Tag: ryan

because god doesn’t always have the best god damned plans, does he?

And so we taste the seeds of sewn discontent. I was out with Matthew this evening. I saw Ryan off at the airport, he walked across the street like a traveler from the old world into the new. Goodbye to everything but a statue of liberty. I told his father that I felt as if we should have tattered his coat, but then thought that it was exactly right just the way it was. This gives me what I need as much as he always does. There was a bomb scare at Metrotown today. play the piano for me. I stood outside and looked up at the black towers, imagining orange billowing out, glass smashing into the sidewalk at my feet.

I left him, my Matthew, on the train almost after midnight. The presence of my thought, I could feel it beginning to sink into the skin of my heart. He left me, I left him. They’re words. I’m afraid a part of me will always be waiting. It’s a good fear, the flee-fight reaction that bolts me upright in unfamiliar beds. He stood in front of me and I looked a little closer. His hair is longer but the mannerisms are the same. He quotes instead of knowing how to speak. He tears my world apart. I was waiting for a miracle, and then the end days came. Before we began, it was timing that did us in. Timing and his youth holding so tenaciously to places that I haven’t seen in myself in years. It will take a long time to forget how to hurt, but as I’m sorry that there’s no simple things to say, I’m also wanting to be glad that I’m not as shallow as I sometimes suspect. This year has been good to me in perhaps that respect. I know that my motives are exactly as I perceive them to be. I’m young and think love is paramount, and I like it that way. There is a deathgrip on substance standing over illusion, and my version of romance savours simple facts and dedication. It’s as it should be, no matter how much pain it’s been giving me. Strawberries are what the young should live off, what we should carry closer. Bite the sun or you’re simply taking up space the rest of us could be using.

We eventually sat on the stairs of the courthouse, just like everyone else does here. It’s a place to have it out in privacy without taking the other person home. There’s darkness shrouding everything and yet enough light to see by drifting in from nearby buildings. There’s skyline to stare at, and water, and trees. Details that capture the eye and allow the conversation to wander. It’s important, that wander, that description into meta that creates an emotion check, that creates the proper distraction to bring things closer. Often what I said wasn’t much, but was hurtful. The truth is my weapon, it cuts like nothing else can. It was understood, the depth of my attack describes the enormity of my reaction. It’s not being volatile, it’s reining back what I want to do, what I want to say. There’s been too much waiting to find these things out, I can cry again. Forgiveness will come for some of the things, though likely never all of them. Deception is a big red button, the distrust bomb waiting to annihilate everything that went before. I go through my days deriving optimism from pragmatic descriptions of the present. It’s not positive, but it’s enough to live off. It’s enough that I can still put my arm in his to walk down the street. I can adjust.

I’ve said before that there are no heroes for me to follow now, but I want to say that I can draw figures on my soul instead. I can draw lines of respect and honour, I can steal voices that speak wisdom and inscribe lessons inside my body with them, I can learn and I can be holy and I can be more than the literary definition of the ghost inside deux ex machina. However, it’s going to take time. More time than has passed, for this wound shattered my sacred into dust. Against usual expectations, not mine, but I’m sure some of yours, more contact will help me. My anger is at betrayal, at falsehood, at taking me with him when he fell, when his wings were wrenched from his back by a picketing god. Grabbing the root by the stem is the first step to preparing a salve. My flight can be returned to me. My depression is action based, an ocean of reaction that I can eventually drink.

time and space: he wrote the word city on my arm with his finger and I almost cried.


Tokyo City View @ Mori Tower
Originally uploaded by Ya Ya.

I reset my alarm, but forgot to turn it back on after Ryan left. Silly me, I fail at mornings. I woke up though at exactly the right time, my door buzzer more persistent than my hollow lack of dreams. Outside the window was a courier truck. Michel has sent me more comic books, an odd thing to find out first thing in the morning. There’s also a Jesus Monkey Pants t-shirt, which I would wear today if it weren’t that I’ve got a job interview this afternoon at one o’clock. Thank you, dear, they’re much appreciated and maybe just what I need. When is good to call? I read the three Dreaming, Weird Romance, and it occurred to me that if I were a better person, more attuned to expectations, it would have struck me bitterly. As it was, I finished the three then got up for my shower, thinking only that it’s sad that he hasn’t called me. I wonder at myself, that there’s no explosion of hateful verbal diarrhea waiting, only a sadness too deep for me to reach bottom in that wants an explanation. Chris said something to me on Monday night that’s been stuck in my head, still quietly humming in my ears. We were talking about Amanda coming home, of what would happen, of an unknowable future. I said, “Dear, I understand. I am terrified of mine.” He replied, “Yes, but see, I like the person I’m in love with, so I’m merely scared.”

I’ve been out of charactor today, but would like to mark for the record that I blame the eye-liner


City Girl
Originally uploaded by cabbit.

St Peters wolf is hunting me, licking at my traces on other peoples skin. My nails ask for defenses back please, they ask for water to drain from my eyes somewhere not in public. I saw today that someone’s referred to me as an ex, and when night falls, that’s what it feels like, though I know it only as a convenient term that explains really nothing of what happened or what might have been. He kissed me, you know, when he shouldn’t have. I understand deeply, like standing under trees, that there’s been a fundamental shift, that I forced myself to remember that I am a star collapsing. In waking to myself, I had to be alone of this one, this gold skein mannerism. Otherwise, when my heart was beating, it would be a violence, a darkening room without a coloured door.

  • stencil art billboards
  • the wooster collective

    Amusing to me, I realize as I write this that I’m wearing a stolen ring. Usually a sign of solidarity, this time it means a freedom in vocabulary, it means someone I feel quick enough to keep up with. These round celtic knots tied one into the next, this band, this loop, I’m twisting it around my finger. Metal there feels right, the flesh feels righted, but the implications, the loose ties of acquaintance versus friendship, they nag at me with a peculiar fascination. In my mind, there’s something waking. A fierce creature with steady cravings, I can’t see it, though I feel it growing restless. What it is I’m uncertain, something to do with words, with expression.

  • pictures of wall
  • intricate x-wing t-shirt

    Yesterday was long, a golden musical chairs of people in and out. It began merely an hour after returning from Beth’s delightful house-warming. Navi was over in the morning, and Ryan, with James visiting in the afternoon. We went to dinner with my mother, Vicki, and her father, John, at Wild Ginger. My first time meeting my granda as an adult. It was, shall we say, illuminating. He reminded me that I’m a quarter gypsy, which is something I had almost forgotten, but that we are related to the highest placed mafia family in Canada. This is especially delightful considering that I’ve finally discovered what it is he does. It was rather surprising. I knew that he used to be a salesman of sorts but I was entirely unaware that currently my granda is a bootlegging gigolo. I swear, my family only gets better. The best part? He’s a British Citizen, has been for thirty+ years. A landed immigrant back in the day when bombs still fell in first world countries. The way the laws are, that means that so am I. When I get my passport, depending on how soon I reapply, then it just might not be Canadian. (So anyone I asked to marry for citizenship, if you’re still interested, you’re going to have to supply another interesting country or two).