Tides

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I grew up by lakes and streams
Simpler things
People were
Quiet and
Reserved
They didn’t pay you any mind
If you gave them no reason to

We lived
We breathed
We just
Were

Now oceanside
These tides are different
Everyone moves fast
Like all they care about
Is being noticed
They lack
In purpose
In intent
In sincerity

Maybe bigger isn’t better

The freedom of no horizon
Seems fanciful
But where do you go
When you feel
Lost?

-DFP-

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Wandering

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People taking
Pictures
Of people
Taking pictures of
People

♠♠♠

I walk by a lot of restaurants on my way home from work. Patio season is in full swing with the beautiful weather we’ve been having. I don’t usually take notice of the diners; I’m too focused on dodging the waves of tourists who walk four-abreast down the sidewalk. They caught my eye today, though. No less than 3 out of 4 people were busy snapping pictures. In a lot of instances, it seemed like they were taking a picture of their friend/S.O. who was also busy doing the same. It must be a nifty balancing act: maintaining physical rapport with someone, while also creating an interesting online snapshot of your life.

♥♥♥

June 16th is the day Native American tribal leader Geronimo was born.

Others people of note to celebrate a June 16th birthday are: Gustaf V of Sweden, former English Secretary of Health; Enoch Powell, Russian painter Natalia Goncharova, and American photographer Irving Penn.

Of historical significance, it was on this date in 1963, that the Vostok 6 Mission was launched. This would mark cosmonaut Valentina Tereshkova, as the first woman in space.

It’s really interesting to look at the Space Race. The Soviets rushed out to a quick start. They launched the first successful artificial satellite, were responsible for the first animal to orbit earth, as well as the first human in space (as well as to orbit earth). Of course, the Americans would ultimately catch up, and “beat” the Russians, when they put the first man on the moon.

Tereshkova stands out to me. The 60’s were not a particularly solid era for Women’s Rights. Things had certainly started to slowly improve post-WWII, but the Glass Ceiling was definitely in full effect. The idea that a female, Soviet, civilian, would end up in space voluntarily is a bit surprising. I guess we’ll never know Korolev’s true reasons behind deciding to put a woman in space, though it certainly  could serve as a defining moment of constant “one-upmanship” of the era.

♣♣♣

Speaking of inspirational women…

I had some really sad thoughts over dinner today. I was imagining how I would handle the day, when my parents pass. Assuming Dad dies first, I think that thought breaks my heart the most. Not because I’m particularly close to him. In fact, I’m not even particularly close to my Mum. I would say it’s about even, though I definitely resonate more with Mum.

Dad comes from a long line of hard-headed, strong-willed, tradesman. While he has a definite artistic side, he hid it well while I grew up. Mum was born in Scotland. Something about that means more to me than Dad’s Canadian roots. She was artistic; tasked with the arts and crafts side of raising my sister and I. Dad was the sports and music. Dad blended in with the extended family; partially because it was his siblings and parents. Mum isn’t from here, she’s not French, and definitely not a labourer, so she stuck out a little bit. I’ve always felt like I was the Black Sheep of the family, and so I identified a bit closer with her as a result. I’ll definitely cry for days when she passes. The thought alone is welling up tears as I type. If I had to choose though, I hope she goes first.

Dad is strong, he’s tough, he’s stubborn.

Mum’s tough and stubborn too, she’s a Scotswoman after all.

They both hide their sadness very effectively.

Why would hate to see what my Dad’s death would do to my Mum, above all else? He’s her best friend, her rock, the one constant in her 30+ years since leaving Scotland. While my Dad would certainly be devastated, as she certainly means as much to him as he does to her, I don’t think it would compare.

When Dad had his cardiac episode years ago, it was impossible to understand her words over the phone. This was despite knowing that he would be ok. I don’t ever want my Mum to be alone. It breaks my heart that much more, to know that I couldn’t be the one to offer her respite from solitude. Seeing the tears, the loneliness, the anguish in my poor beautiful mother’s eyes, would rip me to shreds.

It’s ripping me to shreds right now.

For both their sakes, I hope they go together. It’s cheesy and corny, but that’s the type of ending they both deserve. Their love is the most beautiful thing I have, or ever will witness.

