mango di bango

there will be a high stakes scrabble club party at my house this week. yes.

saturday, september 4, 7pm onwards
scrabble-tastic
potluck
no whining, no bellyaching

bring your friends. bring your board. bring some $5 bills. bring some food. bring some drinks. bring it on.

if you need more info, you should call me.

the first rule of scrabble club is that you do not talk about scrabble club. the second rule of scrabble club is that you do not talk about scrabble club.

homesick at space camp

is the sun enough
bed-warm
through curtains
enough
to dampen the desperation
to make you feel
infinite

and what does it say about me
i do not believe
that i question the sincerity
of the sun on your skin
that i do not believe
in the stimulation of nerve endings
or the story that you repeat
of your life
of the dawn

the sun is not enough
nor moon
nor silence

enough

voices carry

six short stories about sound/voices:

1/ I met a man on the internet. It was about a year ago now, far enough off in the distant past that I can laugh about it. I should have known it was going to be a gong show from the get go. The one glaring clue that I didn’t pick up on was this: He hated the sound of his own voice.
You don’t need to know the gross details of our too-good-to-be-true (that’s TGTBT in cyber-language. ha!) on-line courtship. We had chatted for weeks, exchanged pictures, discovered mutual acquaintances in the city etc. However, we had not spoken on the phone.
I told him that I would call him on the morning of our first date to confirm my arrival time. He flatly refused. He said that it would be more ‘exciting’ to meet without hearing the sound of each other’s voice. I should have known that some sort of trouble was afoot, but I agreed.
Ten o’clock on a Friday morning, I arrived at cyber-guy’s house - and the romance quickly began to fall out of grace.
Ding-dong! I pressed the doorbell, shifting absent-mindedly from one foot to another. The door opened. He was much shorter than he had claimed, and much thinner too. But that was not what I found disappointing.
“Hi Angie. Nice to finally meet you. C’mon in”.
I think my cheeks flushed right there. NO ONE calls me Angie without permission. And his voice. Eeep. He sounded like Quentin Tarintino and Woody Allen rolled into one. At first, I couldn’t tell if he was eating his words ot of nervousness, or this was just the way he was.
Conversation in my car proved that he was definitely a word eater. He wasn’t stupid, or completely dull, for that matter, he just couldn’t commit to a sentence. It made me wonder what else he couldn’t commit to. Things were not looking well.
We parked out at Horseshoe Bay, and I decided to try a little language psychology on him. I began to speak in the same way as he did. I formed words in my mouth and then swallowed them back nervously. The words I did get out, I pushed through my nasal cavity. I fidgeted with my body, I fidgeted with the sounds on my tongue. It felt horrible.
I wasn’t trying to mock him - I was actually trying to make him feel more relaxed. I wanted him to feel like I could ‘speak his language’. No such luck. So, I moved onto the reverse-psychology. I spoke slowly and deeply, carefully forming words in my chest and confidently projecting them through my mouth. This did nothing to help he and I connect.
Plain and simply, I couldn’t get past his voice. I never thought that I could be judgmental about something like this - and I never put ‘good voice’ on my dating criteria list. Heck, I don’t think I had ever stopped to consider what a ‘good voice’ was.
His nervousness, lack of confidence, whininess and sneakiness all came out in his voice. I never had to worry about calling him back to deny him a second date - he wouldn’t leave a message on my answering machine.

2/ “It’s colder than a woman’s heart out there” he said to me as he shook off his umbrella and removed his trench coat.
I was sitting at a local bar in the middle of November. I thought I’d have a drink by myself. This stranger had other plans for me.
He must have been at least 70 years old. His face was a spider web of wrinkles and broken blood vessels. He walked with a limp, but there was something oddly agile about him.
He made himself comfortable on the bar stool next to me and ordered himself a whisky on the rocks.
He had one of those voices that forces its way into your chest. He spoke low and even. None of his sentences turned up at the ends, even if they were questions. Everything was black or white. Decades of smoking DuMarier’s had ravaged his throat, giving his words a gruff timbre. On any regular night at the pub, I wouldn’t have been able to make out his voice over the pop music or hockey game being broadcast through the bar - but it was a Tuesday night, and the pop music had been exchanged for some classic rock and the volume had been turned down considerably.
The stranger told me about his early years, working as a fisherman, told me about his sons and his wife who had passed away eight years ago. He plodded through his words, repeating the story that he had decided was the story of his life. This was a story that he had told many times. This was the story that he felt was worth repeating to strangers in unnamed pubs across town.

