
I was supposed to hang out with Jesse last weekend. We were going to jam and talk and throw around ideas, and I was really looking forward to it because we always seem to be doing something when we’re together instead of just chillin.
See, it’s right here on his schedule, between Floors and Dinner.

Unfortunately, I developed my annual case of strep throat that day and had to stay away from everyone.
Then, on Friday as I was going back through our e‑mail correspondence, I realized that Jesse inviting me to play ukulele meant playing a house party on Saturday. We met up about two hours before we were on and had a very quick rehearsal to work out some parts without Nic being able to back us up, as well as extra bits and pieces of songs I figured out over the week. Being so rushed was probably a good thing; it kept my mind off the nervousness.
Turns out it was an outdoor gig playing to a group of hipsters at a barbecue, and we were opening. It didn’t go terribly well. At one point in the middle of Write Protected I screwed up the strumming so badly that we had to stop the song and restart, but we quickly picked up on a count of four and went on without another hitch. Jesse remarked that it was good practice for next time, because problems come up that you never think of when you’re in a new environment.
This time it was a tuning peg that somehow got knocked in the middle of the set. I only discovered this once the song had started — and I was the only one playing so I couldn’t stop. It must have been off by an entire semi-tone cause it totally messed up my senses and I had a hard time telling if I was even playing the right chords. It was also night by the time our set ended, and I had a hard time seeing the frets, which only added to the confusion.
Note to self: strum once to before each song to make sure the instrument is in tune.
I did, however, learn from the last show to bring a side-table to use as a stepping stool. Usually, I sit when practicing, but at the 160 Workshops show I had to stand; not being used to the posture meant I was constantly adjusting the uke in the arm between verses and coming in late in the bar as a result. I brought a little Ikea side-table this time, and it worked really well.
Even with all the glitches, as rushed and under-rehearsed as we were, it was a fantastic time and a great experience.
The next set was in the basement, with a girl and guy looking like they were kids dressed up and pretending to be Ziggy Stardust, singing to generic electronica. And people were loving it in their slow-nodding, hipster kind of way, although the weed and booze may have helped (Audra would later remark to me that it was hard to tell how into it people were cause of how cool everyone was trying to act).
I also missed seeing a very drunk Tina corner Jesse. I could totally see this being her scene.
Check out Audra sporting her stylish Hurley cap.
Jesse was being interviewed later that night and also wanted to stay to see Matt play, so the girls and I headed to grab a bite to eat. Audra bought us all pizza and drinks at a nearby pizzeria, which had the BEST CRUST I’ve ever tasted.
Before the end of the night, in a good mood and feeling safe, I admitted to Em my crush on her boyfriend. She took it well.
Frédéric and Misun were briefly in Canada. They went on a short cruise with Misun’s parents and made a quick stop in Ottawa so naturally I took the chance to see them. It was a lovely evening for a barbecue and eating out in the sun.
It’s so interesting to hear about everything they’re doing with their little art gallery studio, adding to my excitement of visiting them in a few months.
Seeing the new baby. Mommy barely looks like she was pregnant, and Frédéric looks like he’s been eating well in France.
Miric tests out the paper airplane launcher I bought the boys. It was one of the few non-violent toys I could find in Toys R Us.
My lack of writing about her lately hasn’t been an avoidance of the subject, or an attempt to feign some kind of detachment. It’s because my thoughts about her never fully form anymore. Or they come in little bits and pieces, lingering memories in an off-guard moment.
The careful steps I took to avoid the loose tile on the path to her house, so as not to wake anyone when leaving letters in her mailbox. Her saccharine voice when she’d ask what I was thinking, and the first time I couldn’t lie (I’m thinking about how in love with you I am). A tear we shared, as it rolled from my eye to hers. I’ll even catch that uncontrolled giggle of hers in the melody of a song that drifts in the air. So many details found in the sublimity of our time together that I told myself never to forget.
Maybe that’s why it’s still hard not to think about her. Nothing was ever ordinary when she was involved. I don’t talk to my friends about it anymore; there’s nothing left to say. Only memories that follow me like a shadow. I wonder if they avoid bringing up the subject with me anyway.
Sometimes, I still second-guess myself. Could I have saved us in some way? Would things be any different if I had let her heal, or shared more of myself, or given her more time, or been a stronger person? If only vulnerability or infatuation or hopeless romanticism was considered charming. If only love or desire was enough to win someone over.
Maybe I’m just clinging to the fact that I believe she truly loved me back. It was one of the only things in this world I knew was real, and it made my heart swell every time she was next to me. The world made sense, if only for a moment now lost to the past. Or maybe I’m scared I’ll never feel this way about someone again because she was everything I ever wanted, even flawed in all the right ways.
I’ve been ruined, and I don’t mind. Not anymore, at least.
I’d rather be alone than with anyone else. I can’t tell if it’s because I’m stubbornly trying to honour what we had, or a subconscious part of me is waiting for her to come back because my heart can’t give up on someone who made me feel so much. After all, she became my life, and to give up on her would be to give up on myself.
I know I’m not the only one who’s ever gone through this. Fate has proven foresight to be in vain for many a mice and men. Some people lose their spouses — the person they expect to be with for the rest of their lives — and pick themselves up. There’s no reason I can’t do the same.
But I’ve already picked myself up, and I’m happy. It doesn’t matter that she’s not with me now, or that I haven’t stopped loving her, or that she probably doesn’t even think of me anymore. The experiences have left me satisfied and fulfilled. Our relationship may have lasted only a few seasons, but in that time I loved and was loved enough to be content with what I had for the rest of my life.
I have all this stuff I mean to write but when it comes to typing it out, it seems pointless. I don’t mind feeling this way anymore. I’d much rather come off as witty or interesting, but I can settle for honest.
My policy nowadays is to act the way I feel. Instead of trying to cater to other people or fit into social norms, I do what I want. It takes some trust in myself to believe that I’m generally a good person, but everything seems to be working in my favour.
With another wedding booked next year, I was able to justify a new lens. The final one in my lens path: Canon’s 70–200mm f/2.8 IS II USM. It lets me take pictures like this.
I have something major going on each month until December, at which point I’ll probably hermatize for three weeks until another round of holiday craziness.
The summer has been warm and fuzzy, and it’s filled me with contentment. I don’t care about the future anymore. I’m living in this moment, and thankful it’s a nice one.