♦♦♦

My brain’s been wandering today.

I’m just one more shift away from a 10 day break. My best friend is coming to town, and we are going to get up to all kinds of no good. Hopefully by then, the sad morbid thoughts will have given light to some positive energy. I’m going to need it…

Busy roads on the horizon.

-DFP-

Mensonges

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Je te aime
Je t’aime
J’ t’aime
Jt’aime
Et pourtant ça ce peut
Que ces mensonges
Ne vaut plus la peine

C’est magnifique
Le façon que
Tu pirouette
Avec mon coeur
J’ai maintenant le temps
Pour déménagez mes sentiments

On pourrait peut-être 
Loué une cabine
Ou même l’espace 
Où on devrait retrouvez
Votre fierté

 

-DFP-

In Between Dreams

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Sleep.

Yesterday I slept for 14 hours. My monthly “crash” if you will. I used to track my sleep using an app on my phone. I realized pretty quick that it was less a helpful tool, than it was a symbol of how bad my insomnia has grown over the years.

In high school, I wager I got about 6-8 hours of sleep every night

In my binge drinking days, closer to 5-7.

If you believe the last app readings, which were back in November: 4.5 hours/night.

Of course, the app isn’t wholly accurate. It only starts calculating from when you start the timer. It doesn’t factor in how long it takes you to doze off after activating it. It also doesn’t account for waking up frequently throughout the night. Let’s not forget, this is also an average measurement. As previously stated, I usually have a crash once or twice a month, where I binge sleep. My body just can’t handle the fatigue anymore. You could probably safely assume I indeed only sleep on average 3-3.5 hours every night.

My mind doesn’t have an off switch. It’s not that I lead an overly exciting life; the thoughts buzzing are certainly not screenplay worthy. Frets and worries of a near 30 year old are pretty bland, truthfully. I have school registration in roughly 12 hours to contend with, currently. I also have a ticket to a concert tonight that I’m pretty jazzed about. It’ll be the first concert I’ve gone to alone in, pretty well ever. Earlier in the evening, I was challenged to list 5 “Nice Things”. My brain doesn’t typically  lean towards positive things, particularly lately. Since I can’t seem to find sleep though, let’s give it a whirl. Who knows? It may just clear some clutter…

  1. West coast rain on my face. Especially in the morning when it’s still cold and I’m barely awake.
  2. The fact that as the years go by, my handwriting is slowly looking more and more like my Gramma’s everyday.
  3. The hum of a tattoo gun; the bite it delivers into the skin.
  4. Beers that wash over your entire palette.
  5. The unmistakeable sound of a home run.
  6. The perfect snap a baseball mitt makes on a beautifully thrown 2-seam fastball.
  7. A book so good, you have to re-read it immediately since you can’t leave the characters behind…because they are not characters, they’re friends.
  8. Sour-cherry cheesecake.
  9. A seamlessly conceived playlist.
  10. Rhubarb rock candy.
  11. The first cookie from a freshly baked batch.
  12. The first autumn wind.
  13. Cherry cola.
  14. The fizz that tickles your nose, from a freshly poured soda-fountain drink.
  15. The cold-side of the pillow.
  16. Coming home from camp and not being able to wash the campfire smell off your skin.
  17. Not being able to sleep the day before a big trip, while still being able to get up early to get your butt to where you need to go.
  18. Plaid
  19. Being the first to toe the rubber on a freshly groomed baseball diamond
  20. Ocean spray, on a summer day at the beach.

(…so I got a little carried away)

-DFP-

Triggers

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A whole new day
Begins with
Commotion
I never woke
Katy
She cried
It’s just
Common sense

Static’s on the
Radio
All night long
I never made
It home
I ran out of
Steam
Two feet from
The doorstep

Nobody’s putting
A foot to
The peddle
I’m tired
Of writing things
That make sense 

I didn’t say
I wanted to kill myself
Just that
I wanted to
Die
It’s just
Common sense
Katy
She kept on
Crying

————♦————

“The present changes the past. Looking back you do not find what you left behind.”

I wish I could be, an emotional-history revisionist.

They say that the victors of war, are the ones who write history. In love, are there really any winners if it ends in heartbreak? I suppose it’s those who do the leaving. While they may come away scarred, ultimately they get the privilege of causing the most damage.