3/ It made me furious. Whenever her boyfriend came in the room, her voice changed. Normally, her voice, though high pitched, was melodic and strong. She had one of those voices that truly mirrored her personality. Her voice was a loveable roller-coaster ride. It gently slowed and sped, rose and dropped with ease and purpose. She and I would talk excitedly for hours - sitting in coffee shops, living rooms, parks, driving in cars. The conversation was never boring. She was a strong woman with strong passions and a voice that made you want to learn to sing.
But, when her new boyfriend came around, she became small. The roller coaster was replaced with a childish carictature of herself. She spoke only in singsongy baby voices, curling her lips with coyness and mischief. She pursed her lips together and opened her eyes wide, waiting for his instructions and orders. When he was around, her voice rose and octave and lost any of its driving projection. Her words turned into tiny clouds that crawled their way into your ears.
I couldn’t stand it. It made me furious to listen to how small she made herself.

4/ I ended up working for a few days on an organic farm up near Pemberton. It was a family farm. 500 acres, 12 horses, 30 cows, 2 huge houses, a couple of barns, and about 10 children under the age of 12.
One of the young boys was named Will. He had been instructed to teach me how to weed the carrot crops. It soon became obvious that he’d rather not be talking to me.
He introduced himself quickly, suggesting that we get to work. For such a young man, he had a very weathered sound to his voice. He would grow up to be a man of great integrity, few words and no emotion.
Will lead me to the carrot field without a word, not a sound out of his mouth. He plunked himself down between the rows of carrots and gave me a nod to do the same. He spoke in short sentences that were often accompanied by even shorter questions. (“So, you’re going to want to hold back the carrot tops like this. Do you understand?”).
For such a young boy, he lacked the embellishments that I expected. He was trying very hard to be a man. His voice was an odd combination of humbleness and shyness. He projected his words to the ground and seldom made direct eye contact. All I could hope was that he let his silly side out when he was playing with the other kids - because at this rate -it appeared that he was going to have an ulcer by age 14.

5/ I expected the pilot to have an Irish accent, after all, we were flying to Dublin. There is this funny thing with airplane pilots, they all seem to have the same accent, same intonation, same charisma and presence. I’d wager that they teach a speech class at flying school.
He sounded like he was from somewhere on the midwest USA. There was a drawl in his words, especially when he said the world ‘y’all’.
He inserted dramatic pauses sporadically through his introductory speech, drawing the passengers’ attention to no where in particular. Rather than making him sound unsure or hesitant, his ‘ums’ and ‘awes’ were designed to make us feel warm and safe. After listening to him speak for a minute or two, I zoned out and imagined him sitting in the cockpit. He must have a strong jaw line and piercing blue eyes. This pilot would navigate us safely through the friendly skies.

6/ He was the first person I met that laughed louder than me. I think that’s why he and I became friends.
I met him at a concert at a really seedy bar. The good thing was, that between the two of us, we could carry on a full conversation in the middle of a Twisted Sister cover band. His accent was a combination Newfoundland fisherman and Montreal artist. Though his voice was nasal, it was deep and did not whine it’s way into my ears. The nasalness actually gave it character and surely made it stand out in a crowd.
I have been told that higher pitched voices tend to carry farther - somehow - his voice evaded this rule. If I was walking towards his home, I would be able to tell, from a block away, whether he was there or not. If I didn’t hear an enthusiastic, manly flourish, or the rumble of his hiccuping belly laugh, I’d know that he wasn’t around.
With he and I, talk was nonstop and laughter was abundant.

criticism as inspiration

i makes me feel so good to always tell you when you’re wrong,
the big man that i am,
to always have to put you down.
- pedro the lion

what makes people think that slagging other people will make them feel better about themselves?

