Back to School 'Mares

Every year, before I go back to school, I begin to have nightmares. This year they have begun uncharacteristically early.

Last night, I dreamt that I was running late for school, and had to turn in an essay. No matter what I did, I couldn't print off the essay to take with me. Outside, it was raining like it does in the movies, heavy and unceasingly. Begrudgingly, my sister said that she would drive me to school so that I wouldn't be late. But as she went outside to start the car, I kept realizing that I was forgetting more and more things. The biggest problem was the cabbage. For some reason, I had to take a whole bunch of chopped cabbage with me to school. It was everywhere: in drawers, on counters, on the floor, and I just couldn't carry it all. The drawers in my bathroom were filled with chopped red and green cabbage.

I looked up in my trusty dream dictionary, and it said that cabbage can be a symbol that you have been fighting a lot with your family lately. That is an understatement! Possibly the biggest understatement of the year... Sometimes I make rules for myself, like I can't respond directly to an argumentative statement from a member of my family. I have to take a minute or two, put some thought in and then respond. This usually works, but at the expense of my sanity. I usually trash the rule after an hour or a few minutes.

I don't really know what to do. Being around my family is like pure torture. I always had this image in my head of reaching my twenties and all of a sudden having a great relationship with my parents, being able to spend time together without being at one another's throats all day. But alas, we are more like wolverines than people. To be objective about things, however, is quite interesting. If I take the stance that I am a foreign psychologist doing a case study on a dysfunctional family, then the situation is fascinating, really. Fascinating....

Perception

It seems strange to me, that people close to me can see me doing things that I could never even fathom. Tonight, my best friend told me that she thought I would make a good police officer. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against police officers, but I think that I might possibly make the world's worst one.

Offender: "Gee, I'm sorry officer, I didn't mean to steal from the store, but I just got into a fight with my girlfriend, and I was crying, and I couldn't see through the tears, so I accidentally brushed against the display and the merchandise fell into my backpack and I didn't even notice."

Me: "Well, I'm sorry to hear about the fight. I feel for you. And you're right, it's pretty hard to see when you're crying. I guess that story is plausible. Run along now, don't let it happen again."

Store Owner: "You let him get away?!?! You !$#@%#%@%% cop!

I had someone else tell me recently that they thought I would do well supervising groups of young people on exchange (the exchange I just participated in). I found that strange as well. Don't get me wrong, I like people, but just not all the time. Especially not supervising them...

So this has got me to thinking, what is the difference between my own perception of me, and the perception other's have of me? And does this difference matter? I like to think that it doesn't, but in reality I am not so sure. I wish that other people could see me as I see me. It amazes me and alarms me, just how different I am in other people's eyes.

Writer's Block

Sometimes the most interesting things emerge from my subconscious when I have writer's block. Sitting at my desk, pen to paper, or more accurately fingers motionless on the keyboard, I am at a loss. At all times, my mind is racing-a literal whirlwind of thoughts, yet when I decide that I want to capture some of them, they all disappear. Like a shoal of fish, startled by a hunting shark, they fly off into the darkness.

And then, it begins. My fingers begin to fly, my pen begins to scratch across the paper's surface, scribing words I didn't know I had in me. And just like that, something is created out of nothing. I could make a book out of all the poems, blurbs and stories that have come out of writer's block (a short book, but a book, nonetheless..).

Some nights, like last night, I lie awake for hours writing stories and jotting down ideas in my head. They don't actually make it onto paper, just the onion-skin sheets in my mind. And I lie awake as the hours tick by, creating like a mad scientist, creating nothing, producing nothing, making nothing. I wonder if other people do this, imagine the words flying across the screen, or being scrawled on fresh paper. I wonder if other people lie awake, minds feverish with thought.

August

It's still July. In one day, August will be here, moving in like a middle aged, grey-haired, single woman (perhaps wearing a large straw hat). Ushering out the stifling muggy, heavy heat of July, August will arrive with stealth. It's a month that always sneaks up on me, rarely do I notice her arrival until it's too late and she is upon me.

