Deep Cuts

Memory Comes When Memory's Old

I change my mind constantly.  Born on the cusp, pulled in too many directions, my mind and body and heart waver between people and places.    I write in the morning, my room letting in filtered autumn sunlight, and I think of all the things that could happen.   But I don't know what I want to happen. 

Later in the day.  My thoughts and actions become disjointed, and the clarity of an early sunny morning gives way to the muddled grey of afternoon.  Homemade blanket spread over my legs, the taste of winter on my tongue, all I want is to be warm.

The colours and smells of fall always bring me back to two separate times in my life.  The first, my second year of university.  I finally felt the attention of boys and the world was so open and new and fresh.  I can remember early mornings on the O-Train, walking to class, Morrissey crooning in my ears.  I was young and discovering so much music and art and literature for the first time.   And coffee.  I loved coffee. 

The second fall was my last year of journalism school.  I was in love, obsessed and passionate, flitting back and forth between msn chat, Myspace, my cell phone, and the piles of writing and research I needed to complete.  Graduation was near, but I was preoccupied.  He lived far away and every time I heard his voice, a shock of excitement rang through my body.  That fall I experienced heartache, panic, the death of a loved one, and the disintegration of two close friendships.  But I had love and possibility coursing through me and every setback was tainted not by extreme sadness or depression; instead, I felt that while life takes away so much, it gives and gives, and its up to us to accept this.

Late fall and early winter 2010 is now one of these times in my life.  Light snowfalls and inky nights.  The sound of my boots on the sidewalk, Fever Ray, brick, smoke, worry, and desire.  Terrifying and exciting.  Unnerving and unsettling. 

This fall I want to see as a turning point.  Change is forthcoming and there's no need to fear it.  It brings with it new people and places, smells and sounds and thoughts.  All I can do is welcome it.

When It Touched My Hand, I Felt My Mind Open Up Like A Valley

The last time I visited the AGO was in January of this year.  A mid-week day off, in the midst of a serious emotional upheaval, looking at art seemed ideal.  A way to immerse myself in something that someone else had created.  I could focus on the curves and shapes, the purples and greens and bright canary yellows.  For the first time in a long while I didn't think about my own life.  I wanted to sink into a Waterhouse painting and let the scent of roses and cedar permeate my skin and hair.

A lazy walk through the gallery and we found ourselves surrounded by Picasso, Chagall, Miro.  He milled about and I found myself rooted in front of an explanation of Surrealism.  According to the writer, at the core of human existence lay the base "irrational" urges to love, to desire, and to destroy.  At the time, this resonated within me, and I scribbled it down in my journal, feeling thoughts of my own life creep back into my mind.  The urge to do any of these things is irrational because we do so without properly thinking through the consequences. We unconsciously destroy aspects of our lives that are strong and seemingly concrete.  Desire runs rampant and it takes hold of you, shakes you to the very foundations you rely on to stand. 

The Surrealists sought to transform the manner in which people saw the world and life and love.  They wanted no control, no outside logic or reason.  No political or social confines.  To delve deep into your own head and feel out your innermost thoughts and ideas and feelings, void of constraints or inhibitions.  A feat which I find near impossible.

The last part of the poster that I remember is one sentence: "We must change life."

But how?

This Side of Brightness

For a little while, things become really clear.  I know what I want (kind of), who I want to be, and what I need to do to get there.  I get up early, run under a fading moon, down unknown streets, names I've heard in passing.  I think about the fast-approaching day and how I can see my breath.  The past year washes over me and I can tell it's quickly getting colder and I'm not sure anything I do will make a difference.

Roll Over Beethoven

Retro, rockabilly.  Winged liner, red lips and nails, high-waist.  Waiting. 

I'm pretty sure I was meant for another era.  Born 30 years too late. 

River's Edge

Maybe I'll wake up from this.  Find myself in waist-high weeds, wild flowers, black-eyed susies.  Ducking down between the trees in my old backyard, hiding from everyone, content by myself.

Music to Run Through Paris

I woke up this morning and almost immediately thought of this song.  Is that weird? 

Half Right

Lying down, knees bent, we stared at the shadows on the ceiling and walls.  The candles went out, one by one, but we stayed still for hours, watching.  Each flicker and lick made new shapes, and I couldn't keep my eyes off them.  It was warm, and the late night air eased itself through the window screen, filling the room with the smell of leaves and the change of seasons.  I didn't want to move.  So I didn't.

I thought about life and love and possibilities, and hope filled me up, right to my fingertips, my toes, the ends of my hair.  He wrote and wrote, scribbling down every thought, idea, and word that jumped through his head.  After every poem, he'd show me, and I'd wonder how this person ever entered my life.

Hours and hours.  Night turned to morning and I stayed still.

Said What I Said and You Know What I Mean

There are so many things I want to hear and everytime I don't hear them I feel my insides well up, collect, and pool.  In my stomach, my chest, my head.  I'm heavy and the weight drags me down.  I can't keep focused on anything.  Rationality and logic -- I wish I understood.  I'm emotional. Passionate.  Changeable.  Water and air.

I want to hear that it was worth it. That every ridiculous and crazy thing done had a drop of sanity and reason.  That there was meaning in it all, and in that meaning there was feeling, not just lust.  I want to hear that I didn't just ruin everything.

