Your Fonder Heart

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

September 2007

A big thanks to everyone who called to comfort me, to calm my nerves and anxiety over the stresses of commencing the 'grand finale'. Had I written this on Tuesday after school, it would have been d r i p p i n g with sarcasm; however, just twenty four hours laser I find myself illuminated.
I thought I needed to be comforted with all the right words, to have someone find a way to tell me that I'd be okay. Nobody's diction was well-selected enough for my likes, though.
The lack of ease - the encounter with reality - shook off my summer skin.

Now I'm back to who I've always been,
sitting on the fence of mediocrity.
I don't need you, although I miss you. That's not changing, I don't need to justify the devoid feeling you've left me with, but we'll be back to how we were before long. And I sure as hell don't need you. I'm bigger than that, I'm my mother's daughter, through and through, good and bad. Suck it, bitches

A true story

It's happened before, I've lost heart.
Too many critics, there's no room left for true believers these days. Neoclassicist bastards trying to s t a m p my freedom into conformity. I've watched too many lovers' backs when they walked away as I changed yet again. Famous for it's shape-shifting - changing, if you will - are the ever mysterious octopusses. A ten-foot tip to tip octopus can fit into a 2cm diameter hole. Shape changing. These mollusks can change with such freestylin' dexterity because they have no backbone. This is inpiration through self-inflicted ignorance; this is ignorance through a delusive shadow of bliss.

I don't know where this came from.

The last time Kingsley counted his chickens before they hatched, none of them hatched, and he'd already spent two grand betting they would. They say you shouldn't count your chickens before they hatch.

"You know what they say," Kingsley's mother used to tell him. Kingsley knew everything 'they' said (and he was sick of hearing his mother say it too).
She always told him to pee before he left the house. His mother was always trying to kill two birds with one stone - something Kingsley knew a thing or two about (killing birds that was).

Kingsley's mother never had to pee before she left the house - she never left the house. Some say she was an alcoholic, some say she was a nutter. Some other say one shouldn't judge a book by it's cover.

Kingsley was not like his mother, he was more like a shark - he always had to be moving, or else he (felt like he) might die. This family was not a particularly stable one. And nobody knew where Kingsley's father was. Some say he knocked her up and left, some say he was murdered. Some say it was nobodies damned business, it was 1993, single mothers were all the rage. Some say there's nothing right about a boy without a father.

Kingsley's relationship with his mother was what some would call 'rocky at best.' Some say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. It was certainly an indication of what his future relationships with all women would be like (and that's a lot of women). You know what they say about the quiet types...

Kinglsey up and moved to Montreal after high school - he didn't mind the cold - and worked at a sandwich shop (24 BLTs, 19 Club Houses, 16 Montreal Steaks, 14 Tunas, 12 Egg Salads, 9 Salami sandwiches, and 0 peanut butter and jams). He shared an apartment with a man named Stan, 34, Caucasian, balding, single, and definitely a nutter. Some say it takes one to know one.

Kingsley liked that Stan never wanted to grab a beer, watch the game, nor discuss female anatomy. Kingsley preferred to grab a pen, watch the cooking channel, and spoke only when necessary (and to this he did a good job of making sure it happened rarely).

As a young man in a cold French city, Kingsley occupied his time with walks through parks, pretending to browse books in the library when the thermometers froze, and pacing this aquatic sections of several local pet stores. Kingsley loved fish, but Stan's fanatical interest in dissecting small creatures prevented him from having his own aquarium. Not that Kingsley minded, he enjoyed the peace between Stan and himself. Some say an eye for an eye, a cheek for a cheek.

Life went by as such, a blur of fish, sandwiches, and deciduous trees. Kinglsey appreciated the simplicity of his life, not complicated by unnecessary human relationships or oblique hobbies. Unfortunately, things have a way of shaking themselves up.

October 3rd, 1995: Kingsley walks home from work (19 BLTs, 16 Club Houses, 16 Montreal Steaks, 10 Tunas, 8 Egg Salads, 4 Salami sandwiches, and 0 peanut butter and jams). Kingsley takes his time walking home, his mind elsewhere (it really is his favourite week of the year - the leaves are just perfect now). He stops abruptly: his house is on fire. As a matter of fact, so are all his neighbors. The apartment building is engulfed in orange flames and a thick smoke. Some say tragedies like such are diamonds in the rough.

Apparently, Stan had been making a grilled cheese sandwich when he was distracted (it happened easily with Stan) by a lady bug (which is actually a beetle, and only female half the time) on the windowsill. The beetle never stood a chance (nor did the apartment building).

Thus Stan and Kingsley parted ways. Fortunately, it was the beginning of the month, and plenty of apartments were opening up to new renters - and closing just as quickly. Some say money is the root of all evil; and Kingsley sure didn't have much of the former. He happened across a small dig across town (he needed to walk new parks anyway) and found himself moving in the next day (after a night at Dennys', thank God for all night diners!).

As Kingsley preferred not to speak, he didn't mention to his employer that he was moving this particular day. After work (22 BLTs, 21 Club Houses, 16 Montreal Steaks, 13 Tunas, 10 Egg Salads, 7 Salami sandwiches, and 0 peanut butter and jams) Kingsley found himself somewhat distressed by the feeling that all of his life's simplicity was simply slipping away, like it never meant to stay. Some say it's best to play things by ear, but Kingsley was already assuring himself that things would be like they used to before long.

Some say life happens in a New York minute. Until this point, Kingsley had never experienced that. Crossing the street towards his new apartment, Kinglsey tripped over a stray cat (there must be single women in this building, single women had an equal fondness for cats and 'the quiet type', which Kingsley tended to be) and dropped everything he owned. Everything he owned consisted of two books and a fork inside an otherwise empty bird cage atop a wooden kitchen chair. Needless to say, Kingsley's life went tumbling down the sidewalk.

