I lied, he says, and it's plain and it's simple.
Only nothing will ever be plain again.
And the truth floats between you like a teasing, helium balloon that neither of you reaches up quick enough to grasp.
It's a betrayal you can taste, it's a ravage of all you hold dear.
It's an anger you don't quite feel.
It's what was there all along, but what you, in all your childish delight, squeezed your eyes shut in front of, in defiance, in fear.
In love?
Monday, March 19, 2007
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Building her case
And it makes a case then, for being alone. It makes a case.
She makes a case, the girl does, as she screams into her cellphone on the corner of De Maisonneuve and Guy, spitting and swearing, cursing and crying. The male passersby chuckle, thinking 'glad it's not me,' and the women glance upwards shyly, because we all know we've been there.
She makes a case, the woman does, as she packs her things into boxes, forced to start over, to make a new beginning, again, only this time, it doesn't feel new. It feels tired and forced, messy and in shambles.
She makes a case, then, the girl, who rummages for phone numbers and sifts through errant pieces of paper, who checks e-mails and msn's and all the other voyeuristic technological mediums of our generation. She makes a case, because she's right. Of course, she is right.
She makes a case, the woman does, as she redecorates her house, as she cuts her hair. As she treats herself to measured slices of chocolate truffle cake and walks in the Arboretum. She makes a case, as she gets a library membership, a gym membership, an art club membership, as she sections off her time into manageable compartments, filling up the days, the hours, the weeks and the life not lead.
You make a case then, for yourself, you do, as the hurt rolls in, as it rolls over you, and you think, 'welcome in, old friend, welcome in again.'
But the question remains of when it will end, and as the fog slowly becomes replaced by a daunting clarity, that it will only end when you make a choice, when your case, is won.
She makes a case, the girl does, as she screams into her cellphone on the corner of De Maisonneuve and Guy, spitting and swearing, cursing and crying. The male passersby chuckle, thinking 'glad it's not me,' and the women glance upwards shyly, because we all know we've been there.
She makes a case, the woman does, as she packs her things into boxes, forced to start over, to make a new beginning, again, only this time, it doesn't feel new. It feels tired and forced, messy and in shambles.
She makes a case, then, the girl, who rummages for phone numbers and sifts through errant pieces of paper, who checks e-mails and msn's and all the other voyeuristic technological mediums of our generation. She makes a case, because she's right. Of course, she is right.
She makes a case, the woman does, as she redecorates her house, as she cuts her hair. As she treats herself to measured slices of chocolate truffle cake and walks in the Arboretum. She makes a case, as she gets a library membership, a gym membership, an art club membership, as she sections off her time into manageable compartments, filling up the days, the hours, the weeks and the life not lead.
You make a case then, for yourself, you do, as the hurt rolls in, as it rolls over you, and you think, 'welcome in, old friend, welcome in again.'
But the question remains of when it will end, and as the fog slowly becomes replaced by a daunting clarity, that it will only end when you make a choice, when your case, is won.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
A Million Little Failures
She stands, she hovers, arm extended, invisible particles of sea salt falling to the carpeted floor. Eyes bright, hopeful, she shakes her hand.
A silent offering.
I glance up from my computer screen, finish typing the sentence I have in my head before I lose it.
‘Would you like one?’ she questions tentatively, waving the Miss Vickie’s chip bag in front of me.
I wrinkle my nose.
‘No thanks,’ I reply.
The arm falls, the bag crinkles in her hand as she bunches up the top of it. She smiles a sad smile, turns and leaves my office.
I watch her go and I immediately I begin to feel badly.
My co-worker is on a diet. Of sorts. We cheer her on as she measures out her teaspoon of salad dressing at lunch and look the other way as the cookie cupboard is mysteriously raided in the afternoon.
I realized that her offering me part of her already guilt-ridden snack was in actual fact, a request for an accomplice to a little failure. A plea to share the pinprick of shame; to make it somehow seem not so bad.
