The blinds are open so I can see outside.
Secretly, I hope a face from one of the windows will appear and look outside, someone who’s thinking the same thing, so that I may not be so alone. A way of comforting myself, when I’m by myself in this veneer of a house.
I’m not sure if it’s working.
The third Emergence Exposition was the first summer show. With daylight coming through the house, and the doors and windows open, there was a different mood floating around. People also dressed lightly and in bright colours, adding to the sense of airiness.
Along with the mind-blowing visual artwork, there were performances by Con Brio, a string quartet, and Aura Giles, a modern flutist with huge lungs.
One of the most memorable parts of the night, however, was a performance of an original composition by John Alac, where he tells a story of a man about to be executed, using only his guitar. The number of different sounds he gets from plucking, tapping, scratching his strings is quite amazing, although what really blew my mind was the way he got the sound of a bell to toll at 4:06.
(You can watch this in High Definition on the Vimeo site. It looks much nicer.)
It’s on nights like this that I feel especially lonely.
I spent the last two hours looking for an image that would express my mood, but this was the best I could come up with. When I went outside, to see if the street lights would offer me more, I passed by open windows, each one filled with a different coloured light. It made me wonder what the people were doing, who they were with, what mood they were in.
It’s been a day alone. A day without contact. A day of rain and greyness, and living vicariously at Robson Arms.
So here I sit in the dark, with my apple and honey swirl pie and Ovaltine, writing because I haven’t said enough today, listing to songs of love and hate. Feeling like an old soul.
Wondering tonight if I’ll dream, or sleep soundly, or dream without remembering.
I left when the sun was setting. Along the way, the road stretched out infinitely before me, as if to say that I can always get away, and there is always more to go. The tree line danced and waved across the horizon, eventually disappearing with the sun. Then the lines of red and white in each direction guided me all the way to Darren’s house.
In it are little things from the house I grew up in — some candles here, some cabinets there — that my parents didn’t want after the divorce. So strange to see innocuous objects from my childhood in a different setting.
It was the first time we’ve been completely sober together since we were kids. No alcohol, no weed.
I found out a couple things I wouldn’t have known otherwise:
A weekend of sweet indulgence, late nights, and intimate conversation. No one understands my relationships the way Darren does, because we both share these quixotic ideas about love. It was so comforting to be able to express myself on these things without having to explain my underlying feelings, as if someone could truly understand me, especially important in this current phase of my life.
It made me realize that home isn’t where the parents are, something I used to believe1. It’s an idea.
A comforting place you can go to get away, where you’re completely accepted for who you are.
When I left, the flowers on my kitchen table looked like this:
When I got back, to my surprise, they looked like this:
She made the bouquet herself — hand-picked the flowers, chose the colours, even made sure it was symmetrical, knowing my odd habits1 — and left them there to greet me from my journey home.
I never ask for these things but she does them anyway.
Which is exactly what makes them so significant.