Even if I didn't have a calendar in front of me, or a handy digital watch to tell me the date, I would probably still be able to tell that it was August. The difference is small, minor, hardly detectable, yet it is there. The unmistakable bite in the air. The edge, that is not yet sharp, but is perceptable. Slowly, the leaves begin to curl up at the edges and one by one, they release their grips on the branches and flutter to the ground. To the parched, cruncy grass that lies below, the leaves float, filling the hearts of students and teachers alike with dread at the impending school year.

I welcome August. The pace slows down, everyone becomes sluggish. Tired out from the long, hot summer days, not ready yet to accept the arrival of autumn. The world slows to a halt in August. This is my pace of life. A halt.

Salmon Shoes

I used to work at a retail outlet for a major, national chain store. Because we were an "outlet store", generally we catered to bargain hunters, low income people, large families, recent immigrants, and misers. A lot of the shoppers were great people, but sometimes the clientele was less than desireable. Watching my meticulously cleaned shoe department be tossed on the floor like garbage, hour after hour was a little disheartening, to say the least.

As an outlet store, we tended to receive the hand-me-downs from the "normal" stores, stuff that just plain didn't sell anywhere else. One time, we were shipped hundreds of ugly, salmon coloured strappy shoes. In a fit of desperation, at the prospect of unboxing and pricing hundreds of these poky, tangled eyesores, my manager marked them down to 99 cents, piled them on a 4 foot by 4 foot table, and let the sharks have'em. Every morning and periodically through the day, I had to wade through the waters to the table, and attempt to restock and clean it. Soon, it became the bane of my existence, and everytime I saw a customer headed for it, I would cringe and look away.

Well, one day, I was walking by the table and I saw a scruffy looking man poking about the evil table. Now, at an outlet store, the policy is generally self serve, but I stopped and asked if I could help him. He seemed a little in over his head, as he asked me for a size in the salmon beauties for his girlfriend. Knowing that we had literally hundreds sitting in the back, probably mating and multiplying, I ran to the stockroom and brought him one back.

Upon my return, I had my breath taken away, when I looked down and realized that the man had cleaned up the table for me in my absence. No customer had ever done anything like that before. And he probably didn't realize it, but he almost made me cry, for the table had me at my wit's end.

In a job that often made me question the morals of the human race, that made me dislike people more than anything else in the world had before, this man reminded me of something. That people are not all bad, and that a kind act no matter how small, can stick with someone for the rest of their lives. This happened a good two or three years ago, and while the man probably forgot about his act shortly thereafter, I have clung to the memory ever since.

Pirate: A favorite joke

Humour is the best thing in life. This my favorite joke, the only one that I can tell:
 
There is a pirate ship sailing the high seas. One day, while out sailing, another rival ship appears on the horizon. The captain says to the first mate "Bring me my red shirt."
 
The first mate does so. The captain puts the shirt on, and goes into battle. He fights gallantly and at the end of the day, the pirates are victorious.
 
The next day, while out sailing, two rival ships appear on the horizon. "Bring me my red shirt," the captain commands the first mate without hesitation. The first mate does so, and the pirates go into battle. The captain fights gallantly, and finally the two ships are defeated.
 
The next day, the pirate and the first mate are on the deck talking. "Captain," the first mate asks, "how come every time we go into battle, you put on your red shirt?" The captain replied, "You see, first mate, I put on my red shirt and if I get injured in battle, the men cannot see me bleedings so they fight on, without worrying about me."
The first mate is visibily impressed, and the two go about their day.
 
The next day, five enemy ships appear on the horizon. The captain says to the first mate: "Bring me my brown pants."

Fireworks

Tonight the moon is a dark yellow, not quite full. It hangs voluptuously on the edge of the indigo sky, while the first stars begin to appear, twinkling in the night. The low, steady rumble from the nearby highway drones as it always does, and occasionally I can hear an airplane pass overhead. In the distance, miles away, I can hear the muffled poppings of the fireworks. I can imagine the hundreds of thousands of people massed on the beaches, rubbing sweatily against one another in the dark summer's heat, faces turned up at the bedazzled sky.