We all fail. In a million little ways, we fail. We fail ourselves, our friends, our families, our co-workers; strangers.
The other day, in the locker room of my gym, a middle-aged woman, relatively new to the club, stands on an electronic scale for an agonizing, five full minutes. She leans slowly to her left side; re-balances to the right. She steps off, removes the elastic band from her graying hair, shakes it out and steps back on again. Frowns. Leans forward. With a final sigh, she steps down.
No one says a word. No one, myself included, says what should have been said to that woman. That it’s OK. That she is beautiful anyway. That she looks healthy. That her skin is rosy, that her smile is bright. That she is a woman and she is radiant.
And most importantly, that the scale on the other side of the room weighs you in at five pounds less.
You phone a girlfriend at two in the afternoon on a Saturday.
‘Hey hon, how’s it going? What are you doing?’
‘Drinking a glass of wine and watching my roommate make my bed.’
‘You ok?’
(Laughs) ‘Why, because it’s two in the afternoon and I’m drinking or because I wasn’t able to make my own bed and my roommate is doing it for me?’
‘Well, you know. Either.’
You’re in a food court, trying to manipulate a piece of sushi in and successfully out of an impossibly small plastic cup of Soya sauce. A woman, standing in line for a piece of pizza, is holding a roughly eight-month old baby girl who is screaming with fierce determination. The child’s face is red and angry; she is pushing with all her force against her tired, frazzled mother. The woman tries to shush her. Rocks her. Tries to give her a bottle. A Pacifier. The child screams and then screams louder. Finally, in a moment of pure frustration, the mother looks into her child’s face and screams back.
A man you care about, a man you care about a lot, tells you he’s sorry, that he’s really sorry, that he can’t. That he’s failed you; that he’s failed her. Tells you he’d like it if you understood, but that it isn’t really necessary at this point in time.
We all fail. In a million little ways, we fail. But I find, that as I bumble along, that it’s the failures in people that make them human. It’s the failures in people that I like.
A silent offering.
I glance up from my computer screen, finish typing the sentence I have in my head before I lose it.
‘Would you like one?’ she questions tentatively, waving the Miss Vickie’s chip bag in front of me.
I wrinkle my nose.
‘No thanks,’ I reply.
The arm falls, the bag crinkles in her hand as she bunches up the top of it. She smiles a sad smile, turns and leaves my office.
I watch her go and I immediately I begin to feel badly.
My co-worker is on a diet. Of sorts. We cheer her on as she measures out her teaspoon of salad dressing at lunch and look the other way as the cookie cupboard is mysteriously raided in the afternoon.
I realized that her offering me part of her already guilt-ridden snack was in actual fact, a request for an accomplice to a little failure. A plea to share the pinprick of shame; to make it somehow seem not so bad.
We all fail. In a million little ways, we fail. We fail ourselves, our friends, our families, our co-workers; strangers.
The other day, in the locker room of my gym, a middle-aged woman, relatively new to the club, stands on an electronic scale for an agonizing, five full minutes. She leans slowly to her left side; re-balances to the right. She steps off, removes the elastic band from her graying hair, shakes it out and steps back on again. Frowns. Leans forward. With a final sigh, she steps down.
No one says a word. No one, myself included, says what should have been said to that woman. That it’s OK. That she is beautiful anyway. That she looks healthy. That her skin is rosy, that her smile is bright. That she is a woman and she is radiant.
And most importantly, that the scale on the other side of the room weighs you in at five pounds less.
You phone a girlfriend at two in the afternoon on a Saturday.
‘Hey hon, how’s it going? What are you doing?’
‘Drinking a glass of wine and watching my roommate make my bed.’
‘You ok?’
(Laughs) ‘Why, because it’s two in the afternoon and I’m drinking or because I wasn’t able to make my own bed and my roommate is doing it for me?’
‘Well, you know. Either.’