last week i got an e-mail from someone who makes their way through life by deceiving people, by playing on people’s sympathy, by ‘being a victim’, by playing dumb, by being passive-aggressive, by making other people feel small. his e-mail made me so fucking angry. i wanted to kick him in the face, break his legs and throw him from a train. for half an hour i sat in front of the computer, trying to figure out how to retaliate. i was boiling over. and i was just as angry at myself for letting his crazymaking ways make me crazy. i had to ask myself why his temper tantrum grade four tactics were hurting me so much. it’s this: he had been searching his whole life to find a space where it wasn’t more appealing/ safe/ rewarding for him to cheat and lie. i provided that space. he cheated and lied anyway. sitting in front of the computer, my heart burned at the possibility that maybe the problem had been me. maybe i wasn’t good enough at creating a space for him to be true. it’s total bullshit. even in the midst of knowing that he is a deceptacon - i searched for ways to make it ‘all my fault’. this isn’t like me. i know better than this. better than this. better than this.

it gets so confusing. i understand that people have been hurt and that they need to find ways to protect their egos in order to feel safe. in moments of anger we all lash out and say those things that we know will hurt - that will get a reaction - that will make others feel small. it gets sick sometimes. we stockpile bits, pieces, information, pathways, pressure points, hot topics, buttons, scenarios, facts - that we can use to make our loved ones feel pain. we stockpile so that, in heated moments, we can retaliate.

what the fuck are we all so scared of?

in my e-mail reply, i did not retaliate. i don’t fear that boy.

platypus (i hate you)

you know that it is going to be a long day when it’s not even noon and you have already listened to ‘good riddance’ (green day) at least ten times and you are on a mission to download alanis morisette songs to see if you identify with the lyrics.

yesterday was exactly *that* kind of long day. the kind of day where you are crying hysterically - and then stopping because you realize that you might be faking all those tears.

as many of you know, the weakerthans are (by far) my favorite band. ask me to write a high fidelity style top ten list of my favorite bands - and it would look something like this:

1. the weakerthans
2. the weakerthans
3. the weakerthans
4. the weakerthans
5. the weakerthans
6. the weakerthans
7. the weakerthans
8. the weakerthans
9. the weakerthans
10. also.... the weakerthans

the only problem being that even if i am feeling the slightest bit emotional, listening to them is entirely out of the question.

i have this problem with crying. i do it at the most inappropriate times. at my first real/ professional job - i ended up having some difficulties with one of the directors. in order to prove my assertiveness and integrity (i was about 20 years younger than the majority of the employees, and one of the only females with a non-crap job) i made an appointment to discuss the issues at hand with the director i was having problems with. it took about 2 minutes in his office before i launched into hysterical crying. it was entirely unintentional. i never lived it down.

when i went in to resign from my last job (which was a rad job that i had fought very hard to get) i drove all the way to work repeating to myself “i will not cry, i will not cry, i will not cry”. i had to resign because my MS symptoms had finally made me realize that there was no possible way that i could work 40 hours a week, even if it *was* at my dream job. i had not told my employers that i was diseased. i walked into the executive director’s office - and before i could even explain why i had been absent for the past 2 days, i turned into a wet little mouse. i cried like you do when you are 4 years old - gasping for air - covering my face. so much for professionalism. even thinking about that day makes me feel sad on many levels.

and the ironic thing is that i find it very difficult to cry when i am alone. it takes a refrain to bring the tears to the surface.....

"So take the photographs
And still frames in your mind
Hang it on a shelf of
Good health and good time
Tattoos of memories
And dead skin on trial
For what it's worth
It was worth all the while

It's something unpredictable
But in the end is right
I hope you had the time of your life"

ich bin's

remember automatic writing? i do.

here it goes:

hit on the river don’t fold let the photograph wash away from my left hand fever i wish that you had been there to see the zucchinis turn to yellow digging as the rodents pass over and under and the boy that looks like a bunny doesn’t remember your name nor mine though he wishes that he had made out with me while he still had the chance and i met some other boy in a shitty leather/pleather jacket there inebriated on tequila and the unlikeliness of a seabreeze i wished for a carpet that was less geometrical and i took another round to see if i could find you i expected your height to give you away with your head lofting over the rest of the crowd and an e-mail popped up with a sound that is less sacred than previously expected there is little chance that i will attend i will be pacing and pacing and erasing all the things you said to make me small.

clorox girls

as a sign of his love and devotion, miikey drove me to the doctor yesterday. as a sign of my love and devotion, i went with him to a men’s clothing store and gave him my honest opinion on some fancy pants dress clothes.

going to get checked for stds is never a fun visit, no matter how careful you are about your sexual practices. as much as i would like to make light of how awkward and infuriating this visit was, the hypochondriac in me is going to be waiting impatiently for the two weeks until all the results are back.

