26 May 2005 Cracking my third beer. Leftover from the moving-in party Saturday night. This house is wonderful. The structure itself, the space, the neighbourhood. This process hurts. And perhaps I'm going about it all wrong. Like setting a bone in someone's leg and asking them nicely to be kind enough not to scream. When you're the one who broke it in the first place. Okay, I know I shouldn't have left that rake in the middle of the yard, and now you've tripped over it and broken your leg, but would you kindly shut up about it? It's madness, really, to even ask. But, then, that doesn't make the howls of pain any less loud. Any less grating. Knowing you deserve it makes it no more bearable. But it doesn't make it worse. What makes it worse is not knowing just how much of it you really do deserve. That uncertainty bends you right to breaking. Because you're torn between indignant rage and quiet resignation. And the worst feeling of all is not knowing how to feel. The numbness. And the guilt of the numbness. Take your lumps. The time for disputation will come if need be. Read Comments (0) | Add Comment

12 May 2005 On reviewing over three years of her own public writing, a friend of mine lamented that she had reclaimed nothing, constructed nothing at all. That the act of writing granted little more than a moment of respite. For the time being. But the act, I am led to believe, was ultimately futile. I might agree from a certain point of view. Why do we do this? Why do I do this? Why write these entries at all, let alone put them out into the ether? There is no redemption to be found in the act. And no absolution. When you review the years of writing and find the same confessions for the same sins over and over again, you realize that the act of writing has made no difference. It affords only expression. Timothy Findley wrote that people can only be found in what they do. Identity is constructed only in living. Not in writing. But what is to be found, what is constructed, is the tangible image of oneself. Upon consideration of the written record one sees patterns that would have gone unrecognized. Is reminded of lessons learned but since forgotten. In this mirror, one can see what lies behind the features of the face and the affected expression of the eyes. And this mirror is the necessary means to become the people we want to be. You cannot control your appearance unless you are first able to see yourself clearly. The same is true of the soul. Writing will not construct your identity. And the words themselves lay claim to nothing at all. I am convinced of this. What is constructed is the mirror. What is reclaimed is the power to control what you see in that mirror tomorrow. It is not pointless. It's just not what any of us expected to find when we began. Read Comments (2) | Add Comment

11 May 2005 It scares me to consider how long it's been since I've thought. And done nothing else. I'm beginning to get it. How intelligent people get older and get jobs and stop considering things that extend beyond their own immediate world. How the bubble forms, hardens, and begins to shrink. It happens to everyone, I think, at one time or another. Things come up. Things get busy. The walls close in on you, and you pull everything you need closer, into that newly-confined space, just to keep it within reach. But sooner or later, those walls, with a satisfied sigh, relax, back off, and doors you never knew about creak open. Daylight streaks in. There is room to wander again, beyond those walls. The mistake made too often by too many is to fail to bother. Bother to get up again. Bother to rise and walk. Why? Everything I need is right here where I put it. I hope I have not realized this too late. I don't think it's too late. I'm sure it's not. But I'll only be able to say that for so long. Duly noted, I say to myself. Read Comments (0) | Add Comment

10 May 2005 Does it ever stop? The endless barrage of big events, important events, that you simply can't ignore? They say it never rains... but this past while has felt like it's done nothing but pour, without so much of a glimpse of sunshine in between. You must, however, forgive the negative connotation of the metaphor. It's not all bad. In fact, all of these big events are changes I've been waiting for anxiously, good things that I've wanted to happen. They just require lots of work. And then, of course, there's that paralysis that sets in when you begin to feel overwhelmed. Where you feel like you've been swamped all week, when in fact you've done absolutely nothing but sit on the couch and watch TV. Need to shake it off, snap out of it. Get up and kick a little ass. Dozed off for a second there. No self-deprecation, though, there's still time, it'll be OK. Just stay frosty. Read Comments (2) | Add Comment

21 April 2005 "It's nice to see you again..." I'm not sure I really believe you when you say so, but out of courtesy I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Were it really the truth, I'd have to think it would be the first time. Everyone talks about how much people change after high school. No one wants to talk about the people who don't. And the frequency of like in your speech and the general tone of conversation that floated over to me from your table is strikingly familiar. And that look in your eye just before I spoke revealed what might have been fear. Perhaps it was just fear that I might not have been who you thought I was. After all, we were both guilty of shooting glances of not-so-vague recognition at each other, and there's always an uncomfortable uncertainty that accompanies those kinds of glances. But I'm more inclined to believe that you were more afraid that I was exactly who you thought I was. Perhaps you have changed, in ways that aren't discernible in such a brief conversation. And perhaps you really did think it was nice to see me. I was happy to see you, too, uncomfortable as it may have been. But I'm not really sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Read Comments (0) | Add Comment