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02.15.17 Memory is imagination 

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I remember that night, or at least parts of it. A friend posted a photo on Facebook today and I remember that evening. It made me smile. I remember a lot of that time and those memories sustain me. My memory now is not nearly so reliable. There’s four of us in the photo. My friend Jay and I are pointing at the camera with the wide smiles. You can see the unbridled joy in our faces the other two not so much. Perhaps they were reluctant to go. Probably. It was very late, going on 3am. I probably chose to ignore their reluctance being that one of them was my boyfriend of the time. Even though there was a lot of wine involved a part of my brain recalls it as if it were–well not yesterday–but part of my very recent future. I can tell you I’ve not had a night like this in recent history. That evening was a bit of a blur but when I saw that picture it was as if I was transported back to that time. A good deal of some of my best social memories were forged in my 5 years in Toronto. I know they can’t be replicated and I know that much has changed. People have moved away and moved on but still I am wistful for those times. I tend to the sentimental. I can’t help myself.

We arrived at the party very late; in the wee hours after having attended a couple other parties. As people are wont to say, we were well lubricated. The cab arrived to the address and we spilled out, laughing and carrying on fresh with memories of the gatherings we had just left. It had been a fantastic evening. It could have ended there but none of us were ready for bed just yet. We had left the previous party before we intended so we could get to this address, thinking that party might end before we got there. We were on a mission.  It was destination number 4. Regular social butterflies we were.  The address had been given to us verbally so we questioned that we had arrived at the right place; none of us were entirely sure especially since the home the cab pulled up to was shrouded in darkness.  Undeterred we strode up to the door and rang a bell hoping it was the right one. It was. The party was in the upper rear of the house explaining the why of the darkness. We joined it in apparent full swing. The small loft was packed with people and I confess the names of any of them I was introduced to didn’t stick including the vague bit of memory of the host. I was in a little bit of heaven when I saw there was a karaoke machine, but I couldn’t get my hands on the bloody thing. After a some serious merrymaking and laughs, the two less than enthusiastic compadres called it a night so we piled back into a cab to ferry us home. I’m sure I fell into bed and asleep in moments. Yes, those were the days.

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02.14.17 second step

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IMG_0385I recently rearranged my tiny apartment to satisfy my need for change and to make it possible to place my table by the window. Some would say that it makes the narrow lane of my designated living room seem narrower, but I ignore them. I like it. In the morning I drink my coffee and gaze out at the view my 2nd floor bach affords. I do a lot of daydreaming looking out this window. There’s not much happening on my street, but it’s busier than most. Cars scrape over the speed calming lump, ignoring the heed to slow down, and the dastardly part of me gets a smile out of that. Who knows why, perhaps because I am a person who believes in following the rules, so it doesn’t make for a lot of trailblazing. The lessons of my childhood were beaten into me so well that they are ingrained into my cafe au lait skin. My horizons have become not so wide.

Life is slow here. I buck against it, hoping one day I’ll wake up and this city will be like others I’ve lived. I like a healthy amount of hustle and bustle. It’s the energy that energy I crave. It feeds me. I need it. I live a mostly solitary life. Yes, it is mostly of my own doing and I’ve mostly receded into it.  It’s just me and my wee cat, my mostly toothless wonder. Her only loud demands are that I feed her twice a day and that she occupy my lap all day.

I suppose some of my reluctance stems from the limitations of my health. It’s anomalies and vagaries, there’s a why that sometimes my life doesn’t extend much further than the boundaries of my comfortable blue sofa or my memory foam bed.

I know the journey of a thousand miles begins with one step, but I’ve become almost paralytic most of the time, with friends, families and my own life alike, so I often don’t even hazard that one step. I’ve become so accustomed to living an interior life, the life “out there” has moved further away and has become unfamiliar. I’ve moved further away. But when I am in my bathroom the messages coming at me are positive and affirming. And I sigh.

I write this while still in my pyjamas, hair standing up on my head (yes, Bijou is on my lap); waiting for the other shoe to drop. Safe. Inside. Waiting out the 2nd beast that inhabits my body. It’s how I begin most every day, save for the writing bit. Wait and see. Always wait and see….