They get to make the clean break.
They get to hold the answers, withholding them if they see fit.
They get to dictate future interaction, or lack thereof.

Of course, they also don’t have to live with the same sentimentality day to day. When you make the decision to break off a relationship, it immediately dulls any nostalgia that can be traced back to certain things. Your time is over with that particular connection, therefore severing the need for emotional attachment to places or objects. Those who choose to end things, don’t have to live with: seeing the lamp-post you were leaning against, when I first saw your beautiful smile; or passing by restaurant we had our first dinner date.

Nor do they still struggle with rushing for the Richmond-Brighouse train vs. The YVR Airport one. Not that it has ever made a difference to my commute home; it just always felt cozier in my heart to take YOUR train.

Those triggers are just the ones trained on me daily; they open up much deeper wounds. Thoughts upon thoughts that never seem to cease. Scars that re-open every time I think of:

Our first hug (vice grip tight – I still feel it to this day)
How you were almost always quicker to text first after a date (unless I cheated)
The way you hissed your S’s for emphasis (aww yisss)
Our first kiss on the train platform (one on the nose)
The first time I saw you dance (so beautiful and carefree)
How even though you hate asparagus, you still ate it when I made it
How my hand fit so beautifully into the crook of your back (and how safe it felt)
How a popsicle would please you more than a fancy dinner (Rockets of course)
How Batman will forever be tied to you (Bane voices on the bus)
How I’ll never be able to watch Game of Thrones, no matter how hard I try (I’ll just hear your voice mocking: “Khaleesi” and “Not without my Dragons”)
The way your eyes lit up when discussing your Master’s Thesis

I could go on.

I carry these thoughts day after day after day. I didn’t get to decide I stopped loving you. I didn’t even get to hear when and why you stopped loving me. Armed with that hurt, I could re-write you to all my friends, as a cold, uncaring, horrible wench. The problem with that is, I’ve never been a very good fiction writer.

I didn’t get to make the clean break you did. There is only one way I could have that kind of ending.

Let it be known to history that:

I will always remember you as sweet and kind. Patient to a fault with my weird idiosyncrasies. Beautiful in every way. From your sparkling eyes, bright joyful smile, the sweet slow cadence of your voice, crazy hair, loving heart, and giving soul. In our short time together, I feel like I have enough memories to fill a lifetime…so even though I still lie awake, sleepless almost every single night, I’ll always have nothing but tender thoughts and love for you in my heart.

-DFP-

Unpacking

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The thought of your
Smile
Means more to my
Well-being
Than I could ever 
Explain

Even if you have to
Fake it 
For a small moment
In time
I’d waste everything
Away

Just to imagine you
Lighting up
My day

————♦————

I’m a terribly unorganized person.

Rather, as it pertains to my own personal space, I’m a terribly unorganized person.

I don’t just mean in a physical sense, either. Sure, my room is typically messy. I’m talking from an emotional and mental standpoint, though. In both situations, I can throw together the illusion of tidiness pretty well.

The problem is: I usually just bury the clutter somewhere else.

With my room, I usually end up sticking things in boxes. You could accuse me of being over-sentimental, I wouldn’t argue. I have holiday cards from eons ago, tiny notes my mum leaves in the packages she has sent over the years, playbills, ticket stubs; I even have a sizeable collection of used Sky Train tickets. A lot of these things pile up, inevitably getting shoved into a box. Nothing really gets sorted, tidied, or addressed, just packed away for later.

Just like emotions.

I compartmentalize a lot of what goes on in my head. People and relationships come and go, and I rarely ever fully experience them. This usually leaves a looming sense of non-closure over my memories. Over-sentimentality doesn’t work well internally. After packing your emotional baggage, you’re supposed to move on. You’re supposed to empty that luggage, and fill it with more practical feelings.

The trouble is: being comfortable enough to show people your dirty laundry. It’s much easier to assume they’ll be turned off by the sight, rather than be the first to jump in to help you wash it.

I’ve got lots of bags, boxes, and suitcases to unpack. Some are tangible, which may be a good place to start. Others need a little more time, and probably a helping hand to tackle.

Anyone out there handy with a washboard?

-DFP-