ok, i can’t help but tell you that my pap was done by doctor beaver. nuff said.

i am going to relay, as best i can, the conversation that was had between myself and doctor beaver. keep in mind that he is not my regular doctor. i have never seen the guy before. he works in the same office as my gp. and so here it goes:

(i am sitting on the gyno-table, nude from the waist down, undersized sheet across my lap. quick knock, and doctor beaver enters - stage right)

dr - what can i do for you today?

me - hi. i received a message from a boy that i used to fuck. he said that he suspected that he might...

dr - okay, back that up a bit. you received a message?

me - yes. a boy that i used to have sex with told me that he suspected that he may have an std. he suggested that i go and get tested. i figured i was due for a check up anyway, so i would like you to run the full range of std tests.

dr - so what are your symptoms?

me - i have no symptoms.

dr - what symptoms is your exboyfriend having?

me - my exboyfriend? oh, yeah, the guy that i used to have sex with? he wouldn’t say. anyway, i know him to be a bit of a hypochondriac. i am not all that concerned that he gave me an std or vice versa. i just wanted to come in and get checked. for piece of mind for both of us. and i like i said, i should probably have one anyway.

dr - so, you have a *lot* of sexual partners.

me - i don’t know about a *lot*, but a fair number.

dr - hmmmmmm. when was the last time you came in for testing?

me - hard to say. i would guess it has been almost a year.

dr - (flipping through my enormous medical file) it was in december 2003. does that sound right to you?

me - yeah, could be. i have MS, so i end up seeing a load of doctors. it’s hard to keep track of when things happen.

dr - it hasn’t even been a year since your last testing. is this normal for you, to be getting tested more than once a year?

me - yes. i usually try to get tested every 6 months.

dr - that’s odd. usually it is only specific populations that get tested with that kind of frequency.

me - oh yeah?

dr - yes. young women, many of them around your age, working in the sex trade, they tend to come in more often to get tested. (looks up at me to see if i have anything to ‘confess’)

me - well, i was under the impression that people who are sexually active should get tested regularly, no matter how many people they are having sex with. that’s what i am here to do.

our conversation continues during the lubing and swabbing session.

during our little visit, here are the fun things that doctor beaver insinuated and/or said outright:
- only sex trade workers get checked more than once a year (therefor, i am a sex trade worker).
- if i come in to get tested this often, there is something obviously suspect about my sexual practices.
- women have sex with their boyfriends. men have sex with their girlfriends.
- if i get tested this frequently, i am probably someone who has had a few abortions (despite any lack of physical evidence that would support this theory).
- it is surprising that someone with my kind of illness is getting laid enough to warrant all these std check ups.

he tells me to go downstairs to get my blood work and urine tests done. i should call in two weeks to see if the results are in, and then make an appointment to discuss those results with my regular doctor.

thank you doctor beaver. this appointment has been both useful and enlightening.

cars and calories

somehow, i have surrounded myself with friends who are rather pop-culture object oriented. i am, to my knowledge, not anti-pop-culture. and i am an object fetishist myself (count the books, count the pairs of shoes etc). but there are things that bother me, and definitely things that make me feel like there is extra distance between myself and the people around me.

the collections. holy fuck. yes, so many people with so much stuff. CDs, DVDs, videos, records, games, toys, computers, books, magazines, comics, porn, art supplies, pants, shoes, t-shirts, fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuccccccccccccccccccccck.

and i do it too. ask me why i don’t get rid of half the books on my shelf. go ahead, ask me.

i have no intention of rereading 90% of them. a few of them i have never read at all. but if you ask me where each of them came from, there is probably a little (or big) story to go along with it. i also keep books that fit in with my ‘image’. i would love to say that wasn’t the case, but it’s true. you’ll note an obscene number of radical/ anarchist feminist books. you’ll note an obscene number of books on counselling/ social work. you’ll note an obscene number of books on culture/ politics/ gender. you’ll note an obscene number of obscene books. if i ‘trap’ those books in my house, i somehow believe that i have trapped the qualities that i like/ admire about those books into my sense of self. no, really. i am pretty sure that’s how my mind works.

those books don’t make up for the areas of knowledge that i lack. but it kind of feels like a shortcut, you know? i can buy the book and have ownership over a style, a genre, an area of understanding. if i ‘lose’ the book, i might lose my ability to remember what i know/ what i have read. i will certainly lose the g33k cred that i get when someone asks me if i can recommend a great introduction to foucault or weil.

