She is the light, I am the prism.
She is the words, I am the voice.
She is the viola string, I am the vibration.
She is the bud, I am the bloom.
She is the life, I am the living.
She is the heart, I am the pulse.
She is the medium, I am the message.
She is the beauty, I am the desire.
She is the water, I am the waves.
I’m going through another phase where I’m tired of the comfortable stagnancy I’ve created for myself. I need to throw my life into a bit of disorder so I can fix it again.
So amongst the projects that have been occupying most of my time lately, I’ve started making plans to see friends I haven’t seen in a while. It’s about time for another long drive out to Toronto, a trip to John’s cottage, or playing host for dinner-and-a-movie-night.
There’s a different sort of comfort to be found in other people. It’s a different voice, instead of the one in my head. A way of gaining some objectivity. The key is finding right people. Fortunately, my friends all fit this category.
Maybe I’m trying to occupy myself, as a way to stop thinking so much. Maybe I’m just craving a change, because I think it’ll fill a little part of me that’s empty inside.
I have 106 unpublished drafts in my database.
Things I don’t feel like saying. Parts of myself I’m not ready to reveal.
The written word has always been my medium of choice. Photography is only an extension of that, when I need to express myself better than words can let me, and video goes one step further.
I used to be a terrible writer. During a parent-teacher interview in grade 10, my history teacher asked my parents when we came to Canada. They were quite embarrassed to tell him that I was born here.
Aside from picking up a useful word here and there, I’ve never made a conscious effort to improve my writing. The things I say are taken from my memories, experiences, and thoughts. How I say it is inspired by snippets of Nabokov (when I’m feeling lyrical or verbose), Cohen (when I’m feeling sad or romantic), Herbert (when I’m feeling dry), or Irving (when I’m feeling quirky or honest). The only way I’ve been able to gain any semblance of a writer is by mimicking to the best of my ability the lyrical styles I enjoy the most.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever stop. Writing is often a need, not a want. I do it when I’m feeling restless, when I have something to say, when things are unsettled, when I have things to figure out. And the case most often is that life is filled with these moments. Perhaps if I ever find some sort of permanent serenity, I’ll be able to stop.
But I probably wouldn’t want to.
This little vial, along with a few drops of anti-coagulant, is filled with blood. My blood. I needed some for a photography project I’m working on, so I got a friend of mine in the medical industry to take it from me.
Now I’ve both figuratively and literally bled for my work.
When I was young, the only affection my parents ever showed for each other was occasionally (maybe five times ever) holding hands in the car. They never kissed, never hugged, never said “I love you”. Aside from sitting down to eat dinner, their lives were completely separate. They wouldn’t even sleep in the same room.
Now that I have a car, holding hands while driving has come to define a relationship for me. I leave my right hand on the shifter, tapping it to the beat of my music, but I always have this urge to hold someone’s hand, as if it’s some strange ideal I’ve never been able to experience.