I have been there many times before. Toes dug into the cool sand, foreign bodies creeping closer and closer as the beach is filled like a sardine can. Listening to the music on someone's tinny portable radio, while on the air, the scent of gunpowder and marijuana wafts by. Having staked out a spot hours and hours before, we would wait, breathless for the hour to come about when the fireworks would start. Then, 15 minutes later it would all end, and we would go scurrying into the crowds, all linking arms and hoping not to get trampled.

One year, we saw a street fight. It was like watching something through glass, something slow motion. Five or six husky men started beating a homeless man all of a sudden. Moving through the liquid air, they landed kicks and punches with dull thuds, before anyone could react. Then, the police were there filling the air with pepper spray, which I didn't even notice until I inhaled it. And as it began, it ended. The crowd filled in and it was like it never happened.

Tonight, I am sitting at home. Quietly reveling in my loneliness. Sometimes it's like a blanket of comfort. If I know nothing else, it's that I am alone, because I choose to be. And that's okay with me, for the most part. I don't need to be in the middle of a crowd.

Empty House

There is something beautiful about an empty house. Or horrifying, depending on how you view things.
 
Waking up to the realization that nobody is home, and that nobody will be home for quite some time can be a great feeling. No waiting in line for the bathroom, computer or TV. Nobody to bug me about rising late, or watching trashy shows, or eating a strange lunch (cold pizza and plantain chips). I can work out in the living room in my sports bra without worrying about someone watching and laughing at me. I can listen to my loud music without bothering anyone. My cat, realizing I am the only one home, is my new best friend, and I can roam about freely without having to listen to mindless chatter. I like to think that my cat and I have a special sort of bond. When the rest of the family is around, we sink into a shell, responding to prodding with annoyance or indifference. But when we are alone, we have a silent agreement. I leave him alone, and he leaves me alone. Except occasionally when I walk by or he walks by and we exchange a quick hug or pet, and a hello. We are both in our element, not having to deal with the fam.
 
I am the master of the house. Until 3, when the family starts to trickle back. Then I will retreat to my room, to sit listening to music, drowning out the clatter.

Gymiquette

Why do people who have no intention of working out go to the gym? This is a major pet peeve of mine.
 
Today at the gym, there were four girls, all of whom seemed to be good friends. They decided to sit on the raised platform where people work out their abs and have a good ole chat, effectively blocking anybody who wanted to do some abwork from doing so. Grumbling, I moved over to the free weights to work on my legs. The area was already crowded, and I had to sneak my self in between two muscley guys doing bench presses so I could do lunges by a corner of the mirror. Lo and behold, the girls trailed me to the weights, took up roost on a padded bench and continued to have their loud conversation. The whole while, blocking other patrons from using the weights.
 
This behaviour boggles my mind. Why come into a noisy, sweaty, smelly, cramped environment so you and your friends can sit, get in peoples' ways, bother people and have a chat? How can people be that oblivious to others around them? I am not against any talking at the gym, however. I often run into people I know, and stop for a quick chat. But I don't make my SOLE purpose of going to the gym one of chatting. If they wanted to talk so badly, why not go for a walk, or out for coffee?
 
It's simple GYMIQUETTE.

Winter in China

It was cold. Not the kind of cold I experience at home, but a sharp, biting kind of cold. The wind seemed to find the holes between the fabric in my clothes and tear right through it. But there was nothing to do inside, so we decided to go out and explore.
 
The wind snapped in my face turning it a bright pink in contrast to my natural paleness. I couldn't help but feel amazed at myself, on this late winter's afternoon, wandering down back alleys in Jin Zhou, China. I imagined all my friends sitting at home in Canada, comfortable in their heated homes, maybe eating dinner or having a nap. And here I was, half a world away, in a place that many foreigners will never see.
 
