Lakeside Reflections

Everyone is packing up their bags, loading up their cars, tidying up, checking to make sure everything is once again the way it was when we had arrived.

I decide to wander down to the dock, make sure we had left nothing behind by the water. I slip out quietly, making my way down to the lake alone. It was hard to take it all in. So many things that I wanted to retain in my memory, the moment, the way I could capture it in words later on, once I had returned home. The closer I came to the lake, the quieter it became. The sounds of my friends preparing to leave fade away to quiet whispers behind me.

Even though we had spent the last half hour packing up and getting ready to leave, it isn’t until I step out onto the dock that I realize the weekend has finally come to an end. I take a seat at the docks edge, with my feet dangling over the edge into the coolness of the late afternoon water, and look out and listen, absorbing everything within the nature that surrounded me. The lake, which only a few hours early had been boisterous with the sounds of children at play, motors from various power boats, and the joking and laughter of my friends, was now silent. The wakes from passing boats had died down and the waters surface was as smooth and still, a mirror of glass. It reflected everything around, making it look like there was an upside down version of our world below the waters surface. I stared down at my reflection in the upside down world. The only ripples were from the calm movements of my feet in the water, fading away as quickly as they had formed. I ran my fingers over the water, breaking up my reflection on its surface.

I sat there at the edge of the dock, my arms wrapped across my chest and listened to the subtle sounds of nature around me. The chirp of a frog behind me, the splash of a fish amongst the lily pads to my left. The boats were all docked and put away, their motors silenced until the coming weekend. The children were being packed into cars, eagerly awaiting their return. Even the sounds of my friends above, loading up their cars, had begun to die away.

After a few minutes Andrew came down to join me. He slipped off his sandals and sat down next to me, letting his feet dangle in the water along side my own. We smiled, silently reminiscing about how we had started our day almost the exact same way, coming down to the waters edge with our orange juice and coffee, while everyone else was still asleep. We had spent the morning watching the lake come alive, and now we watched it in its tranquility. We sat there together looking out over the water, not wanting to go home, not wanting it to be over.

Not too long after the rest of the weekends stragglers found their way onto the dock. We sat, or stood, looking out on the lake, telling stories and sharing memories from the weekend. No one really wanted to leave, but we knew that the time for our departure was closing in on us. Eventually, we’d turn our backs on the water and wander back up the hill, get into our cars, and head out to the highway, until we found ourselves back in the city once more. But for now, even if it was just for one more minute, we admired the beauty of nature around us, trying to lock every sight and sound into memory, to hold onto through the week ahead.

Fall. Choke. Repeat.

It happens so fast your mind barely has enough time to register.

One moment you’re in total control, or at least trying to convince yourself you are, the next you’re in mid fall. You try to figure out exactly how you lost the edge before you allow yourself to give into the sensation. Or at least, before you try to convince yourself that you’re giving in and not being forced into the fall.

You remember thinking it was a good idea at the time. What could go wrong? Right? It didn’t look nearly as difficult from your warm, dry, safe seat on the boat. But now that you find yourself floating in the water, some thirty odd feet behind the boat, a tow rope in hand, trying to find a sense of balance which the large bulky skis on your feet make more than difficult, you begin to question whether you are actually capable of something so seemingly impossible. And then the motor starts and you actually begin to move and you know in an instant that things are not going to end well.

The boat has barely started but you know almost instantly that you are losing your center of balance. You could fight it, try to stop yourself, but what’s the worst that could happen? A little extra water in your lungs? A little bruise to your ego? Well, I say bruise away. What’s the fun of never falling down? Where’s the unexpected journey?

In reality, your body is about to fail you, and the sooner you accept it and stop fighting it the better things will be for you. Prepare yourself, you are about to do a face plant into the surface of the water. There is not enough time to block your nose or to take a deep breath. The water will shoot up your nose in the burning, uncomfortable fashion that water has of entering a place it should never have been to begin with. You will resurface sputtering and choking, looking in all directions to find the skis which moments before had been on your feet and now manage to have traveled several feet in opposite directions. This is all inevitable. It cannot be avoided.

And yet some how, after you survive all this, after you have managed to swim around like the awkward duck you are, regain your skis, and clumsily stumbling about to put them on again, you will make another attempt. They yell instructions to you from the boat. Something about your shoulders and your feet. You nod and pretend like you completely understand but in reality their voices are too muffled by the wind and the water in your ears for you to have heard much of anything at all. You square your shoulders and attempt to lean back and balance, because you think, at least your pretty sure, that this is what you heard them tell you to do. You try to focus your mind, you are determined that this is going to be it, you will be successful. And then the boat begins to move, and once again you find yourself being pulled forward, except this time you feel your body start to emerge, not quite out of the water but close. And you begin to think that this is going to be it, your actually going to fully surface, and then the confidence is gone and you feel your upper body being pulled off course, face smacking into the water, leaving you with no choice but to let go of the rope.

