THINGS I AM THANKFUL FOR.
I am thankful for this cup of coffee in front of me.
I am thankful for the way the sun comes in through my kitchen window in the morning, and with that, I am thankful that this year it was sunny on my birthday. It's never sunny on my birthday.
I am thankful for my family, they put up with me, and love me.
I am thankful for my ability to see an image for what it is.
I am thankful for being a realist (all the while I curse it).
I am thankful for the ability to see, walk, taste and smell.
I am thankful for The Sunday Edition with Michael Enright.
I am thankful for a really good pasta sauce.
I am thankful for my friends, big time. They show me love in the hugest way, and I love them back so, so much.
I am thankful for oatmeal with maple syrup and toasted walnuts, lemon zest and plain yogurt.
I am thankful for good words.
I am thankful for The Clean, Silver Jews, Pavement, Galaxie 500, etc. All that 90s shit.
I am thankful for animals. Does that sound stupid? But really, only an animal can truly show you empathy and unconditional love.
I am thankful for dead leaves scattered on the sides of the streets. In piles. I love walking through them.
I am thankful for the days when I feel good.
I am thankful for having a sense of humour, and being able to laugh at the most upsetting things.
I am thankful that I can live on my own.
I guess I'm thankful for having a job.
I am thankful for those days when I think I can love someone.
I am thankful for orgasm. What would a world be without it?
I am thankful for the art of sewing a good piece of clothing. Nothing is better than a sweater that fits beautifully.
I am thankful for a cold night. And I'm thankful for those few days it snows, and the entire city is quieted.
I am thankful for a good book. One that you love enough that you want to maybe hug it when you've finished it.
And I'm glad I haven't wanted to give up.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Love
"He used to say there was four women in every man's heart. The Maid in the Meadow, the Demon Lover, the Stouthearted Woman, the Tall and Quiet Woman. It was just a thing he said. I don't know what it means."
Billy Pretty in The Shipping News by E. Annie Proulx
Monday, February 6, 2012
Bad Day January 28th
When I awoke this morning at 630, I rolled off the couch and stumbled to the bathroom to take my contacts out. I climbed into bed after changing into my pyjamas and read the news on my phone. I laid there with stinging eyes, knowing I wouldn't fall back asleep and by 830 I was convinced that it would be a good idea to plug in the kettle and turn on the radio.
After getting back into bed with a cup of coffee and a new book, I realized it was snowing, which further lead to me feeling truly defeated in all of my unfruitful attempts at making health-related goals.
I opened the cover of Watership Down, studying the map of adventure in hopes of finding my place in it.
Now, having gotten through the first fourty pages or so, my coffee has gone cold but my eyes still sting. How I yearn for dried grass and the smell of morning in the middle of nowhere. The sound of a creek and a bear running through it. The colours of the various weeds and flowers, and an overripe raspberry the colour of which cannot be replicated artificially between my fingers. The shape of wild strawberry leaves, and a glimpse of someone's treehouse longsince abandoned.
Ginny and I would get aboard the raft that she and her father made, we were much much like Tom Sawyer & Huckleberry Finn, though I was much less skilled at it all than she was. If I recall correctly I lost my hat that one day, as I gurgled and struggled to get back onboard. I watched it slowly bounding along in the water, happily free like any hat would be if it's been caught by the summer wind.
I often think of Bob Windsor's cabin up in the valley. What a beautiful musty old shack, surrounded by tall grass and a field of wildflowers. If you weren't careful, you would step right into an stream, hiding under overgrown brush.
Oh, how I recall that honey-sweet smell in early August of dried grass, dust and honeysuckle. it would overtake all senses, and if my body didn't stop in recognition, my entire spirit did (and it still does at the mere thought of it).
I remember how we'd be covered in dirt, dust and clay most every day, but could easily dive into the river and wash ourselves off in the purest of water.
It's January in Vancouver. I can't say I ever remember feeling this troubled and quite truly depressed, but I'm sure I say that every year (like we all do about everything.) Why is this place such a source of darkness and sorrow? So many people relish in it, know how to get through it, indulge it. I am finding I understand this place less, that my every impulse is elsewhere, in other towns, on other roads, in other wildernesses.
I am finding that what I used to find a real drag now is extremely appealing. Like gathering firewood, for instance. I remembering being forced into going with my mom and stepdad to get some in Dean's old bright orange Ford pickup with the chainsaw and ax in the back. He had two decals of buck heads on the rear windows, and it just occurred to me that this vehicle would be something my friends would fan their brows over (nostalgia is a real thing). I remember driving through a dried-up river bed, and through a steep ditch in order to get firewood. I hadn't been so frightened in my life, but looking over at my mom laughing while Dean wrangled the gears and yelled, "Woohoo!" made me realize what I was experiencing. I remember us coming upon an abandoned shack, which I immediately deemed a witches house, where I saw a blown up latex glove and the big, glassless windows and my fear of looking inside. I'm sure when I got home that day I forgot about it all once while picking up a book or calling Lach to ask what he'd had for lunch that day.
I want more of this. Discovery and exploration where there is no one else to be found. Taking it all in without someone yelling at me to get out of the way, or being to distracted by the most ridiculous thoughts to really enjoy the things I love about life.
The city is a wonderful place at times, but at most it is a life-sucking pit of insincere pricks trampling over you for something better.
After getting back into bed with a cup of coffee and a new book, I realized it was snowing, which further lead to me feeling truly defeated in all of my unfruitful attempts at making health-related goals.