Surrounding the alley were crumbling brick and mortal walls, some topped with jagged pieces of glass, aquamarine against the greyish sky. Periodically, a noisy blue or black motorized bicycle would clatter by, or a huge, blue government issue transport truck. In the winter, the peasants had harvested the last dried hay and bundled it up in huge piles. Stacked on top of the little houses, the bundles looked like something out of an old movie. In the frigid air, smoke danced and coal dust billowed, as black as night. Against one old wall, by a dried up and dusty tree, some fat brown chickens strutted through the grass. The were as large as a small dog, and we watched them calmly mosey about for a few minutes.
 
As the sun began to sink, the cold also began to sink in. Attempting to avoid the thin, crispy ice on the gravelly road, we picked our way back to the school, with visions of hot cha (tea) and our insanely hot rooms dancing in our heads.

California

Today is hazy. Unlike the past week, the temperature is actually bearable. The blue sky is covered with a filmy layer of smog, clouds and fog only magnified by the low rumblings of the incessant flow of traffic in and out of the city.
 
Concrete emits odours, odours of dry, driving, and warmth into the afternoon. And as we come over the long, concrete bridge, I can see the city materializing through the hazy sky. In this moment, strikingly, the city reminds me of California. Terra cotta roofs smattered among dusty green trees, baking in the sun.
 
Driving, I come closer and closer to the airport. Close enough that I can identify the planes as they fly low in takeoff or landing. Each one that flies over, I silently or not-so-silently beg it to "Take me with you." I can't think of any plane that I wouldn't want to be on right now. China, Sudan, Australia, San Francisco, Seattle, take me anywhere but here.
 
But alas, the planes don't stop for me. I couldn't afford them anyways. I will just have to wait until the time comes, when I can escape.

Boys of Summer

The Ataris-Boys of Summer. I know, I like the Don Henley version better, but the Ataris version is the one that reminds me of you. Playing every time you turned on the radio, or changed the station, it was drummed into my head as one of those songs that constantly brings back a flood of emotions. In the warm Hawaii nights, the sky mottled with blue, pink and grey, we drove in your broken old Porsche.

In Hawaii, it always feels like you are on the verge of something. The air always smells like the sea or like flowers, the nights always feel pensive. And so, it didn't occur to me that our summer would grind to a halt. Not for lack of feelings, but lack of commitment.

"A little voice Inside my head said, "Don't look back. You can never look back."I thought I knew what love wasWhat did I know?Those days are gone forever I should just let them go" And now, thinking back, the lyrics seem oddly fitting to what happened to us. Were we ever an "us"? Sometimes it feels like it was all a dream, and other times a painful reality.

Everything happens for a reason. What was the reason for this?

Bears

Lately I have been dreaming about bears. This is not something that I normally do.
 
A few months ago, I went camping with some friends. One night, two of them went into town. leaving me and my friend to await their return. At the time, we had wondered what would happen if a bear came. A few nights ago, I dreamed of this situation. The only difference, in the fading twilight, I saw the reflective retinas of a large mammal. Yelling, the two of us dashed to the water's edge as we heard the large animal tear through the underbrush after us. My friend leapt into the water and began swimming out. I waited on shore, until I confirmed that a huge bear was racing towards me. I leapt into the water, and began swimming. As I backstroked towards the middle of the bay, the huge bear was gaining on me. Fast. Then I woke up. I have had a few other dreams of bears since.
 
Today, I decided to go for a hike with my sister. After we solved the parking fee dilemma, we set out up the Mystery Lake Trail. It was a beautiful day for a hike, not too hot like the last week has been, and we were enjoying the cooler weather as we began our hike. About 2 minutes in, we stopped to pick some juicy, sun-warmed blueberries. As we began hiking again, I looked up and staring right into my eyes was a small black bear. Loudly, I swore, and as my sister caught sight of the bear too, we immediately turned heel and ran. Probably not the smartest thing to do when faced with a bear, we sprinted down the mountainside like two goats. Meanwhile, the bear had done the animal equivalent of shrugging his shoulders and going back to eating blueberries. \
 
Why have I been dreaming of bears? I looked up "bear" in a dream dictionary, and was told that it could symbolize that I am concerned with money issues. This is very true! But why did I run into a bear today? Sometimes I get the eerie feeling that my dreams are semi-prophetic in nature. It doesn't happen all the time, but when it does, it feels strange... Anyways, it's a question I shall never know the answer to, and really, I don't mind.

