No Room For a Second Helping

I don't listen to music in the morning. As a rule. For some reason I felt compelled to crank The Faint while making coffee and the bed. It is a habit at my terminal to immediately check for any incoming mail. Pavlovian response. Bypassed iTunes for the email inbox. In the tray was a letter from the last lover. A cancelled wedding. Another whom I pushed away. I was going to crank some tunes, maybe dance around a bit while getting my day started.

Why can't I stop crying?

I miss him and I miss his words.


When I look at faces I sense such dissatisfaction. They wear a well practiced mask that I have laser vision against. Their mask is always within arm's reach, quickly grasped, attached with invisible string like the wool that joins two mittens through small sleeves. Mom made it. Sometimes when I look in the mirror that sentiment is reflected in me. I can't hide it anymore. My mask slipped recently down a sewer grate. I can't stand the stench of raw sewage. I'm reduced to naked.

I want but I don't want.

More and more I am choosing to cocoon myself in my own home. Friends often drag me out. My mother is worried. She thinks I'm depressed. I think it's a phase. I keep telling myself that. I had a good cry before going into work on Monday. It seemed to help.

I miss and I am amiss.


At Stratenger's, the 2 level ruckus bar where not only can you smoke your brains out legally, there is often bellowed conversations between mezzazine and orchestra pit. It's often a spectator sport. Like tennis.

Game
Set
Match
Why does Love = Zero?

I was with Fatty in the sunken seating area by the bar. Ack and our friend Zontar, who is too busy with work and family to read this blog anymore because "It's too dauntingly long" were in the upper level looking down. They eventually came down to join us for chicken wings and a modified food fight. Farmers and manufacturers of processed foodstuff need not weep from the misuse of their product. We were only hurling our soiled napkins at each other.

Ack relayed a story about a guest from Zontar's wedding.

Ack: Do you remember him? He was sitting at our table? The swimmer? He was with his really hot girlfriend. Really hot. Really.
The Comrade: Nope. I don't remember either.

Apparently Really Hot forced the tethered swimmer to continue his laboured strokes; lashes of her demands eventually exhausted him enough to give up and drown.

Ack: Basically the reason for the break-up was he didn't make enough money for her.

Mr. Lennon? Could you steal into the night, turn yourself into a moth and whisper into her ear that love is all you need. No? You're right. Your good words would be wasted.



I took myself out today. A forced take. I had to buy some espresso. I was out. For over a week I've been using my stove top espresso maker because one of the switches on my Baby Gaggia espresso machine was permanently depressed.

Depressed.

Like me.
Though not permanent.
Just for a day or so.
She hopes.

I learned, and this is a lesson that took 36 years to learn, to truly learn, to sink into this sometimes thick head, that even though I've said it, I haven't really known it until now: Nothing ever really, really bad ever lasts for very long.

Walking down the street, children were made at ease (soldier) by the end of school day's bell. Donning ski jackets in muted colours, little mini thugs with mommy-made mittens on a string, they screamed with voices that didn't match my own internal mood. It created a dissonance within. It was at that exact moment I realised why people sometimes don't like me. I have been those children so often. It was also at that time that I realised those children, as much as they were making so much sound, didn't all mean it. I have been all of those children.

I cried more than laughed today. I don't think I gave one earnest laugh all day. I didn't go to my regular café to buy my coffee. I went to an anonymous grocery store, though still ran into a couple of friends along the way. This time, instead of pretending I was alright, I allowed my true mood to come through.

"I need to go home now," I said on the corner to my old favourite work comrade, Josh.
Josh: Oh. Okay.

There was the old apologetic pull. The I'm sorry I'm not feeling myself. But it didn't overwhelm me, and I didn't fake it this time. I needed to go home. I needed to clean my kitchen and treat myself to a book on tape I'd rented from the library.

Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451. The temperature in which books catch on fire.

It had been a long time since I'd heard a story read to me. I love stories. This is a very good one. If I close my eyes, I can still see the dial on the car stereo when I was 6 years old accompanying my father in his cab during a regular work day. Listening to afternoon storytime on the CBC. Fixed. It was staring through me as much as I was it. My young life reflected on it. I still reflect on it.

