Bronwen finally getting a cell phone (with an unlimited text messaging plan) has been the source of much amusement.

Bronwen and I agreed to a marriage pact, where we would marry each other if we weren’t in a relationship by a certain age. The thing is, she’s six years younger than me, so we decided that her expiration date is 35, and mine 41, because it’s easier for men to date/marry than women, at an older age.

Note how I didn’t say “easy”. Heaven knows I had a hard enough time with dating in my teens. And twenties. And probably 30s.

According to her, we also have a suicide pact, even though I have no recollection of this. The only reason I can think of agreeing to that is if large parts of the world were destroyed by meteors, leading to the collapse of the economic system, creating anarchy, and reducing everyone to hunter-gatherers.

Bronwen and I are most certainly not hunter-gatherers, and we’d probably suffer unbearably just trying to survive, or be killed soon after because we’re too naive or compassionate for a dog-eat-dog world. The thing is, if that happened I’d try to join forces with Pat and Jen, because they always have everything together¹. So maybe if they were also killed by this cosmic hailstorm, then it would still be an option.

1. Pat’s the one who believes that at least one person should be in control in every group at all times, and that he is this person. The only time he was ever inebriated was for his bachelor party. [↑]

That’s what I keep thinking when I look at these pictures.

A few weekends ago, Aaron invited me to ride with him during an out-of-town cruise with his auto club. I initially accepted, until I found out that was the same day and time Frédéric and Misun were leaving Canada. So I had to turn Aaron down, since I didn’t know when I’d see them again.

That was also the day and time that it hailed for about an hour — in late spring. And on taking a turn, the hail made Aaron lose his traction. Both him, and the person driving behind him, spun out of control. The person behind hit a guard rail. Aaron went into a ditch.

The impact on the rocks was on the passenger side. Where I was going to be sitting. And it was strong enough to shatter the back windshield.

Thankfully, Aaron is alright, with the x-rays showing that he only has tissue damage. I may not have been so lucky.

Cause Trailer Park Boys never give up.

Cause Trailer Park Boys aren’t stuck in the rat race.

Cause Trailer Park Boys smoke weed, drink, and eat cheeseburgers all day.

Cause Trailer Park Boys love kitties as much as I do.

Cause Trailer Park Boys always dream, hope, believe in something better.

She hugged me yesterday. I thought I was over her, but maybe I’m still smitten. Physical contact does funny things to the mind.

I don’t understand why girls are so into hugging. Often, I’ll go for a handshake, and as if it doesn’t take, they’ll lean in to hug afterward. A girl once asked if she could hug me after I explained to her my procedure for checking a cat before adoption. Figure that one out.

The funny thing is that most girls aren’t very good huggers. They give limp hugs — more of a pressing of the arms to the body — and it bugs the crap out of me. It’s like getting a soft handshake, also referred to as the “limp noodle“.

Bronwen’s an exception. I always give and get a bear hug from her when I see her and when she leaves. Sometimes we fight for arm positioning, because we both prefer to have the arms lower than the other. I like to have my arms around a girls’ waist, whereas she likes to have her arms surrounded, so she feels protected.

The two Louise’s are/were also good at hugging. Nice and firm, without being too clingy. Maybe it’s a Louise thing.

It just makes me wonder; if girls are so into hugging, why aren’t they better at it?

Bronwen started dating another guy.

It’s funny, my first reaction is to think another guy, as if we’re still dating ourselves. I suppose our relationship has never been conventional, but that’s what makes it so special. We still spend our weekends together. We still talk on the phone for hours without actually talking. We’re close enough that I’m completely comfortable around her, enough for me to let my guard to go down.

It’s made me realize how protective I still am of her, how upset I’ll be if she gets hurt. I think of all the things I could have done better, and hope this guy can treat her better than I did.

I have all these mixed feelings about it though. I’m worried that I may lose my friend, but I’m glad there’s someone to make her happy. In the end, I know I can’t be selfish. Letting go of her the first time was hard enough.

Doing it again doesn’t make it any easier.

I love you too much baby
For you to be with me
I love you too much baby
I gotta set you free

—Shea Seger, I Love You Too Much

You were the closest I’ve ever come to perfect in a girlfriend. In fact, you raised the bar. Now I know there are girls out there who are funny, intelligent, open-minded, caring, sane, and I’ll always be looking for the same now.

In so many ways, we worked. My love of dark chocolate and your love of milk chocolate meant that we’d never have a problem finishing off an assorted box. You’re so easy-going, while I’m so uptight. All the little things, like puzzle pieces made of clay.

Even though it’s been months since we’ve broken up, our video is still by far the most played item on my iTunes playlist. It’s such a beatiful memory, and I’ll always cherish it.

I still miss those notes you used to leave me about what you did during the day and when you’d be back. Those times we’d take the bus, and you’d rest your head on my shoulder. Those times we’d wrestle and fall asleep in a pile, right there, from exhaustion.

I miss all these things, but the fact is that it didn’t feel right, and it wouldn’t be fair to either of us to keep going. You deserve to be with someone better. Someone who will fully appreciate you and the things you do.

I know I never said it in our relationship, but I loved you.

And I still do.

The Letter To An Ex-Girlfriend series

1. Introduction
2. Ashley
3. Michele
4. Christie
5. Jackie
6. Louise
7. Bronwen

Bronwen is my original muse. We happened to meet shortly after I got my SLR camera, and ever since, she’s my primary model when doing photographic tests and experiments.