You will try again, maybe only one or two more times this afternoon, but you will try again. If not today, then on another day, you will make it out of the water. And on that day, in the instant that you realize your entire body has surfaced, your skis are skimming across the surface, and that you are essentially skiing on water. You will then throw your fist up in the air triumphantly, subsequently causing you to lose your center of balance and once more you will find yourself falling, face hovering inches above the waters surface, about to smack into it harder then you ever have before. And it will feel great!

And sometimes, through an experience like this you learn something about yourself.

Today, I learnt this...I making wiping out look damn good.

Echoes of Raindrops

Its raining and I hear the drops echoing on the roof of my building as they fall, against my bedroom window, and slightly through the wall behind my bed. I love the sound of raindrops as they hit. They fall without pattern or structure, in a random rhythm and I love the sporadic quality of them. Tonight, I close my laptop and my lights and I will lay down in my bed and just listen to the rhythm of the falling rain.

An unfailing case of writers block

The cursor blinks on an empty word document, slowly, almost as though it were taunting her. She’s been staring at it for hours now, waiting for inspiration to strike, waiting for the right words to come to mind.

She begins to type, pure nonsense really, if only to have something on the page. If only to have some semblance that she has accomplished something. Then she backspaces over it all, like she has already done several times before. Why is it that the things she wants to say aren’t coming out the way she wants them too? Today of all days.

She has no looming deadline to cause her writers block, only her own personal agenda. Her own particular need to write something of substance. She wants to finish something, get her feelings out before the day is done.

She continues to stare at the blinking cursor. It blinks torturously slow. She can almost hear it taunting her, You...have...nothing... With each blink a new word whispered into her ear. Stop...trying...to...create...something...out...of...nothing...

She rubs her face, combs her fingers through her hair, trying to pull herself together, to get her focus back. The cursor is not talking to her. She will not let the blankness of the page defeat her. She will find what it is she is trying to express, and the words to express it. She may sit here all night, she may backspace over a dozen more beginnings but eventually one of them will grow into something more. The ideas will breakthrough and the words will flow and once again she will find in herself the sense of certainty she’s been searching for.

In the meantime, she sits, staring at a blank screen, waiting for the something more to come to her.

Montreal at Midnight

There is something he wants to show me before taking me home. Coldplay’s Viva la Vida is playing and I find myself quietly singing along. We drive slowly up the mountain, past houses enveloped in shadows, houses like small castles, daunting and intimidating and inspiring all at once.

I could have lost myself on these streets for hours, just looking. Even when hidden in dark shadows, beneath dim street lights, each house stands alone, unique. Changing with each season; the liveliness that budding trees and green leaves bring to flower beds in spring, the intense heat and humidity that hovers in the air in summer, the burnt oranges and red of falling leaves in autumn, and then the blanket of snow that covers them now, protecting them until the life of spring returns once more.

My mind having been filled and distracted by such thoughts, I hadn’t noticed the car turn off the road, but I feel the engine shut off. I look around, seeing the stairs and thick cement railing of the lookout ahead.

We step out of the car and walk towards the railing, gazing out over the expanse of lights below. We're alone up here for the time being. Everything is eerily quiet, distance sounds of cars on the highway but that’s all. The constant hum of city life seems to have been shut off, if only for a moment.

It’s surprisingly cold, I can feel the goosebumps growing on my arms. I can feel my body begin to shiver. I can see my breath fog before me, but I’m not quite ready to get back into the car.

I look over at him and grin, wondering if the same thoughts going through my mind are going through his. I lean against the cement railing, feel the cold go right through my jacket and gaze downward, taking it all in.

I want to ask him what he’s feeling, what he sees, but at the same time I don’t want to pollute the beauty of the silent city with conversation just yet.

As I look around I notice that the only thing missing tonight are the stars, hidden by the glowing lights of thousands of buildings and cars and street lamps. I cannot see the moon but some how I know there is a small and perfect crescent somewhere beyond the glow.

And then suddenly I feel small and alone....not in an insignificant sense, but in a moment of realization of just how much there is out there that I have yet to see or to experience. He reaches for my hand, squeezes it, almost reassuringly, reminding me that he’s there, that I’m not alone up here.

