xii.

Little wishes; small thoughts

holding her coat out for her: a quiet smile as she ran to do the same for me
the number of times i’ve thought of you versus the number of times i picked up the phone to call
a chat with a friend: cheering her on when she came out to her dad, promising drinks and ice cream as break-up consolation (part of my new ‘survival kit’)
an apartment, somewhere, with weekly flowers
norway!
my roast, and its perfection. cooking as a miracle.
my cameras change the way i look at the world; i am so grateful to have two.
‘you’re a pro!’ 3 MSNs at once; i’m laughing, hyper, happy. the time flies by.
interview tomorrow.
i don’t tell because it’s easier than figuring out what to say.
RHN soon.
dreams, dreams, dreams.
waking up in the morning, smiles, knowing that when i go to the washroom, the toilet will be flushed and ready – my roommate is gone and not flushing is one of her habits
words and writing – a poem of identity in my head
my daydream today: him and up against the wall
Bi network tomorrow? unsure.
WHY ARE MEN THE WAY THEY ARE? god, they really act like they own the world (and they do, agh, feminist rant. really trying not to be all ‘DO YOU RECOGNIZE YOUR PRIVILEGE?!’)
mm. contentment
TOEFL?

to do:
water plants
upload photos
sleep

xi.

dear love,

these are the days that must happen to you. — walt whitman

yours,
j.

x.

it’s almost the end of july.
curly hair.
i have a purple gel pen and a moleskine with blank pages.
i don’t mind either of these things as much as i thought i would.
i have a list called
things that make me happy
full of little marvels like
lying on my back
breathing
crawling to the other side of the bed.

the camera catches moments of us
things we are not ready for
things i may just be imagining.

according to my rules,
this tattoo means we are over so
i’m ready for the morning i wake up and
you are gone because
i’ve finally let you go.

(my heart likes to hope and dream.)

yours, j

ix.

dear [name],

some things to remember:

one. i’m not the only one who misses someone right now.

two. i used to get tattoos after people i cared about left my life. this one is yours.

three. multiple points of entry.

four. rain songs.

from,
j

viii.

a letter to you, now. i’m not sure where to start this; what do i know of the beginning, middle, end? i know that this needs to be said, though, as i rush through my days, hoping the next morning will finally lead to some form of understanding. after, there was peace.

this is so hugely important that i’ve never said it aloud, never formed the sounds to make it more real, never entrusted this with anyone, least of all you, and i won’t. after, there was peace. not entirely; there were still tears and complete confusion over the next few days but, after that – no, even through it – peace. i remember you crying in my kitchen; and i wasn’t sure what to do. then i remember crying. i hope, if you do end up sending me something, that it will set me free from you, from this. i’m tired of being disappointed in you.

these letters, then, were never to the you i’m writing to now. they were always to me, and a lot of them, god, so many – were to you. but, like so many other thoughts and feelings and wishes, these are unimportant now. problematic. i hurt over the stories i won’t ever hear from you; the stories you will never hear from me. all of the conversations left unsaid. i alternate between missing you and wondering if i made the right decision to marveling in the fact that, on the outside, we really don’t seem to care. but i remember you crying, my body wrapped around yours. i have to believe i mattered to you. i know you mattered to me.

i’m trying to understand what all of this means. maybe i need to stop waiting for answers and start loving the questions. start loving the fact that, fuck it, i may never know why; so i damn well better start liking the questions. uncertainty.

-j

vii.

hey.

it’s another night. and i’m still writing [“i’m wrong more often than i am writing and even then i’m often wrong” – Gibson]. not always letters, not always to myself – like the email i sent and i just want it BACK NOW, please. it was a moment, one, and when will i learn that not all words need to be sent? i’ve been sending up half-prayers since then, hoping, hoping, you understand and that maybe you saw the beauty there, or that you still see the beauty in what i do.

i want to be in love with this life all the time. or at least stop remembering how i wanted to break up with it. i need to remember that i’ve done all of this before. i feel like everyone in this city is just looking for someone romantically, and i want to go back to the time where we were all just friends, feelings came later: let’s share crayons and don’t try to kiss me at recess. now it seems like feelings come first, and that is complicated. then i call myself a hypocrite and laugh.

and yeah. there’s still a lot i don’t understand; some of it, i don’t want to; some of it, i need to. like why i have moments of feeling that fire again, and why i shove it away. but i don’t need to know why her talking about faith no longer scares me, i just appreciate that it doesn’t. i’m grateful about the many different ways of living that are available.