You’re in a food court, trying to manipulate a piece of sushi in and successfully out of an impossibly small plastic cup of Soya sauce. A woman, standing in line for a piece of pizza, is holding a roughly eight-month old baby girl who is screaming with fierce determination. The child’s face is red and angry; she is pushing with all her force against her tired, frazzled mother. The woman tries to shush her. Rocks her. Tries to give her a bottle. A Pacifier. The child screams and then screams louder. Finally, in a moment of pure frustration, the mother looks into her child’s face and screams back.
A man you care about, a man you care about a lot, tells you he’s sorry, that he’s really sorry, that he can’t. That he’s failed you; that he’s failed her. Tells you he’d like it if you understood, but that it isn’t really necessary at this point in time.
We all fail. In a million little ways, we fail. But I find, that as I bumble along, that it’s the failures in people that make them human. It’s the failures in people that I like.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
10 little things
A tag by Vila over at http://thesmokingsection.wordpress.com prompted me to put together a little list on the ten oddest things about me.
Alors!
1) I always spoil the ending of a book by reading the last page before I get there, no matter how much I'm enjoying the story.
2) I never pay parking tickets, license or medicare renewal fees or return library books even remotely close to on time. Which reminds me...
3) One of my absolute favourite snacks is peanut butter stirred with Splenda. Don't judge.
4) After finding a bug on my pillow a few months ago, I now unmake and remake my bed every single night, just to make absolutely certain no unwelcome visitors are crawling around in there!
5) I am shamelessly addicted to Oprah magazine and read it religiously every month. From finish to start, of course. Don't you judge me!
6) I don't own a working television.
7) I have absolutely no fascination with celebrities. I can honestly say there isn't one famous person I feel my life would be enriched by meeting.
8) I make 99.9% of my phone calls from the bathtub.
9) I once got yanked over by security at the airport for a 'conspicuous-looking item' in my bag, which, I humbly admit, was my bathroom scale. I was 16. So don't judge.
10) This list got progressively easier to write as I went along. And that makes me nervous.
I am ridiculously terrible at inserting links properly, so I'm not even going to try. But Arthur, Walters, K, Mood Indigo, S'Mat and Jonasparker, kids, you're up. A vos tours!
Saturday, March 03, 2007
What they didn't tell you
It hurts a lot more.
That crossing your own boundaries is harder on you than when someone else does it.
That no, you actually won't grow up to love green beans.
You won't feel as guilty as you should.
That the world can be polarized into two, broad categories: People who are good at math and people who aren't.
And that the people who are good at math hate you.
That a piece of you really in fact does die from a broken heart.
That time doesn't heal all wounds. Some remain oozing, gaping gashes for years to come.
You don't learn from your mistakes. You keep making them until you simply arrive at a point where you've accepted the fact that you are a person who makes mistakes.
Big ones.
Scary movies get scarier the older you get.
That always being true to yourself doesn't always work out.
That just being yourself is really, the hardest thing in the world to do, because your concept of self is in perpetual shift mode.
You really weren't the prettiest girl in the class, and plaid did, in fact, make you look fat.
That crossing your own boundaries is harder on you than when someone else does it.
That no, you actually won't grow up to love green beans.
You won't feel as guilty as you should.
That the world can be polarized into two, broad categories: People who are good at math and people who aren't.
And that the people who are good at math hate you.
That a piece of you really in fact does die from a broken heart.
That time doesn't heal all wounds. Some remain oozing, gaping gashes for years to come.
You don't learn from your mistakes. You keep making them until you simply arrive at a point where you've accepted the fact that you are a person who makes mistakes.
Big ones.
Scary movies get scarier the older you get.
That always being true to yourself doesn't always work out.
That just being yourself is really, the hardest thing in the world to do, because your concept of self is in perpetual shift mode.
You really weren't the prettiest girl in the class, and plaid did, in fact, make you look fat.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Face forward
I know.
I said, I know.
But in my defense, I was blackmailed.
I joined facebook.
And all that it implies.
I said, I know.
But in my defense, I was blackmailed.
I joined facebook.
And all that it implies.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)