Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Kill, kill

Long ago or yesterday, I had written you an epitaph. If I had been wiser, or as cynical and disillusioned as I thought I was, that would laid you to rest. It would have been beautiful and felt appropriate. But then you wouldn't have been able to do it yourself. Isn't it lovely how you fulfill the prophecies that I secretly made?
Lyrics bring emptiness, and I carry on with a longing that endures despite starvation. If asphyxiation was a feeling, this would be the opposite. 

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

We are a process unfolding

"The more basic the existential concept, the more unlikely it is that it is open to empirical verification or rejection. Is the universe indifferent to our hopes, dreams, and loves? Are each of us essentially alone and responsible for our own fate? When you come right down to it, is life meaningless except for whatever meanings we ourselves can invent?"

Dear Death and Dying course, I'm going to miss you.

Thursday, November 22, 2012


There is definitely more coffee than blood in my veins right now. But it's all good, amiright? You gaiz? Anyone? Credit to boyfriend for introducing me to Garfield minus Garfield.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

In which I realize

how afraid I am to be happy. It's a realization that knocks softly, and quietly startles me each time. It's like back in high school where I was that annoying topper kid who would never say that a paper went well. I'd always go on and on about how I was certain I'd failed, and I wasn't really faking it or deliberately being an ass. It was just that I was too terrified to even articulate to myself that I might've given an okay paper because that would definitely jinx it. And so it goes in real life. Even if something's coming along nicely- an interview, a job a relationship, a friendship, whatever- I can rarely ever bring myself to say it. Everything must be downplayed, always. Always look on the dark side of life? Good lord, that's the worst thing I've ever heard. Dear brain, are you listening? It is a strange feeling to be living consciously, but that's what I'm trying to do these days. 2012 is turning me into an adult. It's all terribly unsettling.

Monday, November 19, 2012

White Rabbit

I cannot stop listening to Jefferson Airplane. How fantastic, how absolutely fucking fantastic. 'Surrealistic Pillow' is playing on Youtube, and I'm writing a term paper that I'm not hating (surprisingly). If only there weren't deadlines. If only I hadn't spent my weekend watching Woody Allen films and cooking chicken with lots of onions. Onions are my favourite ingredients when I'm doing the cooking. Onions and garlic. I can't stand onions raw, but the initial sautéing of onions gives off one of the very few smells that I can actually smell- the official term for lacking a sense of smell is anosmia- I don't actually know if I have it since I've never asked a doctor, but it certainly is true that my sense of smell leaves much to be desired.
I love the feeling of discovering a new favourite album, discovering that thing that you missed in something you'd vaguely heard before. The thought just struck me that this is true for people too. It's happened before with me.
All my favourites are old.

"I can but dance behind your smile
You were the world to me for a while"

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Sometimes you don’t need anything or anyone else to be happy. Sometimes happiness has nothing to do with your future prospects, or the boy in your head, or those nights out you had. Sometimes happiness is just you walking home alone in the dark, with a warm apple cider in your hands and music in your ears at the end of an exhausting week. It’s the feeling that makes your heart skip for no reason at all as you step through piles of fall leaves, and feel the tip of your nose grow cold, as you breathe in the crisp cool air, and feel your cheeks get flushed. Sometimes happiness is just walking, tipping your head back to get the last few drops of your sweet sticky drink, and finding yourself looking up at a blue velvet sky full of stars. Sometimes happiness is deciding on a whim to walk around town and find that brilliant shawarma place you went to once, because you finally have time to waste, and because your legs want to keep moving.
Sometimes all you need to be happy is yourself. These times don’t come very often, but when they do, you think to yourself that this moment right here, is what I’ll remember about this term. You try to pin down content, but you don’t really, because contentment is when you feel like you’re floating high up there with the stars, like you’re enough. 

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Strawberries on the Side

She came home after work one day
And decided that something was a little bit ‘off’
with her (metaphorical) heart-
because everyone knows, the heart has nothing to do with it really-
except for occasionally when you feel a tightness in your chest,
and even then it’s really the brain playing tricks on you
(sneaky brain).
She stared at herself in the mirror,
and bit her lip.
She took her largest pair of scissors – the yellow ones with the chip on one side-
and cut her heart neatly out, with a trail of nerves and arteries dangling from it.
It was seeping crimson all over her brown rug
(It was her favourite rug).
She lay down some newspapers on the floor with care, to soak it all up
(she was a very tidy person).
She held it flat on the palm of her hand and surveyed it critically for a while.
It was warm, and flushed, and it dripped red down her fingers,
Creating a brown crisp covering in places.
She shook her head, and let out a deep breath,
An exasperated click of her teeth, and then she set efficiently to work.
She took that heart and she tossed it in the washer
(Luckily she had some loose change lying around- the machine was known for its exactitude)
She chopped some haricots, and carrots, and put them in to boil with the rice.
She also cleared up the newspapers and scrubbed the dried spots off the floor
(she was nothing, if not efficient).
Thirty minutes later, she retrieved the heart.
It was sopping wet, but a lot of the vessels had come loose, she noted with satisfaction.
She neatly snipped away the rest.
The heart looked almost translucent now.
She turned it over and inspected it for damage.
There wasn’t much- just one smallish hole
(and of course the gaping ones that had connected to the vessels).
She wrung the heart, squeezing out all the excess fluid.
She fancied she saw silvery things fall into the sink as she did this-
Spontaneity, warmth, vulnerability, affection-
but she hadn’t been sleeping very much these days.
She turned it over in her hands and noticed that it looked skinny-
what is a skinny heart, anyway?
She smiled to herself, and hung it out on the balcony.
A crow flew by and pecked at the hole.
It cocked its head to one side suspiciously, didn’t seem to deem it edible, and flew away.
She went off to take a shower, and got distracted by a phone call.
An extremely satisfying thirty minutes passed by, cursing the new girl at work, and the deadlines piling up.
She hung up, and suddenly remembered the heart.
It was dark outside, by now.
She retrieved the cold thing, and placed it on the dresser, while she laid the table for dinner.
Once she was done, she came back and looked at herself.
She did up her hair, fastening the tendrils in place with bobby pins.
She rummaged for the face she’d tossed carelessly aside a while ago
(She hadn't thought she'd need it again).
It was lying in an open carton by the balcony door amongst old birthday cards, raffia and cobwebs.
She dusted it clean, and pasted it back on, taking care not to catch her hair on the tape.
It looked beautiful and mysterious, and gleamed in the yellow light.
She looked at the heart- it seemed smaller somehow-
Like a deflated balloon.
When he came home, rolled up his sleeves, and sat down to dinner,
She chattered on about the funny thing that happened at work that day,
and that movie they had to see sometime soon.
For desert, she said she had something special.
She served him her low maintenance heart on a small white plate,
with fresh strawberries on the side.
He ate it while reading the paper,
with a strong coffee- black.
After he’d finished, he smiled and pushed the plate away.
“Delicious”, he said.