St John's has notoriously bad weather. I like to think that that had a lot to do with my emotional decline. Down down drop, drip dripping slippery slop. Christ.
Sometime during the November drizzle I made my decision to teach english overseas, but I wasn't ready to leave yet. I wasn't finished with my self, my indulgences. I wasn't finished until I was apathetic to people, numb to the world; finally I retreated to my hometown after an eight-hour drive that buffered me from myself.
My mother's couch. Cassandra Buckle. Snow. Movies. Cooking. Driving winding roads, conversation, poetry. Biking. Mountains. Newfoundland. Bonfires, late-night hiking, the ocean. Reaffirmation. Strength. Motivation. Reconnect. My grandmother. My brother. My Mother.
Inhale, invigorated.
I was ready. I killed the interview and got the contract I wanted. When the plane landed in Incheon International Airport I wasn't upset, or scared, or even excited. I was calm, it felt perfect, this was exactly where I wanted to be. Three months later and I'm still 12.5 hours ahead of myself.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Exhale.
Circa 1994. You're 12 years old and you have an epiphany. This isn't the celebratory explosion of clitoral consciousness, circa 1993. No, your father has a substance abuse problem. And suddenly you're old enough to know it. There's no table of contents; no credits rolling. It's just you and the world and it's big, and it hurts a little bit.
Ten years later, he dies of cancer that is born in his lungs but rebels in his brain and kicks off in his liver. For two years you cling to familiarity:
the structures of syllabi and introductory paragraphs,
the smells of home,
the security in duty.
Your clever copings can't stop the overwhelm of disconnect. Life rolls full circle. There's a bar of people, a bottle of liquid life lust. You drink. You smoke. You don't eat. You can't eat. You don't sleep. You sleep with people. You loose weight. You like it. You hold high but grip shakily. You hate yourself. You hate him. You hate him. You hate yourself. You don't know yourself. You don't know him.
You just don't know. Anyone, Anything.
Circa 2006. Exhaustion. Rock bottom was ten feet back and you're sitting in the dark, surrounded by lives that are loosing at life but loving the surrender. You quit your third job in six months. You're too intelligent to sell shit but your neuroses renders intelligence a moot point.
Shit girl, are you ever alone. Exhale.
Ten years later, he dies of cancer that is born in his lungs but rebels in his brain and kicks off in his liver. For two years you cling to familiarity:
the structures of syllabi and introductory paragraphs,
the smells of home,
the security in duty.
Your clever copings can't stop the overwhelm of disconnect. Life rolls full circle. There's a bar of people, a bottle of liquid life lust. You drink. You smoke. You don't eat. You can't eat. You don't sleep. You sleep with people. You loose weight. You like it. You hold high but grip shakily. You hate yourself. You hate him. You hate him. You hate yourself. You don't know yourself. You don't know him.
You just don't know. Anyone, Anything.
Circa 2006. Exhaustion. Rock bottom was ten feet back and you're sitting in the dark, surrounded by lives that are loosing at life but loving the surrender. You quit your third job in six months. You're too intelligent to sell shit but your neuroses renders intelligence a moot point.
Shit girl, are you ever alone. Exhale.
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