08/05/2010

Intellectually, I do not believe in fate. But I do believe that some sort of unconscious intelligence within us knows what we need, and draws us onto a path that will lead to our eventual Wholeness. In this sense, there is no future yet planned, and as I once wrote and think of often, time cannot hold in secret that which does not yet exist.

In light of this, I still can't help but imagine fate to play some role. That the story is already written and we are somewhat passive to its power over us. As if some force pushes us and guides us towards the right end even when the means seem so wrong. Perhaps it's even harder not to believe in fate when two or more people are concerned. Where I feel like my actions play into your fate and yours play into mine. 

The choices I make do not feel like choices. I only ever have one choice, to do what feels right. Even if it feels wrong in so many ways, I still know when I'm on the right path, as if I'm fighting the gods who watch over me, but relenting to their power none the less.

Montreal in November

I now live in Montreal. Not forever, but for now. It's true, I missed this city. But it takes a lot of conscious effort to remember why.

I tend to take a present moment, and wear as if it would be forever. As such I often freak myself out with the idea of committing to an identity and leave, resulting in my never staying anywhere for longer than 4 months. I suppose within the last 5 years I have stayed in Halifax twice for the term of 8 months, but around the 3rd month I had already planned my escape or dreaded my fixed term, and were it not for a man coming into my life at those times I might have escaped then after all.

I am here for two reasons: for my partner, and for school. But no part of me belongs here. Indeed, everything that this city is, is everything that died in me when I was a teenager. Being here is not only uncomfortable and unfitting, it is a constant throwback to a part of me that already ended with the realization that it was not me. 

There is an energy here, a spirit or a quality of light, that seems to drain colour and life from everything. Even the trees seem unhappy to have landed here, and like me, would rather be somewhere along the tracks that lead to Halifax or Vancouver. 

The ties that bind, they are barbed and spined...

What is it, that we admire? That is to say, why do we wish to be someone else? I was told that one day I would have to accept that I was not "her." "Her" being, that whom I admire...

Why if we admire, isn't it because we see something in them that is also in us, but that we have not been able to make real? Perhaps we're afraid? Then why shouldn't be try to be them?

I have tried to move to the country so many times, and it has never worked. However, the only reason was because of people. I need a certain amount of connection to the people in my life who support me. Something about the city makes me feel connected, safe. I thought this summer I had finally reconciled myself to the city. The prospect of hiding in the woods with my best friend brought so much resistance from within me that I bailed. I kept saying, that I just wasn't ready before, and that now I was ready. And then I would say, it's not that I wasn't ready, it's that it isn't me. And then 6 months later I am back to, I just wasn't ready.

Perhaps it will be different now that I have a partner. Perhaps it will be different if we have a car and I buy my own land. Perhaps it will be different when we have a dog. But something in that scares me too, because I don't know what binds and what makes me free.

[...And I do love you. It is only timing that has made it such a dark hour...]

Calmly sliding into uncertainty.

Because each key to you

leads to another locked door. 

And the only way back is away

and through.

A glass has spilled over:

But the water will dry;

And I will pray for forgiveness.

Hoping that with you again,

I'll share.

.

Every part of me is mine.

So recklessly present;

Imperfect.

Praying some day, 

Return.

[...And I am no longer afraid of anything, save the life that, here, awaits...]

Some moments are still. Happy. Or moving, but still happy. Content. Everything fits, fine. The world is in perfect harmony and Apollo looks over all, with ease.

And yet it so often seems that there is always a Dionysian chaos waiting around the corner. Ready to consume you, and you, powerless to stop it. Can you resist? Can you scramble back up the ladder and hide again from the chaos, withdraw back into perfect harmony, sleep off the beating hearts?

None of it makes sense when the sun is shining: The sun is shining. There should be no chaos. Only perfection. I should feel at peace. I should feel no turmoil. I should be blind to it, because it does not need to exist. The path should be clear in such brilliance. 

