I come across so many people who love to talk about themselves, their life stories, what they saw on TV the other day, how nice their manicures are…every single boring thing possible. Half the time it’s just venting, getting out what pisses them off or what unfortunate stroke of luck befell them. Sometimes, I feel like telling these people about how easy it is to have a blog. That way, they can still get things off their chest, and save me the time of having to listen to their boring shit. Unless someone is a friend, I don’t care. What is it about me that makes it seem as if I give a fuck? Why do people think they’re so important that anyone would be interested in anything they have to say? It’s not like I start talking about every little thing that pisses me off, because I know that it’s boring and I’m aware that no one cares.

Thank god I have this.

Didn’t want to go without saying something about this throbbing headache, and how this music makes me see emerald blue, golden stars, mandolins, and the night sky. My head feels like it’s going to explode. Time for sleep with the window open.

A weekend of relaxation and intoxication.

The first time that I’ve known Pat to be Jen-less, he calls me up, wants to hang out. Fucking cool. We go for the breakfast special at a Greek Souvlaki house, he takes the sausage, I take the bacon. After, we head to the table tennis club (something I hoped he’d do for a while now) for a few matches. He beats me 5–1, and I find out that he’s running on three hours of sleep. He goes home to run some errands, I go home to sleep. He comes back here to meet up with me and Trolley, after cooking some burgers on his grill and putting together fixings, corn-on-the-cob, and pasta salad. We eat, watch some Harvey Birdman, play games for eight hours. Part and crash.

Today, wake up with my cat stretched out on my pillow. Trolley and I head to the table tennis club, play for an hour, head downtown to buy a few albums. The weather being so nice, we go to the Highlander with their distracting uniforms, and sit down for a pint on the patio. Clink. Come back, and I get to organize while listening to my new Modest Mouse album.

Don’t want to lose this feeling.

A little while ago, John informed me that he sent me a package and that I should be expecting something to arrive. I wasn’t home when it came, so it was sent to the nearest, “most convenient” mail hub, further south and downtown, which was a little out of the way, really.

A few days later, I decided to make a trip downtown to retrieve this package. There was a post-work session before I headed out, and I was peaking by the time I got to the bus stop. Admittedly, I was a little excited, because gift-giving is completely out of John’s nature. What could he possibly have sent me? I wanted to find out myself so I never asked him the details.

It rained the entire day, but the precipitation stopped by the time I was outside. The sun was still out, and turned the sky a hazy purplish-red, almost as if the entire world had been through an apocalypse, save one Canadian city. The pavement was still wet and buildings were streaking with their dark colours stretching towards the ground. I started seeing geometry, shapes, lines patterns, movement matching up as I passed. Everything turned into puzzle pieces, aligning themselves before me.

And on the way back, I sat on the bus with my package next to me, unopened, anxious to get home.

Sometimes, the colour of the sky, the moisture in the air, the smell of the wind, even the briskness of the cold will bring me back to another day. A day that’s indescribable, from an almost forgotten childhood. These are the days that are felt, not remembered, when emotion and mood overpowers action.

The yellow toys of kindergarten. Bliss. The skylight of the Brother Andre library. Warmth. The deafening silence on the hiking trail to Rattlesnake. Humility. The dense spread of stars in the sky from the cottage at Bruce Beach. Complete bewilderment. The rattle of John’s Explorer door when slammed. Comforting familiarity. Waiting for the bus during early spring on the corner of Nadine and Hollingham. Nervousness. Lunches on the bleachers at UCC. Depression. Walking Ashley home, hand-in-hand, on the warm summer nights. Pure contentment. Stepping out of the theatre after a showing of Equus. Buzz.

Every time I’m brought back, I can remember exactly how I felt, but nothing of what I did.