i don’t need to know why some people look at numbers and only see colours. i just need to believe that it’s a miracle, that sometimes, the formula can’t be completed – because that particular shade of four cannot be next to the brightness of 3.

a dream, last night: at the airport. “i can’t take this anymore!” crying crying crying – i woke up and thought it was real, thought it was last night, thought it was tomorrow, thought and thought. some thoughts fucking linger.

it’s been one of those days – andrea gibson’s “maybe i need you” made my eyes water while walking around underground, so of course i listened to it on repeat until i cried. i sent an email. one that i regret, as mentioned above. one that used silly words and i don’t even mean them half of the time and please don’t make me a monument.

please don’t read too much into the dark, i swear, i’m mostly made of sunshine but lately there’s a lot of fear. there’s still beauty in the darkest of places – please see that, too. i’m not stone. you know that, right?

i carry my camera like a prayer. please, let me see something beautiful, today. please. let me be someone beautiful.

i keep thinking about sign language and how we can talk to one another using only our hands, a look, a. something. like, ‘love, i may go deaf and not be able to hear the sound of your voice, but i can hear the rumble of your vocal cords in your chest and we will fill the silence with entire conversations using JUST OUR HANDS and it won’t be quiet, not even a little, because you’ll be with me.’

i’ve also been thinking about that moment when you’re with someone, usually kissing, and it just changes. something else takes over and i can’t find the words to explain, but i’ve been thinking about it a lot. that, and holding hands.

i keep wondering when.

let it go and say

goodnight,
j.

vi.

He messages, “I hate airports”
and I’m thinking of
how much I love them:
full of tension
hello, goodbye, going
full of life

—

we’re drinking; the questions begin
cut the deck, pick a card
i draw a nine
questions to be asked
“in india, nine is related to queer-ness” she says
i don’t know if it’s true
i say, “i need to stop reading into everything as a sign”
“no,” she says
“maybe you need to start”

—

she’s listening to my poems
and i can’t look at her in the eye
i’m too busy
i don’t know
feeling them all again
it’s no surprise to me
‘tastebuds’
is her favourite

—

i tell her
“maybe i’m afraid to be gay”
silence.

v.

What do you think of when you think of me?

iv.

Dear [name],

It’s raining. It’s raining and it’s night and I’m curled up in bed about to sleep and all I feel is safe, happy, and content. It sure beats the feeling I had on the streetcar, the ‘I feel like I have my arms spread flat on a wall, desperate for a hug, but of course – a wall does not have arms.’ Or, I could be honest and throw down the euphemisms, and say ‘I am trying to fucking talk to you and I feel like you don’t have any real emotions. DOES ANYTHING FUCKING MATTER TO YOU?’ I prefer people with emotions. I hate feeling like the ‘broken one’ just because I’m actually in touch with how I’m feeling. Maybe I am stuck on the shitty setting lately, but goddamn. Being emotionally unavailable does not do it for me. But maybe, always, maybe it’s related to me.

Okay, writing about that is making my happy, peace feeling run away in response to my regna. Trying again.

It’s raining. Sometimes I feel like I’m learning, growing, and adjusting so much that I can’t even begin to take it in. I don’t know what’s going on – I feel like I had a better handle on my life a few months ago. Right now, everything seems to be spinning – I’m screwing up dates and forgetting events and double-booking my own schedule and I don’t find the time to do the things I really need to do, like eat breakfast, find my own place, or getting a fucking doctor. I need a lesson on how to live, or something.

Why do creepy men like to call me babycakes? I feel like it’s karma.

It’s 11pm; I know I should be sleeping. Tomorrow morning, I am getting up at the first alarm buzz. NO SNOOZE ALLOWED.

25 countries in 25 years by December. Three to go.

The way Gibson says ‘lover’, in “how this ends”: really, that’s what I want. It’s like she’s kneeling down before her lover in reverence and respect with nothing more than love pouring out of her vocal chords – that is the kind of tone I want for life.

Breathe. Things will right themselves again. You are not as awful as you think.

Love,
j

iii.

Dear [name],

I never realized what an adjustment life, real life, would be. Oh love, it is too late and I cannot stay awake. But I will try. These words, to you, are far more important. Lover, I have a book I will not use – roadtrips across America, a Let’s Go! travel guide. Perhaps it’s for the best that I save it for another date, a different trip. I really need to sleep.

I will try to write more letters when it’s not lunchtime at work or when I’m not falling asleep.

love,
j