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Blasé
You're right—I am indecisive. More so now than I've ever been. It's all
too obvious in the myriad of ways I've come to perform my life. I
desire immensely—to see new people, to see new places, to be someone
else—most days. To experience. Perhaps one could say that I am allowing
my indecision to keep me in this perpetual state of wanting.
Perhaps. Possibly. The simple answer would be yes or no.
I'd like to think that it's not as simple as this lack of decisiveness
which stains everything that goes on around here. That there's a need
to calculate, to consider those intimately connected with me, to mull
over the expenses, the plans, the details and then some. The reality is
that my cowardice constrains me.
And then I think—how lovely it would be to just let it all go.
As you will appear to have done. And perhaps this is why I, along with your known others, envy you immeasurably.
You're free.
And for now, I can only desire to be. Now more than ever, Sweden,
Thailand, New Zealand, Mongolia, Iceland, Armenia, India, Ghana,
Brazil, Bhutan, and yes, Japan, waver in and out of sight above my
reach, like the flapping of birds' wings striking the sides of their
cages. To quit life here and move elsewhere, never quite satisfying the
incessant wanderlust, but always mildly satiating it, always feeding it
something new, exotic, foreign, but otherwise beautifully mundane. Like
squid drying in the sun.
Now wouldn't that be something.
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I'm eating honey dijon Kettle chips and thinking about your plane crossing the Pacific. You've never gone that
way before and neither have I. I'm thinking about what you'll take in
as your plane edges closer to the earth—do you see the patterns, are
there concentric circles and grids, do you notice the outlying areas,
do you see the towers of commerce punctuating the saturated area below
your feet, is the scene yellow and pink and grey, what does the lay of
the land look like because as a student of geography, I am apparently
keen to know.
The grogginess, the confusion, the air you'll drink in. I'm thinking
about all of that. But I'm also thinking about my tired feet and the
whistling I can hear through the vents. About what I'm going to make
for dinner one of these nights (something that possibly involves
spinach and salmon). About how slowly I drank my tea last night and how
slowly I will tonight. About how thrilled I would be if I could sleep
in tomorrow. About finishing up book number six on the Rwandan
genocide, so I can start reading book number seven. About golden beets
and tri-colour beans and spaghetti squash in the garden. About taking
one of my film toy cameras out for a stroll in the hopes of one day
documenting something significant and creating positive change through
photography. About how you aren't coming home tonight. And that you
won't be home tomorrow. And the night after that, and the night after
that until you will indeed be home. About how that thought makes my
nose twitch in a way I can't prevent and in a way you've come to
recognize all too instinctively. About the 7574 kilometres and 16 hours
between us. About how those numbers are largely insignificant in the
face of real things.
Such as being able to sleep in the centre of a bed, but being startled awake by someone's absence.
Run amok for me.
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I haven't written in a while...
You know, like really write. I just finished writing a paper
about the professional ethics of psychologists engaging in national
security settings. A day late, my head hurts and I could really care
less. I'll be writing about the gendering of labour migration in
Pacific Asia shortly. And about Burma. And about geopolitics and its
visual representation in photography. I don't want to think about
writing on these topics, even though the nerd in me wants to be
interested. What I really want to do right now is paint a wall red. No,
it's not a metaphor for anything. I want to paint a wall red, and take
your photo against it.
Maybe this is a sign that I'm just a wee bit stressed. Or that I miss
that raw, real and sometimes scathing way I used to write. Maybe I've
matured. Maybe my sensibilities have dulled. Maybe my audience has
changed and I like and dislike how I'm not so anonymous anymore when I
write. The latter is probably most true.
But I miss the cliche-infused release that brings with it a greater
knowledge of myself, for myself -- at the same time, I don't mind
making you think things. Thinking things is okay. And, I don't mind
confusing you, as long as I don't offend you or annoy you... too much.
I'm going to have tea in a bit, as I do most nights. Some spicy rooibos tea.
Maybe it's just a damn shame that I don't know too many people who
enjoy sitting around, enjoying a drink, and laughing about themselves.
There's this preoccupation with 'doing something' that communicating on
a basic level no longer seems appealing. Maybe when I have my
red-walled living room and my tea, my lager, my what have you, I'll
invite you over for some old-fashioned conversation. And then maybe we
can nibble on each other's ears, or necks, or what have you.
That's still the plan.
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how's the story, morning glory?
i've stepped out for a bit
any social excursions contact
pending my retrieval from
this sickly state
i will be with you shortly
when i'm no longer blinded with
such monstrous anger and fatigue
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| It's 5:41am
It's so quiet in here...strange, you murmured as you looked at me bewildered
But you will not remember what you have said
Although you probably will not believe me,
I want to run outside and yell obscenities and throw things at cars
And collide with the beautiful mind that is you
This is my suspended thought -
As I am vulnerable, naked
Without a mind to properly sustain
The words you will not care to hear
As I feel...
I feel. | | |
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