I bought a small arrangement of flowers from the grocery store. They included carnations. And roses. 2 types of flowers I'd learned to despise. Of what they represent.

Two things about carnations: old ladies like them. They like to bring them to funerals. I remember making carnations out of tissue paper and adhering them to a car for a wedding. They represented both death and marriage. Synonymous? Well... that's something to examine later.

I don't like roses because of Stupid, my first husband; a mistake. Specifically red roses. "Forgive me," he said, wielding a dozen, dripping long stems.

The third were daisies. And I thought of Al. She used to attach Daisy in front of my name. She was my best friend in high school. We don't talk anymore. Apparently I overshadowed her and she never felt she had a presence. Not even with her own father. I loved her father, mostly because he was patient, permissive and he believed in me. He once told my own father off. At his doorstep. I silently wished he was my real father. I was not alone in this wish. There were others. I was happy to share him. Al was not.



I wanted to get away from the noise along the street. I walked with my head down, sunglasses on, white hood up and shrouding. Still crying. It was cold and sunny.

Crying and somber
Cruel and slumber
Cradle and lumber

Sad was the only thing I was feeling. Sad is only good alone. I took a side street. There were still others. I took an alleyway. Empty, but not for long. I couldn't escape them. I didn't want to be seen today. I wanted only to get my provisions and go straight home, home, home.

In the grocery store there were several different packages of espresso for sale. Illy, an old favourite, something which we use at my new place of employ, and Lavazza. Illy was in a sleek tin, aesthetically pleasing fonts and minimalist styling. $15 for 1/2 lb. The other stuff was in a vacuum sealed brick of a slight garishness, the standard Italian flag of red, green and white. $3.99 for the same volume. I bought 2 bricks to build my wall.

The Christmas Vial had gone empty weeks ago. I must have travelled extensively. Some tokens were given to those without a required exact fare. Some were given to companions. Others were lone travellers off to destinations unknown to me. A silent wish for adventure was on my lips for them. I've since kept the vial, something I suspect I'll always use for that purpose.

I'll keep refilling it, Mom. Everytime I open it, I think of you.

I was blessed with a gracious driver today. I don't always get one. Some are surly. Others are silent. He was not jovial. He was almost reverent. I'd like to think he sensed my mood and acted appropriately. But that would be too narcissistic to consider. I am simply thankful his vibration level meshed with mine.

God, grant me goodness. Patience. Forgiveness.

My mother is worried I am spending too much time alone. How much is too much? What if I'm the only one I want to spend time with? What if I don't want to listen to others, especially when I feel they have nothing to say. Their mouths move. I listen, but they don't say anything.

Though some do.

There is a very nice lady whose family owns a well stocked convenience store down the street from me. She is a year or so younger than I. I like her because she's kind and she's honest. She serves neighbourhood people who are often on some sort of welfare scenario. They are often found buying lottery tickets. I watch her. I watch people. Each time a ticket with carefully chosen magical numbers spews out of the machine, she wishes the recipient an honest "good luck" with an equal smile. I don't know her name.

Nice Lady: Hi!
The Comrade: How are you?
Nice Lady: I'm good today. Yesterday I was sad. Today is much better. How are you?
The Comrade: Your yesterday is my today. I need to go home. And hopefully my tomorrow will be your today.

The Nice Lady offers me an empathic smile.


I'm nursing something. It's not quite a hangover, it's more a hanger-on. Something is being dredged up from my past but I can't put my finger on it. It's on the tip of my tongue, though. Maybe it's not time yet. Maybe too many things have been learned lately. Things take time to digest for there to be more room for a second helping.

My good friend Fatty told me a story about a fine Indian buffet he went to with his family. The food was delicious but like his namesake he'd eaten too much. He excused himself from the table to throw up, just to come back with a rinced mouth and washed hands which carried 2 new heaping plates.


The other day there was a 20˚C variance in temperature. I am tired of winter. I want it to end. Buds are starting to show. Promise. From one crack in my window I heard the sweet honks of our Canadian Geese. Everytime I hear them I have to close my eyes.

Our geese are coming home. A new day. A new season. Another example of how nothing bad ever lasts that long. It's just a season of discontent.

I don't want to throw anything up. I just need to chew slower.