chow

yuko shimizu, 2009

what i would give to live self-sustainably in the mountains!

not that i would enjoy particularly being a hermit, but from experiencing some of the worst of the worst recently, i wouldn't mind moving to a far, far away place, away from human contact. if not just for a little while.

if fortune would be so kind to give me a small farm, a fresh lake in the backyard, some springs and good soil, i wouldn't mind sacrificing everything.

if it weren't for my innocuous debt, i would leave right now, to mexico or france and like a vagrant, live story after story until my breath gives away.

this woman lives this life, somewhat.

flavour of fall

it's autumn. just from this, my heart feels full. days are just cool enough, long enough, to set off waves of nostalgia.

think: sigur ros, spices, fresh breeze, warm scarves, hints of rose in cheeks, steam rising from hot coffee, crisp apples, the "crunch" sounds of dry leaves. every year, the feeling is the same.

spent too much precious time earlier people-watching diners. to me, there's something about a person dining that is bewitching, enchanting. solemn faces, quietly masticating morsels of food gathered quaintly on the edges of a sharp, shining utensil sends my brain into a whirr. better yet are the silent diners, eyes glued to a book or newspaper, eyelashes flickering only when turning a page, mouths moving in unison with the rhythm of digestion. lost in stories, in their own worlds, the food becomes second only to the thoughts cling clanging in their mind processes. as if they're only eating to fuel their reading.

how odd that the clamour, heat and frantic in cooking, the disorder and hours taken to turn raw ingredients into a dish, all become condensed into these few moments where the labour is forgotten, nonexistent. what is left is but a few minutes, a few portions of artistic nourishment, where quiet enjoyment is all you can do.

i'm strange, i know.

the summer weather can become suffocating. the sun never sets, the heat, humidity and continuous brightness makes this neighbourhood shine with a stale stench of smothering.

i quit my job in the best decision ever made. bank account balance is at the negative, but no more job instability, harassment by one manager, deception and annoying repetition. back to square one.

i tell my nagging ego that i'll find one before september. the job market for writers is few and ruthless, if even, nonexistent. there are more times when i find myself counting every penny and realizing the loss of money as a tremendous sadness. since when did money become such a source of grief?

feeling bleak. it's being not ready to move on, or desiring to, and laying in one ambiguous cesspool of uncertainty. ambiguity is cowardice, so says my mother, and uncertainty over a passion you desire more than anything will make one depressed.

signs are calling for giving it up, a compromise, a renegotiation with my ego to accept something less, something without.

july thought trains

- running out of funds. wondering if august rent can be made.

- watching cats play battle for ultimate litter box access. every day, every night, never boring.

- garbage dirties city streets. bitter unions ruin urban landscape, over a difference of petty 2% in salaries. what assholes we can be.

- hot sun tans skin into golden brown. cancer, sun damage, aging looms.

- peonies by the sunset. harbourfront dance fests. fireworks. plump pretty girls. cute boys. re-evaluating friendships and learning to let go. finding comfort in loyalty.

- days end late. nights later. purple skies and new hidden discoveries (ie - kane park on wellesley). finding fear of quiet nights in a proudly loud city.

- nico muhly and letter-writing. teaching my cats to laugh. chirping, they sound like birds.

recently i am

sighing more
drinking more
panicking more
eating more
spending more

wishing i had the means to take a year off, in the middle of nowhere near a desert, smoke and drink to the heart's content and live like young vagabonds have always done before the industrial age. dancing near rocky mountains, gulping down soda and a piece of a glacier while a heathen fire burns on, warming naked skin.

Easter is coming soon. Already I'm hoarding pounds of chocolate eggs in a subconscious effort to validate my separation with childhood.

I have responsibilities. But no job, no income, no desire to pursue what I'm supposed to be pursuing and a deadline of under three weeks.

So, chocolate. And more chocolate. Things become bearable with high concentrations of butterfat and refined sugar. Obesity and diabetes are but a scurf of the future.