I look out over the lights at my city, and I know that right now, in this instant, at this point in my life, this is where I want to be. This moment, this place, this city.

And as I look out on the city lights, I allow my eyes to lose focus, causing them to blur, and suddenly I’m not afraid of what the future may bring. Whatever comes at me, wherever I may go, the person I will become, it will all work itself out. I know that I can control certain aspects of that, but I find myself excited by the aspects that are out of my control. I am excited by the mystery of it all.

I want to say something to him, put my feelings and thoughts into words, but the words don’t come and instead I smile up at him and give his hand a squeeze in return.

I may leave here at some point, travel elsewhere, work elsewhere, live elsewhere, but Montreal will always be my home. I may see other cities, older cities, larger cities, but Montreal will always hold a special place in my heart. She’s mine in a sense, and her beauty will stay with me always.

I want to laugh at that thought, the kind of uncontrollable laughter that takes over your whole body, but I’m shivering.

He looks over at me, notices the extent of my shivering, and suggests we get back in the car and head on our way. Part of me wants to say not yet, wants to stay in this moment with him a little while longer. I’m not quite ready to say good night, but the cold wins and together we walk back to the car.

“We just looked out, across the city from our little spot on the hilltop. It was so pretty from way up there. We talked about how the lights from the buildings and cars seemed like reflections of the stars that shone out so pretty and bright, that night.”

"It was daytime."

"The daytime of the night."

Flight of the Conchords

Random thought

Some people have poetry in their heart but they just can't find the words.

Some people have music in their soul but they just can't find the notes.

A little excerpt

She’s so lost in the world she’s creating she doesn’t even hear him come up to the table where she is seated. He sits down across from her before she has even realized he's there.

“Where are you now?” he asks her, a slight smirk on his face.

She looks up at him, her fingers continue typing, slowly finishing her train of thought.

“She’s confused. She doesn’t know what she wants. I guess she’s every girl.” She looks at him, shrugs her shoulders.

“I didn’t ask where she was, I asked where you are. Do you know what you want?” His voice and eyes are so sincere, she believes he actually cares about what her answer is going to be when he asks.

“I know what I don’t want. Is that enough? I don’t know, but it’s all I’ve figured out so far, and for now, it’s all I want to figure out.”

Sheets, dreams and a guitar

I had a dream.

It was late and I could see snow falling in the street light outside my window. I was sitting in my bed. I could feel the goosebumps on my skin, so I pulled the sheets up, wrapping them tightly around me.

He was sitting on the edge, guitar in his lap. His fingers hovered over the strings for a moment, I could see him trying to decide what song he was going to coax from them. In the second before he starts to play, he looks up at me and grins.

His hair, which was just the slightest bit too long in the front, fell forward into his face, covering his eyes just enough to distract him, forcing him to stop playing for an instant so he could run his hands through it.

His fingers would be slowly moving over the strings one moment, and then so fast the next. Watching, I find myself remembering the way those hands had felt on my skin only moments before, the slight roughness of the callous at his finger tips, the radiating warmth within his palms. His hands could manipulate me in the same way he could manipulate the strings on the guitar.

His fingers plucked and strummed and danced along the strings, creating such inspiring melodies. I just sat there, listening, taking it all in. His hands, his body, the expression on his face, the music. He seemed so perfectly at ease in himself, I felt like I was seeing a part of him that he didn’t often let others see.

And then its over almost as fast as it began.

I wake up in the dead of night and I can feel his arms around me, holding me, the heat from his body against my back, the beat of his heart. I can hear the music still, playing softly in the darkness, and it takes a moment before the dreamworld fades and reality begins to set in again, and I remember that I am alone tonight. The quiet surrounds me once again. There is no music lurking in the darkness.

I look over at the guitar that sits idle in the corner of my room, enveloped in shadow. Although I can’t see it clearly, I know there is a thin layer of dust covering its smooth surface. I don’t have the heart to pick it up, the strings won’t have the same magic in my hands.

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Writing this, I had an image in my head that I was trying to capture in words. I tried over and over, but I still found myself unable to get it right. I give you this as a work in progress, in hopes that one day I will return to it with fresh eyes, and be able to better describe things as they appeared in my mind.

Piano Hands

She doesn’t play the piano, but that doesn’t stop her from pretending. Sometimes, as she listens to her song, she lets her fingertips dance along a table ledge, or seat back, or even just through the air, dancing as though on the ebony and ivory keys of a piano.