I opened the cover of Watership Down, studying the map of adventure in hopes of finding my place in it.
Now, having gotten through the first fourty pages or so, my coffee has gone cold but my eyes still sting. How I yearn for dried grass and the smell of morning in the middle of nowhere. The sound of a creek and a bear running through it. The colours of the various weeds and flowers, and an overripe raspberry the colour of which cannot be replicated artificially between my fingers. The shape of wild strawberry leaves, and a glimpse of someone's treehouse longsince abandoned.
Ginny and I would get aboard the raft that she and her father made, we were much much like Tom Sawyer & Huckleberry Finn, though I was much less skilled at it all than she was. If I recall correctly I lost my hat that one day, as I gurgled and struggled to get back onboard. I watched it slowly bounding along in the water, happily free like any hat would be if it's been caught by the summer wind.
I often think of Bob Windsor's cabin up in the valley. What a beautiful musty old shack, surrounded by tall grass and a field of wildflowers. If you weren't careful, you would step right into an stream, hiding under overgrown brush.
Oh, how I recall that honey-sweet smell in early August of dried grass, dust and honeysuckle. it would overtake all senses, and if my body didn't stop in recognition, my entire spirit did (and it still does at the mere thought of it).
I remember how we'd be covered in dirt, dust and clay most every day, but could easily dive into the river and wash ourselves off in the purest of water.
It's January in Vancouver. I can't say I ever remember feeling this troubled and quite truly depressed, but I'm sure I say that every year (like we all do about everything.) Why is this place such a source of darkness and sorrow? So many people relish in it, know how to get through it, indulge it. I am finding I understand this place less, that my every impulse is elsewhere, in other towns, on other roads, in other wildernesses.
I am finding that what I used to find a real drag now is extremely appealing. Like gathering firewood, for instance. I remembering being forced into going with my mom and stepdad to get some in Dean's old bright orange Ford pickup with the chainsaw and ax in the back. He had two decals of buck heads on the rear windows, and it just occurred to me that this vehicle would be something my friends would fan their brows over (nostalgia is a real thing). I remember driving through a dried-up river bed, and through a steep ditch in order to get firewood. I hadn't been so frightened in my life, but looking over at my mom laughing while Dean wrangled the gears and yelled, "Woohoo!" made me realize what I was experiencing. I remember us coming upon an abandoned shack, which I immediately deemed a witches house, where I saw a blown up latex glove and the big, glassless windows and my fear of looking inside. I'm sure when I got home that day I forgot about it all once while picking up a book or calling Lach to ask what he'd had for lunch that day.
I want more of this. Discovery and exploration where there is no one else to be found. Taking it all in without someone yelling at me to get out of the way, or being to distracted by the most ridiculous thoughts to really enjoy the things I love about life.
The city is a wonderful place at times, but at most it is a life-sucking pit of insincere pricks trampling over you for something better.
Friday, September 23, 2011
News
I have been living in a new apartment, without the internet, for two months.
I've read nearly ten substantial novels since I've moved in.
Feels good.
Going on a trip next year, working seven days a week to do it.
Will feel good.
I've read nearly ten substantial novels since I've moved in.
Feels good.
Going on a trip next year, working seven days a week to do it.
Will feel good.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
On the Subject of Me
Let's you and I talk about me. And then you. Or first you, then me. Let's cover all the bases for the day and then walk in silence, in our own thoughts, for hours more.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Friday, May 13, 2011
Induced by Cider & Wine
I've got my front door open to 12th avenue
and there's some warbly tunes playing in the background, like a record slowing and quickening and here I'm sitting waiting for that bottle of wine to open itself.
Today I squinted into the sun with a mouthful of cider, whilst listening to rap, no less. I sat on a cushy grass bed blanketed with a crocheted throw with said blades poking through the eye holes. Knowwhaddimean?
I finished the crossword and sudoku. I watched a little girl giggle around with a pointy red hood - laughing and falling round an empty cement pool. Her mother wearing a baggy military jacket and a soft bun on the top of her skull.
When you hear that Bob Seger song you know I'll be long gone...
I sat with a new friend talking about old things. White kids listening to black music.
I frequently found myself thinking of the days back home when some friends and I would sit in the park listening to Dre and smoking grass. The same shades of green that I saw when I was stoned then stay with me today. I still find myself gazing off into the nothingness of the vivid colouring, thinking of a time past when I had a warm, fuzzy brain and rolled in the grass, laughing until my back hurt, until I couldn't find a way to stay, until I didn't know if I'd ever get home.
and there's some warbly tunes playing in the background, like a record slowing and quickening and here I'm sitting waiting for that bottle of wine to open itself.
Today I squinted into the sun with a mouthful of cider, whilst listening to rap, no less. I sat on a cushy grass bed blanketed with a crocheted throw with said blades poking through the eye holes. Knowwhaddimean?
I finished the crossword and sudoku. I watched a little girl giggle around with a pointy red hood - laughing and falling round an empty cement pool. Her mother wearing a baggy military jacket and a soft bun on the top of her skull.
When you hear that Bob Seger song you know I'll be long gone...
I sat with a new friend talking about old things. White kids listening to black music.
I frequently found myself thinking of the days back home when some friends and I would sit in the park listening to Dre and smoking grass. The same shades of green that I saw when I was stoned then stay with me today. I still find myself gazing off into the nothingness of the vivid colouring, thinking of a time past when I had a warm, fuzzy brain and rolled in the grass, laughing until my back hurt, until I couldn't find a way to stay, until I didn't know if I'd ever get home.
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