i wonder if people are feeling so bored with themselves and so out of control that they need to ‘anchor’ themselves with objects. and if those objects (like DVDs or computer games) can serve as an enticement for others to hang out with us (or as a mediator between us and our friends) do we end up taking those items on as part of our identity? weird.

i would love to hear some comments from people in the ‘it’s cheaper for me to buy things, in the long run’ camp. those of you who collect because you feel that you are making a valued entertainment/ research/ business/ education etc investment for yourselves. (i cannot join this camp. i *do* have a library card, after all).

don’t read too deeply into all this. i do not claim to be an anti-materialist. but seeing movies like ‘vinyl’ kinda set me off. i watched that movie and was like “some of my friends are like that, and they don’t even know it. am *i* like that?”. i wonder if someone i know has ‘vinyl’ on VHS, so i can watch it again and again and again. heh.

thinking about my brother’s post (below), i *know* the feeling of that dog eared thrasher magazine from july 1987. i know the feelings that rush to the surface, of long summers spent trading tricks and coming home late for dinner. faces of people that you had uncomplicated friendships with come in to your vision. i know that feeling, and i value the objects that serve as a marker in time.

we *can* use that thrasher magazine to remind our bodies and minds what it felt like to possess certain qualities in ourselves and our lives. that magazine reminds you of what it felt like to never fear that you would lose steam, lose desire, lose hope, lose your friends, lose your mind. it reminds you of all those things, but it does not reinfuse you with those qualities. use that object to gauge if you are getting close to gaining those feelings/ that atmosphere in your life again. yes? the object is a marker. not a replacement for feelings/ experiences.

do all 27 pairs of my shoes hold profound rememberings? nope.

ultimately, most of us would agree that the ‘stuff’ doesn’t matter. then why? why do we do it? why do we ‘treat ourselves’ to a magazine or CD or whathaveyou every payday? why do we get so excited about 3/$12 movies? do we still have any grasp on what objects are relatively meaningful to us, and what is just padding for our lives?

does the behavior of collecting mean anything? does it mean anything to *you*?

the part you left out

this is the letter that i wrote to let go of 'the boy that broke my heart'. i never sent it to him. i never needed to. i thought that i would put it up here. you know, just for shits 'n giggles. for those of you that may be wondering, the boy in question does not have the address of this blog. now you know.

***boy.

i am so angry. and so hurt. i am writing you this letter in order to let it all go. you can read this, or not read this. think about it, not think about it. i have/ want no control over that. these are the things that i need to say in order to turn the page.

i have met boys like you before. i have dated you. fucked you. almost married you. i have paid your rent. held you crying. done the grunt work in your life. i have forgiven you for things that i would forgive no one else for. i have allowed myself to be taken for granted. i have blamed myself for your lying, cheating, disrespect, disinterest, boredom, pain. i have let crazy-makers make me crazy. i have allowed your boredom and fear make me feel like i am the one who is boring and afraid.

before i met you, i thought that i was entirely over that. i thought that i was over seeking the affection of people who just barely give you enough to hold on. obviously, part of me was not over that. and i still have growing up to do. you have reminded me that i am not interested in being with people who cling to mystery.

your dishonesty hurt me. when you tell lies to yourself and tell lies to those around you - those things have a way of getting back to the people involved. the lies that i have heard have wiped out any respect or trust that i had in you. that is why i have left. i hope that you will take this to heart. i hope that you will take to heart that fact that some people are not jaded, they let your actions and your words into their lives. those of us that make no attempt to protect ourselves - we get hurt. as i have been hurt by you.

from the lies that you have told, it is clear to me that you want to believe that my hurt and anger stem from sexual rejection. you couldn’t be further from the truth. my emotions have no relation to your cock. they never did.

i am done with this.

i remain,
choke hold***

it has taken me many years of living and loving with boys to learn one of the talents that many of them seem to be infused with. the ability to walk away. i always thought that boys would walk away so that they never had to deal with all the pain. all the questions. all the late night phone calls.

walking away is a different kind of pain. i have come to prefer it. but sometimes, i still look back.

i write letters all the time. i seldom send them. for ten years i wrote most of my letters to one person. i wonder what that person would think if i decided to send those ramblings to him.

nah, i'll never do it. it would cost me too much in postage.