Six billion, seven hundred and ninety eight million, nine hundred thousand people

As of today, the estimated population of the world is 6,798,900,000 people. Just looking at the number amazes me, and I find myself wondering how many people in the world are doing the exact same thing I’m doing right now. I find myself wondering how many people out there are thinking about the same things as me.

How many of them are worried about someone?

How many of them are fighting temptations beyond their control?

How many of them are thinking about doing something they know they shouldn’t do?

How many of them are weighing the power of a lie against the power of the truth?

How many are feeling let down by someone?

How many are feeling like they let someone down?

How many of them just want to punch something, even though they know it won’t make anything better?

How many of them are excited about future possibilities?

How many of them want something, or someone, that they know is off limits?

How many of them are fighting with their pride?

How many of them are on the verge of laughter, and on the verge of tears, simultaneously?

How many of them are afraid, and sad, and happy, and excited, and apprehensive, and embarrassed, and tempted, and free, and ready all at once?

Today, I am a seesaw of emotion, my balance keeps shifting, from one side to the other, and then back again. I can’t seem to find my center. How many other people out there are going through the same things as I am at this moment. Is it possible that someone else is experiencing this sense of imbalance in the same way that I am at this instant?

There are approximately six billion, seven hundred and ninety eight million, nine hundred thousand people in the world, could I really be the only one?

It's raining

It's raining and I'm smiling. I've missed the rain.

Last night, lying awake in bed, I heard a familiar sound and found myself slipping out from the warmth of my bed and standing at the window. The world was covered in a layer of wet. The rain was falling, drops of water were racing down my window pane. I left the curtains open and slipped back into bed and just listened. It's a hauntingly beautiful sound.

It's mid-January and Montreal is covered in puddles. The outdoor rinks are ruined, and the piles of snow are shrinking, and winter is losing its picturesque beauty, but I'm still smiling. I stand outside and look up and let the rain wash over me, rinsing me clean.

Reminiscing

I miss the days when Pluto was still considered a planet.

The world seemed to make more sense then.

The Photograph

It starts like this, I’m walking down a deserted hallway. There is little noise aside from the creeks and sounds of the building itself. The smell of food cooked hours before lingers in the air. What little light there is streams through a dust covered window at the far end of the hall. You can see the dust dancing in the beams of light. You’d think these beams would add warmth to the darkness of this hallway, but instead they only serve to enhance its dinginess. I do not know exactly what it is I’m doing here or what I’m searching for, but I am certain that I will know it when I see it.

I try the door on my right and am not surprised to find it unlocked. Memory tells me it was rare to find it locked. The room beyond the door is much brighter then the hallway. I step into the room, blind, my eyes need a moment to adjust. This room does not fit inside this building. Everything is so neat and orderly, never a inch out of place. You could almost move the room out the building entirely, to someplace completely different, and no one would ever notice. It’s as though it were from a different time. From some time before this neighborhood became the wrong side of the tracks. When the streets were less obtrusive, when the grass still existed.

There’s a slight layering of dust on the furniture. Its strange to see, the apartment is usually immaculate. I run a finger along a shelf, rubbing it against my thumb, feeling the ever so slightly grainy dust between my finger tips. I run my hands along the books on the shelf. They cover the room, every table, shelf, and surface of any kind has books piled on them. I feel the gilded titles, smiling at the memories. I’d read everyone at least once. It was the one thing we shared, an intense love for the stories. These books are the reason I became a writer, I wanted to have my own words immortalized in paper like these books. I wanted to find that smell, the fresh paper scent of a book and now that the words that fill the pages were mine. But this isn’t the memory I’ve come for.

I know what I am looking for now. I have seen it here in this apartment many times before. I remember looking at it when I was a young girl, trying to find a piece of myself in it, trying to understand where I came from. It’s on the dresser where its always been. The young woman in the photo is smiling. She’s walking along the beach, toward the photographer, and the wind is blowing her hair into her face. Her hands run through her hair and her eyes, my eyes, look right into me, or more likely the person who was taking her photo. She looks happy, but a part me knows that it won’t last. None of my memories of her can be seen as happy. This picture is the only proof I have that she was ever happy. A part of me wishes I could talk to the person in this picture. There is so much I would ask, so much I want, and need, to know.

I pick up the photo, the silver frame is cool to the touch. It is the only photo in the apartment, it was always the only photo. I take one last look around. The movers will be here soon. They will pack this all up in dozens of identical cardboard boxes, and then they will have it put in storage in some locker amidst hundreds of lockers exactly the same. I can’t get rid of it, not just yet. It is some what comforting to me, to know that it will be there if ever I find a need for it. That in some storage locker somewhere the smell in this apartment will be preserved, in case I ever need to remember again.

