Sometimes we forget that what we do is only for one person. One person. We write, we podcast, we record. The audience is a sole human being sitting in front of their computer screen. The chance is strong that it will be one person reading what you write, draw or illuminate through blogging.
I remembered that tonight.
I lost track.. forgot what I was doing. In haste everything became dishevelled, mixed up and rather foolish to say the least. Will I find my voice again? Yes. It has always been my voice writing here.
Narrowing down. Refining to find purity? Sounds processed!
Evolution is a process. It is not inherantly perfect the first time around or evolution would cease to exist. Period.
Did I lose track of time or have I become an evolutionary agent Jecklin?
Have a I lost something, misplaced it or walked away from it all together? Did I have a choice? Six months later it hurts like it was yesterday that he walked in, sat down beside me and said “I am leaving you.”
I made a phone call tonight. One that caused my soul to shatter, fall apart and later-later let go of a hope I’d been hiding all these many months.
Trying to understand is futile at this point. Trying to discern what could have been, why and how isn’t all that important anymore. Remain calm. Hold your head up high. Smile and move on.
I don’t know if it gets easier. That same feeling in my upper chest winced, shrunk and expanded as it does when those feelings come on strong. Enduring them is all I can do. I keep repeating that no one can take away my love. No one. But when the person you love does not love you it does cause one to question themselves about things left unspoken and phrases that never were written in haste, when the final departure did indeed take place.
The puzzle pieces aren’t missing. They’ve been found and are sitting inside a box down in the garage. We placed them together carefully, fitting one to another staring, discerning whether they were the proper fit or not. Twenty-four pieces in all we pressed into shape in the front yard on top of a wooden plank. She screamed “They fit!” She was four. I, 33.
Her father a very old friend of mine walked into the yard saying it’s time to go home and have some supper. She grabbed Mr. Bunny with his carrot in hand, looked up at her father and exclaimed “Daddy, we did the puzzle.”
It had been the first time I met her.
An hour earlier we had been flying around the driveway in our cars made of plastic pipes from a portable closet that had been disassembled after not selling in the morning garge sale.
She said I was silly. I smiled.
Who would have thaught that not having access to my Power Book could cause a good crying fit.
I sit at my mother’s computer and stare, get frustrated with using Internet Explorer and it’s damn freezing and it’s inability to cope with modern day browsing and usability or lack there of. *SCREAM!*
Oh, I have numerous stories to tell, weave and publish. I miss my mac and I miss firefox. In haste during the last day of packing I placed the power chord and adaptor to my Power Book in a box and my Power Book in the carry-on. In a box, that as of yet has not been shipped by that ex-boyfriend of mine. I’ve got the laptop but have no power and no money to purchase a replacement.
Maybe Apple would be kind enough to send me a MacBook? And Panasonic an adaptor/charger chord for the one missing from October 2006 for my camera/recorder. If Apple sent me a Macbook, Panasonic would be off the hook as I could work online again and earn some very much needed money through craft, design and blogging.
I shipped 19 boxes that last day in Vancouver. Ninety percent of my artwork and a little-bit-o-computer equipment still remain in Vancouver and didn’t get shipped as Canada Post was closing and I was dealing with (that is another story). I wish he would just ship it already (and if you have thank you)!!!
Blogging and Explorer are not friends. In fact they hate eachother. Explorer hates me and the feeling is mutual. I can’t save. I can barely comment. I can’t Blog. And PC – you can go fu** yourself.
If you don’t say what you believe then what is it that you are saying?
The struggle can drive the best of us mad at times, leaving us breathless, pondering why and how it all began. If struggle exists every moment of our lives when is there time to evolve, embrace and hence, move forward taking what we learned during this struggle, reshaping and making it the norm in our lives until the next storm materializes.
There is a calm about me lately; a sense of being which is and has become apparent for periods of time during my life. Wishing to know the answers causes dullness to the inquiries I ask the crevices of my mind. Dullness may not be the appropriate word; perhaps awareness would suit better. I am aware. I am unaware of the future and wary of the past. Is this what all the rage is about? Being in the now? Being in step with what is happening moment to moment without hestitation or the inclination to run?
Is this what it means to feel safe? To feel loved?
Today I’ll be working outside in the dirt. Dad and I turned half the garden last night removing any weeds still growing underneath from the previous soil turning two weeks ago.
Gardening on the ground is not the same as gardening in containers. Holy weeds! It’s really not that bad. I’ve dawned Dad’s old work clothes and Mom’s old sneakers and am getting dirty raking in last year’s bagged maple leaves and will be adding peat moss to the mixture later today. It’s cool outside even with the sun shining. The air is fresh and smog is a distant memory until mid-summer when the annual Quebec forest fires and Eastern United States Coast pollution migrate, combine and settle over New Brunswick when the winds are just right.
Many of you may feel it is late for planting and I tend to agree, however in recent years, the summer season in the Maritimes extends into October because of the many Huricanes pushing warm air up the Coast from Florida. It’s been too cold at night for seedlings to survive until this past week in Saint John.
The three day long fog lifted overnight. Birds are chirping. Yellow finches, sparrows, starlings (of course), robins and two morning doves call the adjoining backyards home. The grey morning doves mate for life and sound as owls when speaking. Missy is beside herself with all the activity on the ground. She remains fearful of the green oceanic lawn, nipping just at it’s edges, she walks on anything other than it, happy to stare at the birds while dreaming of catching one.
It’s good to be here. It’s good to be alive today.
Fog surrounds every fiber of Saint John this night. The city is quiet. Only the street lights are visible a block away. I look out the deck doors to the trees illuminated by one particular street light; they say nothing yet tell me so much.
I was born and raised here. My mind was elsewhere. It didn’t find solace. Does it now? The fog is soothing, quiet and forbids quick movement except in stealth mode perhaps.
I stare in disbelief at the remnants of Vancouver, arriving in boxes daily that I shipped through Canada Post a week ago there. Every one must be carefully sorted outside, rebagged for laundering or placed in the deep freezer for two weeks to rid them of potential stowaway bed bugs. Those last couple of weeks living in Vancouver opened my eyes to real social issues facing the poorer citizens of the city. During the Moving BACK-EAST Sale neighbors came up to wish me well and say I was lucky to be able to leave and get away before it gets worse. Aquilini Investments has no right being a landlord. The city handed them $10 million dollars to prep the skydome for 2010. These people can afford to buy a bottle of wine for $12K yet they can’t or won’t pay to properly de-infest their rental properties of bugs. UPDATE – no stowaway bed bugs were found
I think about my friends living in that building, a few of whom are covered from head to toe with itchy bites, rashes and scabs all because the whole building has not been treated all at once. One apartment at a time. This really only pushes the bugs into another of the 59 dwellings.
Fog is filling me up. This is good I suppose. I want to jump. Something doesn’t feel right with the world. Then again it could just be me. Then again, now is the time to make a change for better and live my life the best way I can. Time to squeeze the water out of that sponge letting the bad evaporate and the good distill.
My family is kind. It’s good getting to know them all over again. I was never estranged but developed different ideas than they did about living or so I thought I had. I’m discovering we have much in common and that is inspiring. On a humorous note, I can diagnose every last one of them with some form of anxiety, attention deficit or obsessive disorder. We Easterners are dysfunctional. It’s GREAT!
I’ve lost and let go of an awful lot over these past months. The grieving process feels genuinely honest amidst this coastal fog. The many years of heartache, struggle and shame seem to melt away when you really have the time to rest your head on a clean comfy bed.