But, the clouds roll over. The room goes dark. You look out the window and see the first specks of rain darken the stone outside. You anticipate the thunder, and suddenly you give in to the weight of your heart. You see no way to resist the call of mindless Becoming. Dionysus in all his rage finds you, and you collapse in obedience to his will. 

No insight can help you now. The memory of the sunlight cannot bring back your clarity of mind. You must give in. You have no choice, though your insides are screaming to free you from such blind and dark passions. Born into recklessness. The only way out of it is through it. The casualties, unknown.

The Birth of Tragedy.

Note to self: World seen through eyes of child. Kitchen window onto forest ground.

I cannot escape the sound of scraping metal

Low whistles blowing through open windows

Alone in the hills of Nova Scotia

It is early Spring, call it late Winter?

Perhaps somewhere in between.

The snow has melted.

The trees are bare.

Just me and Gloria in this giant old house.

And yet, always there.

Always the sound of scraping metal, and

Low whistles blowing through open windows.

Back in the height of summer,

I am sprawled out on a mattress in Montreal.

The sun is slowly setting

And I am in an almost empty room

Stealing the seconds

From every remaining ray.

Impending darkness,

Solitude.

The sound of scraping metal

To take me away

From so many empty days.

I miss your stories. Speaking of ways in which you proved your worth to men of nobility; Joys found in free treats; Bursting hearts over wrinkles; Through your own wit and charm, all that which you've accomplished. 

I miss your mannerisms. I miss the way your eyes would fall far when something [shouldn't have] hurt you. I miss mornings. I miss biking through city streets, feeling your presence somewhere in the shadow of the same mountain.

But 

I don't want to miss feeling inadequate, falling short of your dreams of me. 

I don't want to miss disappointing you, having not kept up 

With where you'd have me be.

Today I subscribe to my own dreams of silly old me.

And hope that an old he only sees what's beyond my fancy dresses,

Knowing that I'm perfect in my becoming something other

Than any other's dream.

I have found new places.

New spaces.

This story starts with sun.

Turn off Spring Garden, walk through a courtyard of old brick buildings and trees. Lock bike, door is locked. I can see a small field on the other side, with boys playing frisbee. Walk around, up winding stairs, to find the secret grasses. Back door propped open with bunged up stick.

Walk through, up three flights of stairs. Door to a library. Walk to back corner, through small door. Finding self in a book shelf. Keep walking. 

A wall of window, overlooking cemetery and harbour. I can almost see the market from here. Men in communal space, studying on large tables. Two levels, the second more a loft than anything. Find winding staircase to upper level. There, a sea of young bodies, studying from text books with papers spread all around.

The sound is swallowed by the carpets and books. The florescence is drowned out by the sun. 

A sea of tables.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Au7gGhIM65g

Pet drove sing to sleep

[...Two Weeks...]

Brief moment at ease

To rest from the broken bottles

Battling ground against the will

That broke the backs of many

Women before me.

Brief pause from the pawing of me

Breathe now because tomorrow

There'll be none.

My backyard is covered in claws

And a space laid out for where

You could have been.

A space for where you could have

Come to rest, for the 

Brief moments to breathe

With the pawing of me.

Breathe now because tomorrow

I'll be gone.

Found.

Jan. 3, 2010.

Being, thinking, feeling. What the fuck does any of it mean? Being, feeling, allowing -- none of it seems to have benefited me any. My feelings are outrageous and may or may not even come from within me. My problem is control -- I'm a bloody control-addict I am and yet my bloody world collapsed when I "let go" fell right the fuck in love and things just got right fucked from there. Control, bloody control is all I got going for me now - seeing things through. Accomplishing something -- that's all I know I want right now -- but before I just wanted to Be - and Be more Connected - connected to our true natures - But. Our natures appear to be maleable. Our psyches (even our perception) seems to be intimately bound to early experiences. We can never perceive anything that doesn't fit into our preciously conceived notions of reality.

Cognitive bloody psychology is freaking the fuck outta me.

Architecture. Architecture? Architecture!

Architecture?

EH?       May aswell - t'will be a pleasant job

Your natural snow light!

...