Tell me that behind everything, every look and touch and word, there was something.

I also really like this song for some reason I can't quite explain.

Everytime I think of winter and snow and trying to get warm, literally and metaphorically, I want Fever Ray as my soundtrack.

No Need to Worry

Last night I told her about the dream I've been having.  A fence, built out of thick white elastics, intertwined like a cat's cradle, surrounding a tiny red wood house.   I told her how I tried to gnaw my way out and spat out a tooth.  I didn't want to tell her about the night I dreamt I pulled out my tongue.  Or when there was something, all presence and shadowy feeling, climbing over the wall.  Panic rose in my chest, stalled in my throat, and I couldn't move.

Vice Rag

I want my name to breathe beauty and a wealth of knowledge.  For him to think of soft angles and sharp opinions, shiny hair and soft shoulders. Talent, ideas, strength, hope, and promise. 

Instead, clutching thighs and the intake of breath.  Exposed limbs, tight and supple and available.  How my lips look, my eyes smouldered, my chest heaving.  The way my body curves in and out.  How it tenses and relaxes.  The rise and fall of my voice, all valleys and peaks, low murmers and deep sighs.

Elan Vital

Three years ago today I was in London, England, savouring the rich mix of history, fashion, stones and sky and grey.  A whirlwind trip around Western Europe, I was in love with the world and everything and everyone around me.  We were taken in, like old friends, given food and warmth and comfort, and I felt like I found my home.

Each time I've left Ontario, I think I've changed.  From Florence to Amsterdam, Edinburgh to Guysborough, Nova Scotia, to Montreal, these trips, whether weeks or days rejuvenate and make me think of all the things I want to alter. My bedroom, my hair.  I'll start wearing heels, buy more fresh vegetables, walk, walk more, drink red wine, black coffee, wrap myself in wool and leather and lace, find an old stone walk-up, a high-rise, speak up, yell louder and sing, sing, sing.

Summer comes and gravity undoes you

When I think about my life, what do I think about?  Lush ferns, peony petals on burnished wood, and open windows.  Cool basements made sweltering by burning wood stoves. There's vanilla extract, dark, paper-lined cupboards, and twinkling nights, all stars and clean air, shadows and long driveways.  A childhood fear of the dark, of witches, of being called on in class but not having the answer.  A beliefs in my beginnings and roots.  An uncertainty, but assurance in the value of my future and that strange and naive sense that everything will be okay.  The past flashes like pictures on a screen, while my mind tries to focus, grab an image, hold on, dissect it.  I try to remember what I wore, how the weather was, if the grass was covered in dew or frost or snow.

The day I left was hot. June 3rd.  My outfit -- a vague recollection of bare legs, tanned arms, and a flouncy skirt.  Not sombre.  Light.  The wind rippled the fabric around my thighs as I walked to the subway and my mind reeled with the past, the even further past, and the future.  The present, what was happening, at that exact moment, did not register with me.  I headed west, where everyone seems to go when the air around them whispers change.  In my case, west of High Park, Runnymede, Jane.  

The next month was a haze of melancholic lows and euphoric highs.   In an effort to steady myself, reinvent what it meant to be me, I shopped.   Free of another person for the first time in four years I spent money compulsively; clothes, coffee, magazines, books, anything.  I went out early and came back late.  I listened to the same albums on repeat:  Chad Vangaalen, Bjork, Bon Iver, Yeasayer.  Soul, conviction, honesty.  Things I was scared I had lost.  I was overwhelmed by the prospect of single hood but it was the dawn of summer, and sunlight was keeping me afloat.

I moved three times in June before settling into an old home in the Annex, all exposed brick and overhanging trees.  I knew none of my room mates and subsequently felt relief.  Anonymity.  Summer and all its heat and brightness and lack of restraint had an effect on me.  I grew my hair and let it reach down my back in bronze strands, and when the warm wind blew hard, it whipped around my head, getting stuck in my lips. 

In those hot months I walked long and far.  Down Markham to Queen, west to Parkdale, Roncesvalles.  Sometimes across to Kensington, through the university campus.  Sunny days saw me crave chaos, noise, while cloud cover led me down deserted student avenues.  Often I had no real sense of direction.  The city opened itself up to me and I inched towards renewal.

When people ask me how my summer was, I pause and reach back.  It was good, I say.  Different.  To those I know a bit better, an explanation:  a serious breakup, a nomadic season.  I stretched my legs, only to tuck them back in.

Today, it's early Autumn, and the heat of summer is already buried under wool, damp leaves, and a heavy dose of reality.  The summer months had me untethered, wavering in a limbo between past and present.  October is steadying.  It casts a golden amber glow on the world that's not concealing or smoldering like the haze of a humid Toronto summer, but rather exposing.  The crisp mornings wake me up, shake me out of the stupor of July and August, and bring with it the alarming realization that I have no idea where life will take me.  

So I close my eyes.  Think about peonies and morning glories.  Wide open windows.  Quilts upon rainbow-coloured quilts, cut from the cloth of my childhood.  Of expectations and possibilities.  Brick and wood, gravity, water, and soil.  What's solid and what's ever-changing.  What keeps me sane, grounded, and what will set me free.