless and effortless; it was exactly what I wanted. Exactly what I needed and she knew it; I knew it. One of my most cherished things about this lady (and there are many) is that I don't have to pretend around her; ever. I can cry or rant or make slim to no sense or say absolutely nothing at all, and it is always okay. She is a tirelessly graceful audience for all of the glaring highs and lows I have pulled, and everything in between. We just mesh in a way that I cannot explain and I carry the mystery of that around like something very dear and rare. Je t'aime, Francie. You are one in a trill.
On a complete subject skip--Argentina count: one month, less three days. I feel so so ready for heat-streaked mornings, and fresh cool nights. Drapey dresses and damp hair and sand against skin and Spanish lilting through the air and water. Water, water, water. I want to walk and write and lay and listen and feel and observe and learn and reflect and be.
I am chasing it and it is near, nearer than I think. Somehow our take-wing date seems a lofty distance away still, but it is creeping like an insect and it is moving with haste.
Going going going gone.
Rab Louise.
PS. Apologies, Demetra, if this wasn't the profound collection of words you were hoping for. I owe you one.
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