aside

you are the henry rollins to my joe cole. and only you will really understand that.

we’re adults now. right? yes. adults. but sometimes it still seems strange to me that you will not be here in the afternoons. that we will not make veggie dogs and then go out to the carport to practice our ollies.

you know that i am not a regressive person. i like to pick up and move on. but every day with you was a dance party. every night was a good night to sneak into each other’s rooms for a sleep over.

all of my friends are in love with you. partially because you appeal to art girls and social work fags, but also because i say your name with a silent ‘yay!’ beside it. i might not let anyone see those pictures of you in the captain’s hat - or my friends might forget that i even exist.

i have this vision of us being old. living in a small house. with a small yard. i live in the basement with a tall, dark haired man who has green eyes. you live upstairs with a woman who makes beautiful things with her hands. we eat dinners together, and sometimes i still sing. there is music in every room.

sometimes i forget to talk to you. maybe because i assume that you already know what i am thinking. but we have been apart a lot in the last few years. my head has gone to some strange places, despite how sedentary my body has been. when i can, i will tell you things. and when you can, ask me things. and i will keep saying your name with a silent ‘yay!’.

empty picture frame

i couldn’t sleep, which isn’t unusual. my body felt achy. limbs and insides hurt. violently exhausted. no sleep would come. television has more than worn out it’s entertainment value. so i reached for a book that would occupy me while my body wasn’t working.

i have read about 3/4 of the books on my shelves. the other 1/4 i doubt i will ever read. i should sell them to a used bookstore one of these days. instead of going to the unread section, i skimmed the titles for a book called ‘carnal acts’ written by nancy mairs.

i reread the first short story for what was probably the 7th or 8th time. eventually, i stop reading the actual words and just listen to her voice.

i bolt upright and patter down the stairs to my computer.

until then, it had never occurred to me that i could just look nancy mairs up online. that she would be relatively easy to find. she is a published author, after all. maybe she has an assistant that will forward my e-mail to her if it is interesting enough. but what would i say?

here’s what’s weird (to me). instead of searching for her e-mail right away, i felt compelled to find pictures of her first. i had no idea what she looked like. without even thinking about it, it became overwhelmingly important to me that i see her body. that i see the body, the face of this middle aged writer who has multiple sclerosis.

i found pictures. and with little effort, i found her e-mail address. i still have not written her. i do not know what to say. photographs of her did not make it any easier for me to find a way to tell her.... sometimes when i can’t sleep, i listen to her voice.

here is my ‘dailies’ entry for the day after i searched and found nancy mairs:

***i already know that it will feel horrible, tingly, and crude. right now, my obsession seems to be on what it will *look* like. what will i look like when i reach middle age, if i reach middle age? how gnarled will my hands be, how hollow my eyes, how malformed my limbs if i become an elder?

and when i wanted to know more about my fate, and more about you - i searched for pictures/ photographs. i enlarged them and looked carefully and hesitantly at your arms, your hands, your cheeks, your eyes - and searched further for images that included your legs (not shown).

i don’t fear any more. and that is the worst thing. without fear i lay here. i pace sometimes. there is no fear that this is the last day. it really does not matter either way. without fear, it does not matter either way. i am not even attempting to make peace. i don’t think that i am making peace.***

all hands on the bad one

that boy didn’t break my heart.

*i* broke my heart.

it took me months to understand what was happening.

all i want is to be emo.

presents. swing sets. rain days. vegan chocolate cake. train tracks. b-movies. kisses. blanket forts. haiku. mixed tapes. secret handshakes. hoodies. bathtubs. road trips. treasure maps. whispers.

simple.

if i really think about it, i have only ever been ‘in love’ once. i have loved many. made out with a hella lot more. but the inclination to be ‘in love’ with someone seldom comes. i had grown bored of merely ‘liking’ the people that i was kissing. i wanted something else. so i picked a target that seemed worthy. open fire.

what the hell was i doing? i didn’t even *like* the guy. what made me think that it would be a super-duper idea to hand him my heart piece by piece? it had been so long, i didn’t know how to choose a candidate. so i made the mistake that miikey and i like to call ‘falling in love with the resume’. he looked good on paper. social worker, politically active, loud, silly, lanky, awkward. all these things make it pretty high on my list of radness. and for this list, i traded 6 months of being jerked around (in a ‘can’t quite put your finger on it’ kinda way). i was told half truths, or nothing at all. i was made to feel that i was imagining things. my body was touched. no explanations were given. i made requests and received no answers. and at night, whether i had some other boy or girl in my bed or not, i fell asleep clutching that mythological resume. i waited for things to improve.