Young

I remember reading magazines like YM, Teen, and Seventeen religiously as a teenager. I would read, then religiously follow their beauty advice, boy advice, life advice, even though none of it seemed to really work. But, I could draw the conclusion, if it was written in a magazine, it must be correct.
 
I can remember reading one article about teenage prostitutes. Girls who were my age, came from middle class families living in the suburbs, just like me, out on the street turning tricks. I remeber reading the article several times, then lying back on my clean bedsheets, and wondering how I could sell myself into a world of pain and destroyed lives. I needed a physical translation for the pain I felt inside yet couldn't explain. I needed a reason to be miserable, because my life gave me none.
 
I remember sitting in my room with the lights off. Seeing the world by the soft glow of a candle somehow seemed more appropriate. I could hear my family milling about the house outside my room, making a snack, watching a movie, but they could not enter into my world. My private, dark, warm world of secret agony that I created for myself. I used to take a pin, draw it through the blue part of the flame, then press it into my flesh in a spot that no one would ever find. Too afraid to do any real damage to myself, I had to be content to create small, painful blisters, or light scratches across my milky-white arms.
 
I was young. I didn't know what I was doing, I didn't know why I felt so bad inside all the time, or what drove me to do what I did. My life was like a huge paper back novel, with nothing but blank pages inside. With each minute of each day, more words were inscribed within the novel. Today, the novel lies nowhere near being finished. Waiting patiently for the pen to scribe the next words.
 
 

Days in, days out

Do weekends matter when you don't have a job? I asked myself this question last night. A group of us had just arrived, cutting a path through the stifling heat, at a local nightclub. As per usual, in the early night, there was an MC getting the crowd warmed up with silly games for those celebrating birthdays and staggettes.

"Thank God it's Saturday night!" The MC crowed, to the crowd who cheered at this utterance.

In the semi-darkness of the club, the music began to pump, making the air reverberate with a sort of frantic energy. Sweat began to dew upon my skin, and the bright lights flashed temporarily blinding me when they swung towards my eyes.

Weekend, weekday, it's all the same to me. Saturday feels no different than Thursday, Tuesday or Monday. The rest of the crowd, the employed elite, no doubt, were letting loose of their weekday shackles into the darkness of the club. I, however, felt like an intruder. The perennial laze-about, trying to blend in.

Today is the first day....

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. How many times have I heard that worn out phrase, or told my self the very same? When do I start believing it? Each day is a new day, so how can each one not be the first day of the rest of my life?
 
That said, I haven't accomplished much as of late. I recently returned from a wonderful exchange program which opened my mind to new and endless possibilities. At its finish, I returned home with high flying ideas about how I was going to change my life, the world and the lives of those around me. That was over three months ago, and all I have managed to accomplish is to deepen the hollow in my chesterfield. While my fellow exchangers have got jobs, gone traveling, continued on, I seem to have stalled hopefully momentarily. It seems, the more I find I enjoy, the less direction I have in my life. My mind winds like it's on speed, flitting from one idea to the next at lightening pace. Sometimes I amaze even myself at my lack of ability to pay attention, or concentrate on one thing for any matter of time.

Anyways, today is today, and here I sit. Nothing accomplished, again. All I do anymore is waste away my time in front of the computer, with irregular forays to the local gym, bar, or even shorter onto my deck. I have taken to voraciously devouring novels. Not just any novels, mind you. I read any and every extreme travel story I can get my hands on, lately am intrigued by Tim Cahill and Robert Young Pelton. I want to live their lives, I want to be the one writing those stories that people read in semi-disbelief, half-admiration, and quasi-fear. But I know not how to begin. I have no job, and no savings. I can imagine myself living on a beach somewhere bonding with locals, but I have no idea how I am going to get there. I have spent months exploring myself, delving into depression, searching the bottom pits of myself for what I really want to do with my life. The two constants, however, are the need to travel and the desire to write about it.
 
Now, I am ready to act upon my desires. So is today the first day of the rest of my life? We shall see....