I feel no less than three posts backed up, five weeks deep, “I feel no more” for the symmetry, the sake of a bald lie. …Hi. It’s springtime and deceptive here, with the green grass that never left and the generally mild. I mean spring in the wheeeeee! sense, the no more school!!! on into the summer. UBC has delightfully short terms—I’ve been cut loose now careening on the what to do first. I’ve projects piled high and eager wiles ready to wrestle ‘em to the ground, with a dose of uncertainty to keep me edged, diamond. I have no idea what I’m doing this summer, scrambling for a co-op (Canadian-speak for an internship) and enrolled in a single six-week class I may or mayn’t drop, oh, and there’s the beach four blocks down. There’s a stack of books to read and write. A bicycle, a forest trail, a gallery of crows curious of the next move unknown. I want to visit home. See my family, see my friends. Keep on loving those who’ve made an enemy of me.
I regret not writing more, sooner, more often, still owning but not possessed by the scrawled notes in the weeks that have passed. Suffice to say, the semester was a lashing, homework every day of the week with the worst, the Sunday crashing. Caffeine queen unwashed for days, jitter grime and braindead buying the exact same groceries again and sniffing the joints of my clothes I can wear this can I wear this? getting holes and the muted tinge of whatever detergent’s on sale. I’d sit in the library six days a week (working the seventh), decline my dad’s Skype calls and stare out the window. It was more than being trapped inside. I was outside of outside, even when in it, fierce-paced passing the most marvelous things unless forcing a concentrated effort.
It’s been hard, but not hell. School is the reason for fatigue and time kill, but it’s also the reason I’m here, and right pique. I love it. But never-un-the-less, I am grateful it’s giving me back my ghost. There’s too much to be interested in, on this earth, I will never be bored.
I did manage to sneak away to Seattle for a day, St. Paddy’s weekend, to wish Nathan a merry 26th Birth Remembrance Day. He made the most fantastic salads and calzones and a magnificent cheese tray, smoked Gouda ohmygod and wine tasting, and gibe trading, and the never-ending sashay-parade of his friends I’d long heard of but never met, who informed me small-smiled-knowingly my own reputation proceeds. We danced at R Place, a mix of folk like I’d never seen, of style, of race, of gender, of scene, clique and cliché and stares and who cares, where everybody slaps everybody’s ass, and everyone’s the hottest, damnedest, sweetest thing.
A week later I bought a mango. I had never bought a mango before. Its tang was almost too much to bear, leaning on the lawn of grass, moss and mud watching the bees bang against the flowers. Today I bought a canadew. I thought I was being cultural ooooo mysterious Canadian fruit ball, smelling rind ripe with surprising weight and dripping with secrets. Melon in my belly, the internet tells me I just ate a Frankenstein cantaloupe honeydew. Doh.
Combined with a compulsion for new music, my hypergratuitous grittiness and glee has encouraged me to unrust my industrial roots. It’s been far too long since I stomped myself out of consciousness on a dancefloor, pretended I knew German better or tore my hair out over a breakbeat. As such I’ve been feeding Funker Vogt into last.fm and rocking out as far as my headphones allow. VNV at GZ or bust, baby! it’s a maybe, and I must remember, I am the executioner, not the dead. The thinker not the thought, dreamer not the fantasy. On a related note… sort of… I am the sad, knowing I will miss for the first time the Minneapolis Goth Prom, along with the persistent missing of my favorite body-convulsing dance-companion, the Annadroid, ex-flatmate and sculptress of non sequiturs turned PR hex bolt in the New York City not of her imagination. Siiiigh. I should like to visit, as every city should like to see our motion interpretation of George Michael’s Freeek.
And so, the future becomes the present I shake to guess the surprise. I’m inside! of inside and outside and everywhere. I have designs for obsessive silliness, self retreats and treats and for crying out loud you poor devil thing, patience is a virtuoso, upstart stopping. Falls without warnings. Here has been a dream, in a role of observation, warming up and hesitating, well, it’s time. To explore more? yes, but less, to leave here. Short termed or not or what, I moved here. It’s time to live here. To integrate identities. Reach as far deep as I can into the sand to touch the fault—the earthquake and the temporality. I have never been happier than now, and it’s always now, and it’s always temporary. And lovely.
Too often in the past few years, I’ve dug hands into my chest to beat my own heart. I thought it giving out, giving up, and it was, both illusory and choking real. I no longer beat it pulsing, or beat it bruising, either, and it doesn’t hurt itself. But it does move on its own. Time for hands to do other things.