Her name was Clarinet. She said her mother wanted to name her Claire, but her father thought it wasn't nearly unique enough. Then he left her. She wore colours like avocado and taupe, two cardigans at once, and had a tatoo of an owl on the outside of her left leg, just below the knee. Kinglsey hated all the damned nü wave girls who wore leaves dangling from their ears and knit toques and slippers outside, and these were always the ones who fell in love with him. She wore her words with confidence and a smile with self conciousness. Clarinet was single, but it wasn’t her cat.

Kinglsey never got along with girls, let alone felt any interest towards them. But her name was Clarinet, and she still jumped over the cracks in the sidewalk. You know what they say about chickens with their heads cut off, well, Kingsley was headless poultry at this point.

They went to the aquarium together. He liked the sea otters, and she liked the jelly fish. They got coffee. He liked his black, she liked hers cold. Some said no dice for this relationship. It was a friendship, but the kind where they shared a bed and he kissed her eyelids when he woke up before her. Clarinet owned a store (not any particular type, just a store). She sold pens, paper, thesauruses and dictionaries. She believed it was all a person needed in life, to express oneself, and she believed writing was the best way to do so. She didn't believe in Christmas; she believed in words. A deciduous tree grew outside their window.

In the winter it was naked and brown. Where the trunk split into two there remained a bird nest from the sparrows that inhabited the tree in warmer seasons. In the winter Clarinet took pottery classes and Kingsley read every book in his library. In the spring it was full of pink blossoms and birds. In the spring Clarinet and Kingsley took day trips to the lake and rented a lot of videos. In the summer it was green when the sun rose too early and it was green when the sun set too early. In the summer Clarinet had Jeff work at the store so she could drive to all the thrift stores and garage sales in a fifty mile radius around Montreal, looking for old used dictionaries and thesauruses and books. Kingsley still made sandwiches, but Clarinet was the only person who had ever ordered a peanut butter and jam sandwich. In the autumn the leaves fell. They were red, they were orange, they were yellow and gold and copper. Then they were brown. This was Kingsley's favourite time of year, but Clarinet said the tree was sexy all year round. In autumn they would try cooking new things and going dancing on Sunday nights.

In one year, Clarinet learned how to make bowls, how to knit (Kinglsey had quite the collection of cardigans after this), how to cook, and how to tango. Kinglsey still made sandwhiches, and Clarinet was the only person who ever ordered a peanut butter and jam. Some say nothing is certain but death and taxes, but it was certain that Kinglsey would remain stationery while Clarinet changed like the seasons.

The nice thing about seasons is that they always come back. Clarinet never left.

Alanna's insecurity

How does one measure the weight of their boots?
Our feet are measured in length by the length of the last, measured in inches, multiplied by 3 and minus a constant, which further differs for men's shoes, women's shoes, and children's shoes, and which nation you are buying shoes from. This is rather complex.
Further yet, how is length measured? Inches, yards, feet, miles. Milimeters, centimeters, meters, kilometers. Nanometers? Micron, ångström. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries. Light-years.
How do we decide what we measure in length, and furthermore, what unit we use to measure it?
I've decided to measure the weight of my boots in length, because of the seemingly endless opportunities for variation.

My boots are heavy because of the distance between happiness and now.

Extremely Loud

I am not a yes or no answer person. I wear very heavy boots, even in my sleep. I am not a happy person, nor a sad person. I am too intense too often, and my emotions are not forecastable. Surprises are really awesome. I feel like floating when I take walks under deciduous trees, because as Peter Im said so himself that they are sexy at all times of the year. I like to see them, to write under them or in them or about them, to photograph them, and to sit or walk or nap around them. Trees make my world a better place. My disillusioned world. Mine.



I will not live your rectilinear text book life. I will not go to your prom to have your perfect end to your perfect high school years. I will not enjoy the high school feeling of the local college, attending classes with all my friends, spending my free time with all my friends.
Friends change faster than the seasons, but at least the seasons always change back.


When I judge you, it's not based on what car you drive. I didn't see you pull in. I didn't hear the tunes blaring from your pimped speakers. I didn't see you strolling in your pimp sneakers. I don't know where you got your shirt, nor do I care to know how much you paid for it. Your hair looks fine, I wouldn't notice if it didn't. I'll judge you when you open your mouth. Do you speak your mind, do you have any of your own thoughts to speak, do you believe, do you sympathize, do you think objectively and admit when you are wrong and try to be a better person each time you screw up, do you wait, do you change the world, do you change your view, do you hurt, do you heal, do you fly, do you drag along the bottom until the heat from the Earth is too great and your skin begins to melt and your hair smells like it's burning and you scream but you're too far down to be heard? Do you try?


Do you know if you've misplaced a certain personal belonging?
Perhaps, true love?

Inspired (july19, 2007)

You are solid gold.
I want to climb trees, to inspire you, to cry over a movie, to have someone to direct these feelings toward. to listen to the weepies, to feel like I used to about damien rice, to quit my job and love nomadic, to share my life of love, to read to you, to sleep in the sun, and to express. I'd like to watch a sunrise and feel good about it, to not watch the time or watch the door.

i am drinking coffee, it's raining, i'm reading, and listening
to my monthly playlist. i put down my book because i'm not following it,
because i'm thinking of you. you're too fantastic
("Don't be so amazing or I'll miss you too much." -Lime Tree; Bright Eyes)
you're beautiful, poetic, romantic, cliche, charming, endearing,
vivacious, synthetic, translucent, humorous, light hearted, senile,
oblique, and i want you to be all mine all mine all mine all mine.
not even all mine, i'd share you, just mine when you can be.
that's what i thought about in a cup of coffee.

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