Between the overtime and the venture meetings with Aaron, the restless nights and the early mornings, I try to catch my breath. It’s good to be busy, but not when it means I don’t have the time or energy to write. This is the probably the most infrequent publishing period I’ve ever been through since the start of this blog. Thoughts develop in my head, but I’m not ready to get them down and hit publish yet. Maybe it’s a comfort thing, maybe it’s a front, maybe I’ve simply lost the desire to document every single detail of my life.
Through all of this I feel myself regaining some stability, although I tread lightly, remaining both conscious and cautious. This is the most I can say for now.
Even before the wedding began, I had already unfairly decided that I wasn’t going to have a good time. Thank god I was wrong. My initial feeling was based on the knowledge that certain agitating people were going to be there — a very tangible reminder of why we moved under cover of darkness for the last Bancroft farm excursion — but there were enough normal people to dilute any creepiness.
The ceremony was short and sweet. The food was the best I’ve had in weeks, although my gradual recovery from viral gastroenteritis meant that I could only have half of the portions served. The company at the dinner table was friendly and open enough to address everyone sitting (Tolstoy wrote well about such a difficulty in Anna Karenina when he describes “a small table with persons present, like the steward and the architect, belonging to a completely different world, struggling not to be overawed by an elegance to which they were unaccustomed, and unable to sustain a large share in the general conversation”). Aside from an idiotic analogy about asparagus, the speeches were generally well-written; not too trite, and all the more poignant from the emotion with which they were spoken.
Aaron was there as my wingman, ensuring a good time. Jenn was there as my date, making the guys jealous. I even saw Christine, although we never had a chance to talk. Apparently, I missed every time she waved at us, so she may have thought that I was ignoring or avoiding her, which may be why she flicked my ear as she was walking by my table. I still feel bad enough about missing her last birthday party.
Until dinner there was an open bar, with Corona and even Guinness on tap, as well as a strawberry margarita machine that could make them like smoothies. After dinner was the dancing, and by the time the we were through a dozen or so songs, it was already late, so we headed home.
It stopped raining, and the grey sky has turned black with the night. The refreshing smell of wet pavement and grass drifts lazily through my window, while droplets collect and fall from the overhangs of every house, a different sound with each varying height and texture. Cars drive by, and I imagine the spray from their tires rising and falling in the light of the mild, golden street lamps.
In person, I’m generally very private about my life, but I find myself opening up to the strangest people lately.
The most unexpected ones seem to care.
Dolly’s new nickname is Butterball. Kat’s christening. She sure hasn’t lost any weight lately. Dolly, that is, not Kat.
I spend my time squaring away everything in my room so that I’m comfortable enough to write. The extra cables are gone, as well as the random receipts and bus transfers that somehow end up on the carpet. My mirrors are all in place, making the room seem twice as big, but I when I look I only see myself, slouched comfortably in my chair, hood over my head. Even Dolly has wondered in to lay herself flat on the empty floor. By the time I’m done cleaning, I’m at a loss for all the things I’ve been trying to get into well structured paragraphs.
A new episode of Trailer Park Boys is playing on Showcase, and I’m watching it with the sound off because too much information would ruin the fourth season, something I’m determined to see in order from the beginning. Ricky’s in a high school, completely out of place as a thirty-something man in shop class trying to make some hash or grow some weed or harvest some kind of narcotic, and this only adds to my amusement.
I’ve been letting my hair grow out, à la Matt Heafy in the video for Pull Harder On The Strings Of Your Martyr. Somehow, I’ve only now discovered that my hair naturally grows towards the front, and by brushing it forward, it still looks respectable when I haven’t had it cut in a month and a half.
I’ve been in an odd mood lately. Thoughts branch off in my mind, but nothing seems solid enough to follow through. Inspiration always comes the day after today.
One of the keys to blogging is to never give a shit about what anyone else thinks. Never write for an audience. Never censor oneself based on what other people may say. Never be embarrassed or ashamed to admit anything.
Otherwise, one isn’t being true to oneself. If there are those who are nosy, those whom we’d rather not have reading, that should never be an issue. I may have my fair share of creepy internet stalkers (one is already more than enough), but I refuse to let that stop me from saying what’s really on my mind.
It may be difficult to let go, but it’s worth it. The freedom is completely empowering. Blogs are a personal space, as public as they may be, and should be treated as such.
Expression is an act that should never be hindered by something as harmless as opinion.
Hence the absence from work. It feels like the long weekend burned me out, and I need another one. Thank god it’s already Wednesday.
Really, it’s probably just a mild stomach bug, causing my body to reject everything but very dry, thinly sliced toast that comes in packs of eight, named after the stage name of Australian opera singer Helen Porter Mitchell. I suspect that I’ll also be able to consume collagen processed from pork skin, cattle bones, and cattle hide, but I’m still waiting for it to set in the freezer.
I feel so helpless when I’m like this. I generally don’t worry about much, but health is the only thing that I can’t look at cerebrally. I’m not even comfortable writing this. It just keeps making me think of how bad I feel. Too nauseated to fall asleep. Too tired to do anything else.