the mess that was made is not worth mentioning. my heart really was broken.

there are two things that were never understood between he and i:

- i did not understand that i wasn’t falling in love with a person that actually existed anywhere beyond my mind.
- he did not understand that my unconditional care and affection had nothing to do with his cock.

it has only been a couple months since i last hung out with him. normally, i am a slow learner and a slow healer. not this time. it almost scares me how rarely i think about him. i am not plagued by thoughts of what would happen if i ran into him. would i laugh, cry, puke, pretend that i don’t see him, yell, try to act nonchalant? it really doesn’t matter.

when jef sent me an e-mail. telling me that ‘the boy that broke my heart’ was nothing more than an insignificant blip in the adventure that is my life... i smiled.

blip. blip. blip.

choke hold, still unjaded.

lemon yellow black

a friend of mine moved to london over a year ago. our contact, for various reasons, has been sporadic and disjointed during that time. she is currently in vancouver for a short stay (2 weeks) and i was very excited when she told me that she would have time to hook up with me while she was here.

let’s call her ‘L’. yes, we’ll call her just that.

it was so lovely to see her. there are certain people in our lives that are so easy to come toe-to-toe with. there is no regression. no need to rekindle the friendship by bringing up old and worn out jokes/ experiences that you shared ‘back in the day’. L came to my door and we hugged before even making eye contact. there were things to share.

after a few minutes at my house, we launched ourselves into my car and went to my favorite sushi restaurant. we talked about london, amsterdam, house mates, the concept of ‘the commonwealth’, journalism and places that we belong. she paid for my dinner and i told her that i would get the check next time... which is sure to be at least a year from now.

back at my place we drank bailey's on the rocks and sat in front of my computer talking about joni mitchell lyrics and the joys of mac computers. we burned some CDs and looked up song lyrics and read them to each other.

i used to write in a little journal on my computer. i had a ‘dailies’ file. it was part of my routine. over a year ago i had a particularly jarring experience and wrote an entry about it. this is what it read:

***when i told her, her eyes welled up and a hollowness filled her face. it didn’t occur to me why, and i had to ask.

“are you okay?”

“yes. i am okay, but it’s just that my very very dear friend died from the same thing less than six months ago. she was 28. you are 25.”

this is what they don’t tell you. they don’t tell you that you will die.

and maybe i want to know, just so that i have a reason to sit here for a while longer. paralyzed. maybe i want to know, just so that i can let all sorts of other questions fall away. if i don’t need to plan for my retirement, or be concerned about current weight loss fads, or worry about getting married, or find ways to teach people what i know...if i don’t need to think about these things, i would like to have someone justify my plan live out a hedonistic fantasy for my final years. i would like someone to tell me that i no longer have responsibilities in this world.

i hold people. when they cry, i pull them into me. it is not a ‘gesture’ on my part. it is an epiphany. it is one of those moments when i am not merely myself. people cry about me sometimes. i put on my game face and tell them the science, logic, and anecdotes of my life as a disease. they cry about me. they cry about things that i remind them of. and i hold them. instead of feeling numbness, i feel something else entirely. for a moment. for a minute.

her dad. and that other lady’s dad. and the best friend of a woman who i stopped in the street to ask about her shoes. they are the ones who told me that i would die. and i thank them for it.***

L’s father is one of the people that i was writing about. truth be told, L was one of the first people that i ever met who had known someone, besides me, who had multiple sclerosis. i don’t know why i let her read this when i did. i knew that i would end up crying. and i did.

despite being a fairly articulate person, i have no language to tell people where having MS has taken me. i told L that i simply do not share how i am really feeling with people because all i would do is cry. i don’t know how to say things. i don’t know how to take people where i have been. it’s not that i do not think that they would be able to understand. not that i do not think that they would empathize. i just wouldn’t know where to begin.

after three years of living with this disease one would think that i would have pulled myself together and brought my loved ones up to speed with my emotions. that is not how things have happened. as i have said to people before, i use my medical/ health experiences as comic relief... i can be clinical, anecdotal, humorous, angry.

the rest i have no words for... yet.