I admit that some movies, some scenes, some songs, some moments, still rub me the wrong way. In general this is a good thing: the harder it is to let go of something, the better the experience it was. I’m also given hope in understanding that these things will pass, as all things pass, and everything will be put in its right place. Fortunately, this is easy to accept because of the fact that I’ve already gone through a full cycle with others. Perhaps I’ve also become accustomed to some residual emotions, kept alive by the memories of the origins of lessons learned.

But all of this still doesn’t detract from the fact that some things still rub me the wrong way, as if my skin was peeled and every conjured sensation was a salt water burn. I can feel that sound in my ears, feel the prismatic dancing of light in my eyes, feel her say, “prismatic”, explaining the colour of her hair.

It’s not even the person with which I share these experiences that makes it important, it’s the experiences themselves, because they mean something. A change in my life. A change that may have not have happened otherwise.

And I realize that it’s not that I can’t let these memories go, it’s that I choose not to.

A strong Alberta clipper will track southeast over southern Ontario today into upstate New York tonight. Snow heavy at times has spread right across the Ottawa Valley into Québec and will continue throughout the day.

Snowfall rates have often been 2 to 4 cm per hour with this very strong clipper.

Freezing rain and ice pellets have moved into the St Lawrence Valley area east of Brockville late this afternoon. A sharp Arctic cold front will blast through the regions this evening as the clipper sails into northern New York state. Temperatures will plunge up to 10 degrees to well below freezing within the first hour after the front goes through. As a result: rain in the regions east of Lake Huron and southeast of Georgian Bay will change suddenly over to snow or flurries with untreated surfaces quickly becoming icy and very slippery.

Elsewhere the snow and freezing rain will pull out of the regions this evening as the clipper and sharp Arctic cold front moves into northern New England and southern Québec. Snowfall amounts of 15 to 20 cm are likely in the snowsqualls along with whiteout conditions from blowing snow.

Dangerous travelling conditions are expected due to very low to at times nil visibility in heavy snow blowing snow and icy conditions. All travellers should exercise extreme caution and adjust plans accordingly.

My most vivid memories of the spring are from high school. About a month before exams began, every guy would start spending a minimum of thirty minutes looking out the window every day. On the southern side of the main building would be a small football field, and two soccer fields, as well as the tennis courts, hockey rink, and large swimming pool. Three more fields used for various other sports, such as lacrosse, cricket, and field hockey, could be seen on the western side. At the north was the baseball diamond, as well as the small pool, and more tennis courts. The main gates of the school property, what many considered a triumphant walk away from the main building after a day with no spares, was at the east.

What male teenager would be thinking about anything but running through the wooden halls, throwing off their tie, and rolling in the lusciously green, well-manicured grass? In a school with a lack of females, no less. Add to the fact that a significant portion of alumni pride is put into a well-funded sports programme, and the result was classes of boys bottling testosterone, encouraged by teacher and coach alike to be released in the form of physical activity. (I find sports metephors very useful for making veiled sexual references.)

I could see it in every one of them, how difficult it would become to concentrate in class, instead of imagining how the hours after school were to be spent. But it was never like that for me. While everyone else was waiting for the fields to thaw, I’d be waiting for the snow the fall. It’s days like these that make it hard for me to concentrate.

All I want to do is stay at home wrapped in a blanket, watch the snow collect, and write.

Sometimes it feels like I’m waiting for inspiration when I write. Like I’m waiting for a specific mood, or a specific song to come on and guide me through an entry. Lately, that inspiration seems to avoid me. I keep trying to write about things that I feel I should write about, instead of the things I want to write about. Every time I search my head for the proper mood or mindset, it’s only memories that appear.

And they surface like photographs, each one a still frame capturing an experience, expressed in sound, warmth, light, and odour. I’m on the streets of Hong Kong again, surrounded by people, browsing through the knick-knacky stores with the heat of the sun soaking through my shirt. I’m skating on the Canal, mapping the imperfections of the ice as I glide across them, the night sky burning with the orange of winter. I’m wondering through the mall of my hometown, enjoying the strange familiarity of a place I frequented so long ago, hoping I don’t bump into an ex. I’m in uniform, clutching the lapels of my blazer, as I step out from the heat of grandiose wooden doors into the snow-washed quad. I’m on the bus to New York, trying to figure out which passengers are coming or going, wondering where my own journey would take me.

I fight against these memories, trying to write about something more relevant. In the end, I write about nothing, and I can’t fight against it anymore. I have to write the things I want, inspired by the things I think. I have to let go one more time.

From myself, instead of others.

I was listening to Manson’s second album, Antichrist Superstar, for the first time after a several year hiatus on the bus to work this morning. I was reminded of how much I went through with this album, for most of high-school and nearly two entire relationships. How comforting this music was for me, on the journey home from my exhausting classes and elitist classmates. It’s the only good album Manson ever put out, and also happens to be the only album that Trent Reznor produced for him. I’m willing to bet that it isn’t simple coincidence.

I never really get a chance to listen to these songs; even though I consider the music to be metal, the songs are too dark and moody to fit into my metal playlist. It’s the same thing with Tool. Aside from Opiate, which was just an EP anyway,Tool’s music has never fit into any specific genre to me. They have a metal feel and progressive rock elements, but are never enough of one or the either to fit into any of my playlists.

I remember once when I was younger, say about nine or ten, my parents took me for a car ride. I had no idea where we were going, because I never questioned them whenever they told me to get in the car. I’ve always been a victim of humming engines, and even today I find it hard to stay awake while riding in a car. I fell asleep and eventually woke up in a parked car with my seatbelt still on, uncertain of how much time had passed or where my parents had gone. The surroundings were unfamiliar, the parking lot, half-full, even more so. I sat there, expecting my parents to come back any second.

Not knowing how much more time went by, I started to question whether or not they had purposely left me there, some decade-late, do-it-yourself, abortion. “No”, I thought, “They wouldn’t just leave the car, it’s too much money”. When I couldn’t fight against my suspicion any longer, couldn’t convince myself that they wouldn’t just leave me in this lot like a baby on a doorstep, I started to cry. I didn’t know what to do. I gathered up the courage to leave the saftey of the car, and locked the door, knowing that in doing so I wouldn’t be able to get back in, but too scared of getting in trouble if my parents were ever to find out.

Wandering around the adjacent plaza, my face a complete sobbing mess, I looked for them through the store windows. Excuses, apologies, promises to be a good kid kept racing through my mind as I wondered from store to store, being careful not to let my eyes off the car. Eventually, I found them in a light fixture store, chatting with a sales clerk about some wood grain ceiling fan. I went in, approached them, and all I could say was, “Where did you go?”. They told me, matter-of-factly, that they went shopping and that I should have stayed asleep in the car. After finishing their conversation with the clerk, they left with me, and we all went home. I was shaken, but happy that I wasn’t discarded because of poor marks of bad piano form.

And even though I wish that the entire incident didn’t happen in the first place, a part of me wonders what it would be like if I had never found them. Perhaps a resolution.

An end to the stipulations of a conditional life.