balls, pills and dollars.

 february twenty first, 2007

This posting has nothing to do with any of those things.  I just couldn’t think of a clever title. 

This is what I wanted to say (not nearly as interesting as I’ve led you to believe):

One of my friends said to me the other day, “It troubles me to see you so… well, troubled.”

And, having given it some thought, I’ve realized… This is what I do best.  Unnecessary and painful self investigation.  Pondering the meaning of things that elude interpretation entirely.  I was a Philosophy student… This is my modus operandi.

I spend a significant portion of my time writhing in pain over obstacles I’ve set up for myself that I subsequently find impossible to overcome.  And every minute of it is glorious.  If I have to choose between certainty or perpetual lack thereof, I will without question choose the latter.  If something isn’t difficult, I’ll gladly find a way to make it impossible.  It’s almost like I’m trapped in one of those glass balls that looks like a snowstorm when you shake it and some fucker won’t put the thing down. 

Sometimes, I lie in bed at night in my Inuyasha t-shirt that’s ten-year-old-boy-sized-from-Chinatown and pink velour shorts with knee socks, clutching the covers up under my chin, trying to figure out what’s bothering me.  I imagine it must look like some sort of disturbed Norman Rockwell painting.  And then I remember something that he said once: “If a picture wasn’t going very well, I’d put a puppy in it.”  Hm.  Perhaps a puppy is exactly what I need. 

Another Norman Rockwell insight: “If there was sadness in this creative world of mine, it was a pleasant sadness.  If there were problems, they were humorous problems.”  Words to live by, as far as I’m concerned.  (Although I think sometimes he took his lack of seriousness a bit too seriously…)

Here’s something else I think:  I think spring will make everything feel better and less complicated.  There are so many lovely things about it.  I’ve been aching to buy new clothes… dresses, skirts, flip flops… pretty things that smell like laundry hung out to dry.  And everyone will parade around in their finest… We’ll watch the length of skirts get progressively shorter as the temperature climbs, tanned gams strutting in and out of shops on queen street, licking strawberry popsicles with eager, pink tongues…

 

 

The freedom of mobility.  That’s really what it is.  Not being hindered by layers upon layers of clothing and not being afraid to leave the house because you know it’s going to make your face hurt and your toes numb. 

 

And other simple pleasures… Like watching beads of sweat form on bare, tanned and lightly freckled bellies.  The stark contrast between white and dark from where your bikini bottoms end along the sides of your bum.  Syrupy, waist-deep-in-water kisses at Dundas/Bathurst pool at 3am.  Nights when it rains until midnight and when it stops, the whole world glistens with reflected street lights and the air feels as if it’s been irreversibly gelatinized in some bizarre 9th grade science project gone awry.  And on the sidewalks, people move with measured steps in languid and rhythmic unison.  Sticky air.  Sticky bodies.  And every single thing slows down.

 

I wish I knew how to type a sigh… Or how to really articulate THIS feeling.  I’ll try… I just slumped in my chair a little, rolled my head back and to the left side slightly and took a breath so deep it made my ribcage feel tight.  Do you know what that feels like? 

 

 

It feels like waiting.