These were taken over the course of about a year. From before we started dating to passed the break-up.

Every angle captures a different side of someone.

Looking back on these reminds me of how much I miss it when she had red hair, which she dyed for me (but didn’t like to admit it). Too bad I can’t convince her now to do it again.

This was the weekend we first met.

The first time we kissed. The first time we held each other. The first time we slept with arms entwined, bodies bare and buried under the covers.

It was before the snow melted on the verge of spring, when I would open the windows to dry the sweat from our skin.

I put on a song that made me cry, because she said that it turned her on, and with the tears welling up in my lids, we stared into each others’ eyes.

From the moment we touched, there was never any awkwardness. Only a complete trust, a comforting familiarity, as if we’d known each other for years, a gentle nuzzle of the nose from my baby-faced doll.

And now it’s over.

This is what I wake up to every day.

What I enclose in arm and leg at night, or press my back against when I roll over.

They say it takes weeks to get used to sleeping with someone (or without someone, when the relationship is over), but for me, the transition is seamless. All it took was an extra pillow, and some space accommodation for two stuffed animals, and a braided shred of old blankie.

Every day, I wake up between two and five in the morning. It’s an affliction I’ve had for years, something that wouldn’t be so bad if I could fall asleep again, but my mind always races, keeping me up for another hour or two. When she’s next to me though, my thoughts remains calm.

So what will I do when she’s gone?

I can feel myself getting run-down, a victim of my own activeness. There’s barely enough time to do anything during the day now, and weekends leave me with little more than time to cook. Last week I went home with Bronwen to meet the parents, and having caught another red-eye, was jet-lagged the whole time.

Pita comes over to celebrate his new career this weekend, with John visiting at the end of his exams the next. The weekend after is helping Pat move into his new place, then Aaron, then a break, then Nick’s wedding, which brings me to the end of May.

I was planning on having a barbecue at my house, but realized that I have neither the time nor the money. Bronny’s also moving in for the summer next week, which will definitely cut down on travel time, but increase my photo exploration proportionately as we do things around town.

Darren and I had originally planned on driving up together, but the timing didn’t work out, so we arrived when we could and played it by ear. Bronny was the point of my visit, while Darren was there to see Lindsay. After a driving from pub to pub, each one full of St. Patty’s day partiers adorned with green horns and holding green pints, the four of us ended up at a small restaurant, and eventually at Lindsay’s house.

It was Bronny who made the most interesting comment to me afterwards. “Darren needs to be with someone…deep”, she said, “Someone intellectual”. I still wonder what made her think so. What did we talk about? As far as I could remember, there was no particularly interesting discussion, just a bunch of us hanging out.

But she was right.

Some of this movie comes from, you know, from me, sure. But it’s not, you know, I’m never going to be able to make a movie that doesn’t, you know. Even if I’m making a movie about the turn of the century, I think you’re gonna, it’s always going to be personal. It’s just in the detailed stuff; the horses in Sheryl Lynn’s bedroom, with the ribbons on the wall, and you got sisters or you got a girlfriend who loves to ride horses and all this stuff. And those little details that you remember, I’ve been loving to put those in a movie.

I think, you know what, when I grew up in the valley, I lived there, I was really embarrassed for the longest time that that’s where I lived and that’s where I grew up, cause I knew I wanted to make movies. And I would look back to my favourite directors, and think, okay, there’s Howard Hawks, and boy, he served in the war. And there’s Ernst Lubich who escaped Germany, you know, and all these wonderful sort of things going on in our lives that you could, you’re supposed to bring to a movie, you know. But, I don’t have shit to bring, I was like, I’m from the fucking valley, you know. And, I was really embarrassed about that for a long time, I guess, until one day I just woke up and said, “Well, I’m from the valley, and I remember things like little plastic horses and the blue ribbon on the wall with the fucking girlfriend, and you know, I guess that’s what I have to make movies about.”

—Paul Thomas Anderson, Boogie Nights director’s commentary

A girl and her things.

Memories of burning candles, shampoo scents. The colours and the smells give me a total overwhelming sense of poignant nostalgia.

Admittedly, it’s been a while since I’ve been in a real girls room, and being there, in the middle of all the dainty things and the different fabrics, I didn’t know what was more embarrassing: the fact that I felt like I was 17 again, or the realization of how much I’ve missed it.

And this is all I can write about.

They call it the red-eye for a reason, and although I’m expecting to sleep through most of the ride, I’m not prepared to wake up every half hour. The bus was supposed to be half-full, being 12:30 on a Friday morning, but when I arrive at the station, the line stretches across the hallway, dashing my hopes of a window seat. The guy beside me watches movies on his laptop, while the old man across the aisle works on an assortment of papers with the only light in the bus on. He sits alone, away from the window, a big fuck you to anyone who may want a seat. It’s his light that keeps me up.

The greyhound is supposed to stand for speed, named after the fastest breed of dog used in dog racing, but for me it stands for freedom. The cost is a stranger sitting next to you, a couple hours of leg cramps, and a little over a hundred dollars.

The layover is an hour and a half. As I sit in the terminal, I think of how close my parents are. I haven’t seen them since Christmas, and even though they’re an 45 minute drive away, I won’t be seeing them this time around.

This bus brings me to her.