where else am i going to put this stuff//imissmyxanga
Beckoning forth the bread I lift unto my lips the sodden tropes of yesteryears particles Let’s just describe spaces
Sylvia’s space of an eternal unravelling at the fingertips. A convulsing that regresses with a shake and a tremor. Re-instigates with clarity and composure. A sea saw on a perilous fulcrum, yet with a steady hand she pushes forth the ground to lift her head back up into what? A storm or a ray of sun. They will name a hurricane after you.
Myself, my exuberant heart beats at refreshing potentials. Dost the internet dare do me so well? I am lost in unknown intentions. Mostly it is I who thinks too much.. Let’s follow the heave of the battle axe and see how this all plays out.
Louis a fire cracking genius. His work so akin to his life that he takes to the internet to find some one, else, outside of his work/life routine. Outside of the usual cronies that go along with his routine. One of record labels, millionaire artists and integrity. One of unparalleled high quality sound structures and glossy magazine covers. One potentially caught up in ego .. And he finds me. I, at first exchange, retreated quite intimidated into myself. Who is this exuberant man, picking me up in a sports car with a face on to match? Who has just been pitter-pattering into my life with text after text, for days upon days? Me, sassy but internally humble to the point of self-deprecation. I’m coming out of connecting to others in terms of that deprecation. I’m trying to put on the better me, one that his influence has challenged me to do. And I appreciate it so, so so. If I wasn’t constantly checking myself I would legit melt into a puddle.
The hot sun beat down on the red stone tiles which make up the back court yard to my mother’s ground floor apartment. It is a secret entrance; a secret drive way in which cars can park, do their business, and leave unseen, One of those state of affairs happens to be my passing, to and fro this secret drive way, friends dropping me off, picking me up, always stealthily, slyly I embark to meet up with my saviours, blessed souls who deliver me from an otherwise timely languish. My mother has been housing me for some time, as I have no where else to feasibly go in this city. I came from Montreal, a city rife with arctic winters and tropical summers. I rather thought it a bit survivalist but compared to Vancouver; a city harbouring temperate climes and outlandish cost of living, the effort to live in Montreal seems mediocre compared to here. Montreal’s cobblestone streets are home to aeons of pattering feet and fiery souls who would think nothing of igniting their neighbour if they happened to sense a spark. This communal living kept the city ablaze and the dwellers safe in the sense of warmth. Vancouver’s city participants regard one another with tepidity at best. All polity and speculative refrain. I crave the fire. I moved here for a fire, a redhead named Chris who, withstanding our long-distance relationship while I studied in Montreal, took the first opportunity to whisk me back here and convince me to stay. It wasn’t a hard decision, relaxing back into the mild winter knowing full well the blizzard I was evading back east; not to mention a hot-headed roommate I was more than happy to take space away from. I changed my life for this fire; I spent that year I had relegated to a steady job and the steady production of art fed by Montreal’s colourful inspiration, instead in Vancouver playing house and feeding my attention to Chris my love. I had barely any attention left for my art, still maybe less in terms of inspiration. Comfortably numb I accompanied Chris on his most wanton affairs which seemed to be made up of making food, and watching movies. Six long, complacent months were spent this way, coupled with my desperate attempts to find a job. After a few stints at a couple odd places, as a busser at a trendy restaurant, a dishwasher at a raw vegan café, I finally secured my self in retail at a chocolate factory; in which I blissfully get to lay waste to the mounds of chocolate at my finger tips every day. My reserves of will power still haven’t been expounded yet. Chris adored me. I did adore him. We would endlessly lay entangled in one another, the intimacy being the most integral part. Far-reaching, and always lively, interesting conversations providing the context. Chris was the first person I felt I could truly talk to, my first love. The nuances of his soul scape I knew; and I loved to know. Everyone wrangles with their shadow but little did I know that his was gaining a voice louder in his heart. I was putting pressure on him, on his privileged life-style living in his parents house, I wanted to move out. With him, I wanted to gain independence and I thought he wanted that too. I have harnessed the hustle my entire life and was hoping to share that integrity with him; ultimately our modus operandi differed too harshly and he relapsed back into hard drugs in an effort to push me away; and he did. To this city which I grew up in and yet has rejected me at every turn of my life. Montreal embraced me. Yet I will face myself and finish my studies in Vancouver since I’m granted a scholarship opportunity. I will direct my efforts to pry open the wet, concrete heart of this city to the soft, springy moss within and I hope to flourish and reconcile my weary heart. This heart pallid in reflection; yet exuberant at every turn, still shrinks at the lack of communal intimacy I sense in my city dwelling neighbours. Everyone is invested in their own star-fangled pursuits. The loneliness beats down at my pounding heart and so I am driven to shed my bastion at whatever door step necessary. More often than not the easiest place to dissolve myself is in the drink, in which I heartily gulp. To my mother’s unknowing horror, of course.