 

About that inside my head thing…

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About that inside my head thing…

I read a lot of what others write and I voice small comments here and there; dispensing little crumbs and bits of opinion and rumination here and there, but I don’t give voice or life to the words of my own. I see lives being lived and expanding into new horizons and I feel mine becoming smaller, the borders of it closing in on me. I’m beginning to feel suffocated.

This is not what I imagined my life to be but I somehow feel helpless to do anything about it; I’ve been rendered immobile. Still I find myself unable to move from the sidelines and onto the playing field. Every new week I make small new resolutions to myself…Eat better, exercise more, get up earlier, leave the house but I am so busy getting in my own way stubbornly, like a reflex, I turn away or push back against the very thing I want to run toward. I’ve been working on how not to behave this way but instead of pushing through I feel as if I am receding further into a small prison of my own making. 

I’m not going to wax much anymore about this, for now. I’m putting it out there, for myself, to remind myself not to double back and backpedal but to slowly inch forward. Keep pushing. Put the words down, put it down there and dare to dream out loud.

Of this i know

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Of this i know

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Maybe today is better suited to twitter

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You know. The less said the better. I feel the dark descend down on me. It fell heavily and took me surprise. Thing is, I really shouldn’t be surprised. I don’t know how it snuck up on me. I’m vigilant. Usually I can dodge it with some “glass half full” mantras.

It’s grey and raining outside so that doesn’t help. It’s oppressive, but still I hobbled out for a bit of a stroll as the rain beat down on me. Maybe that was the wrong thing to do. Still I want to be somewhere else. Anywhere but here. I’m having trouble even finding the words to express. I’ve fallen down a very deep dark hole and right now I’m just standing here transfixed, unable to move and the hole is filling up with water. 

Here we go. I agonize, should I post this and let people in or do I add it to the 20 or so posts gathering dust in my unpublished folder.  I’m breathing deeply. In….out….in….out….in….out. Ah what the hell. You only live once right? 

Ad nauseam

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As everyone knows, my blog has always been part confessional, part rant, part general ramblings. I have wanted to focus in on one subject for some time but that seems impossible for me. And while I ponder this, in my head, always in my head, I find myself procrastinating to the point of complete excruciating idleness. I know what stops me from writing about certain subjects. There is shame and embarrassment surrounding the subject matter and that prevents me from letting go of it and pouring it into these blank white boxes as cathartically healing that may be. 

I’ve had enough of that, I think, and it’s about bloody time. Most of what I am is comprised of are those personal experiences. They have defined who I am, much as I’d like that not to be true. It’s not likely I’ll change that much at this point so I’m going to continue to gaze inward through that navel of mine but with a more studied gaze…hopefully. The when and the where aren’t important. Afterall, that’s what causes me to stop and clutch those words possessively to my chest. It’ll happen when it happens and most likely because I am releasing the hounds and giving over to some truths more will shake loose more often. 

Sure I’d still like to focus on subjects and throw down matter that folks want to read, but that’ll take some practice. I’m cracking the door open just a tad for now and see where that gets me. 

What is 500 words

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I remember having to write essays of this length. Those tedious report-like stream of words we churned out for the interpretation and acceptance of someone else. Someone whose world view might not match your own, probably skews far away from you. I want to try to write something every day, perhaps even babbling drivel like this just to get something down. As much as essays are subjective discourses, they are also injected with some opinion on the part of the writer. I does, afterall, have something to do with perspective.

 Is that proper form however? I’d have to look that up but I’d probably forget it. I have spent some painstaking hours trying to remember people and situations; fleeting flashes of an idea that I lose within a few footsteps. I used to dismiss these lapses and carry on, but now I wrestle with my grey matter in an effort to recall. This only affects what is happening here and now or within the very near future. I guess that’s the long way of saying short term memory. Stored in my memory banks I discover memories so vivid it is almost like experiencing it all over; the good and the bad. I went to an event and an infuriating man I knew arrived on the scene. He is still the same person, not bad, but definitely on his own planet orbiting his own sun. Later, when I got home I tried to remember the short relationship 

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