I accidentally ended up in "business class" on the train from Toronto to Montreal. It's pretty silly -- not something I would ever consciously pay for, but those who do seem to think they should act more civilized, but the only difference is a little leg room and some microwaved TV dinners.

Green tea has more caffeine than black you fools!

Magic plastic frogs.

I wish I were a real writer.

Then I could be in architecturally pleasing situations.

My life : Architecture and psychology.

Write lots of silly books.

Make Canada better and

I'm not very happier.

good at sticking to    Hurrah

what I'm supposed to be writing.

I should write a murder mystery about being on a train in Canada.

No reason to write like that.

FICTION YOU SAY.

Could I possible be a fiction writer.

But I am so tired.

So much caffeine.

Le mush.         Aesthetic

The story of a girl raised and artist in T. who decides to play the game of society and sees how for she can climb the ladder by playing the game.

What would be the conflict.

expected: loses herself in the illusion.

unexpected: doesn't work.

realistic:

la la plastic wealth of the [...?] - upper class.

Zee bourgeoisie .   HA HA 

Ha.

If I write fiction it has got to be Canadian.

PERIOD.

and contemporary.

THIS WORLD IS BIZARRE. 

I could never describe anything that hasn't happened to me and everything that has happened to me is too silly to write about.

Nevermind.

Can't sleep so I'll write about science

When people think about science, they tend to concentrate on how science breaks the world into smaller and smaller categorical and divisible parts, until all the world is is a mass of tiny particles. But what we fail to realize is that at the smallest level of ordered material existence, what defines one atom from another is precisely its capacity to relate. Whether it's the relation between the electrons, neutrons and protons, or the atom's capacity to bond with other atoms, were it not for the capacity to relate (and that potential being realized) there would be no matter, no ordered reality, no existence.

Many of the artists, aesthetics, philosophers and hipsters have inconsistent and confused reactions to my decision to go into the sciences. Perhaps they are turned off by the tacky colourful illustrations, the bourgeoisie-ness of scientific careers, or the assumed materialistic and reductive philosophical tendencies. Perhaps it seems dull and useless as they relive their memories of grade 10 science, their teachers trying to find a way to make cytoplasm and covalent bonds interesting and relevant to the lives of hormonal adolescents. Even I can't seem to talk about my academic career choice without a confused expression. It still seems so far from anything I ever thought I'd love or be. My entire identity is being challenged, and yet the only block seems to be what is a fundamentally social aesthetic that clashes with my artistic upbringing. 

But what I realized tonight as I lay in bed trying to defend myself in imaginary conversations, is that science is... well... beautiful. Really beautiful. If we forget what we know about the image of science, and look at it for what it is, we see that it is fundamentally a conversation about Being itself. It is a close observation of Nature, it is an investigation into the relationships that allow existence. It is, in spite of what we think, still what the Greek's referred to it as: natural philosophy.

In my previous defences, I've mentioned how much I enjoy being in an active dialogue with what I'm learning in the sciences. Philosophy started to feel like a game of ping pong that had gone on too long even after Hegel had already clearly won. That's why I decided to go into architecture. I wanted to be involved in a dialogue that questioned how we were really to design our lives, questions that needed answers because they would actually be applied to concrete reality. But I realized a career in architecture would fall short of this desire. The college was full of bizarre and snobby people, and the field would not provide me with the ability to shape our world for the better. If I was going to shape our world for real, I'd need to attack it on a conceptual level first, and I'd have to make my argument convincing. It's of course for more reasons than that that I'm going into science... but that's another... "blog."

I have so many questions, so many ideas, so many hypotheses and such a fascination with life, structure, relation and body. You wouldn't believe how much we don't know, how much we discover every day. It's kind of scary, and yet it inspires a kind of faith to realize how incredibly existence works on its own, whether we know how it does it or not. 

Some tings

Don't change

Won't change

Can't change.

Here

I live.

Here

I die.

Every day

(so present in laughter)

(so present in joy)

Reliving absence.

One suitcase.

A bike.

Old city.

New life.