Then I turn around and I leave for the last time, and for the first time, I don’t look back.

The things I can't say

Part of my Wilde Resolution that I mentioned an entry or two back is about giving expression to my feelings. I am the type of person who tends to internalize major emotions (just ask my Mother). I push it aside, let it lie in wait, until I’m overwhelmed and it all comes boiling to the surface at the same time. This is something I’m working on.

That being said, the words below have been building in me for a few weeks now, probably even longer then that. This is something I can’t say to this person, I wouldn’t feel comfortable, but it’s something I feel I need to get off my chest. It seems to me that’s one of the reasons I have this little blog here.

This is one of the more personal things I have shared here, and this is the only time I am ever going to ask that no comments be made on this post. I’m posting this is for me, because its something I need to let out.

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There are so many things I want to say to you, to tell you. My heart is heavy with the things left unsaid, but that isn’t the kind of relationship we have. That’s never been the kind of relationship we’ve had. We don’t really talk about real issues. I wish I were brave enough to tell you these things in person.

If I’m going to be completely honest, a part of me has always been intimidated by you. It sounds silly I know, but on some level its true. I was never really sure of what to say to you, what to talk to you about. Most of the time, in the past couple of years especially, you seemed too distracted and overwhelmed to even hear me, but if there was one time where I really needed you to listen, even if its the only time you ever really hear me, it’s right now.

I can remember how I used to idolize you when I was a kid. I would brag about you to all my friends. You were one of my heros. I was so proud of you. I was proud of what you had accomplished. When I look at you now, and when I think of you now, I can’t seem to get that feeling back. You’re lost. The person I thought you were when I was a kid isn’t there anymore and this makes me sad.

I want to be able to look at you with pride again. I want to be able to see someone that can be a hero to the child in me once more. I want to see someone who can be a hero to the person I am now.

I know the world isn’t what it was when I was young. As you grow older, things change, everything becomes a little more complicated. I know what you’re going through right now is far from easy. The burden on your shoulders is not an easy one to be carrying. The issues at hand here are heavy and I don’t mean to diminish the struggle you have to endure, but I want you to know that I still believe in you. You are strong. You overcame obstacles and worked hard to achieve those accomplishments that made me idolize you when I was a kid, and now you need to use that strength and you need to work hard again.

In the end, what it comes down to is this; I’m not the one who needs a hero anymore your children need the hero. As hard as this is for you, it’s even harder for them. They can’t truly understand why this is happening. They need you. They need the hero now. The road ahead is daunting, and I think you have every right to be uncertain and apprehensive of what may lie ahead, but we are all here for you. You might be scared, but right now you need to brave. Your kids need you to do the right thing.

My heart hurts for you and for everyone else, but I still believe in the hero that you are, the person that lies in wait within you. Now you need to believe in it again. You need to step up and take action. I love you and I am confident that you will make it through this and come out an even stronger and better man than before.

Overwhelmed

It’s late, too late, but she has to write it all down before she forgets.

The words are passing through her mind so quickly, she can’t keep up.

They’re like images, coming into view, and then fading too quickly. There’s no time to commit them to memory.

She remembers a poem she once heard, but she can’t quite piece it together. It begins to blend with the rest of the words in her mind, twisting and turning until they start to form something else, something entirely of their own.

She writes, writes it all down before she loses it, but she doesn’t really understand what it is she is writing, only that she must write it down before it falls back into the dark recesses or her mind.

It’s almost like being upside down. The blood rushes to your head and you try to put the world in order, but it takes your mind longer because everything is reversed. This is what she must do with the words, try to put them back in order.

Order is the wrong word, so clean cut and proper. It does not belong here, but she sees it and therefore she writes it down. She much prefers Chaotic and Erratic, but those aren’t the words that are calling to her tonight.

Night, darkness, memory, imagine, creation, dream, wake, sleep, beautiful, destruction, denial, passion, instruction, believe, achieve, reunite, excite, caress, silence, laughter, tears, medication, love, hate, relations, up, down, left, right, wrong, serious, nonsense, calm, peace, night, darkness.

Some of it doesn’t even make sense, but she writes the words down in hope that with morning and the suns arrival she will experience the moment when it all falls into place, and a common union between the words and ideas will start to build into something stronger, something bigger.

Right now, she needs to let sleep take her, the words are still coming, faster and more numerous, but they will have to wait until tomorrow night, when her mind can start afresh.