19 November 2004


What does one blog about when so much is happening that one can't reveal for fear that the wrong person reads the blog?

That makes life difficult. Especially when one has spent the better part of the past few weeks thinking about, talking to, and spending time with said person.

At least I can say that, mentally, life is exciting.

Excitement of the week: Went to w/v to visit Robyn & Kurt. Had an awesome day of cheese, beer, and (best ever!), Quantum Leap. Found season 1 on DVD. Watched pilot. Happiness and bliss.

I've been back teaching in the past couple of weeks. My other job stopped (sadly) and I needed another way to pay back my loans. Of course, teaching is what I spent the big bucks to be able to do, but I really like that Events stuff. I'm on contract now to do some research stuff. But I don't know what will happen after Christmas. I do know that I need the money, though.

The teaching is generally going well. It makes me tired in a way that officework doesn't. And I get so tired of yelling. But I do like the kids. They're great. Even the ones I don't like aren't terrible. Actually, I find it hard to say that I dislike any of them, really.

In other news, I'm sort of writing again. My last post was an example that no one really seemed interested in. But I also found a story that I started a few years ago. 2001, I think. I wrote about 18 pages, and when I read it, it wasn't crap. I also had Foo look over it, and she agreed. She suggested some changes, which I agree with. Since then, ideas have been popping into my brain. But, as usual, not chronologically, and not when I have the opportunity to actually work on the story. So I now have 2 pages of disjointed notes. Once again, if I could write by osmosis, my life would be easier. Maybe not osmosis, but something that arranged the words on the page as I thought them. I could have written entire novels by now!

I've decided to encourage reader feedback. Dear reader, if you could do anything in the world, what would it be? My clever response would be Philanthropist, because, in order to always be giving money away, I would have to have a TON, and I'd be able to fulfill all my other dreams, too. Alternatively, and on a slightly smaller scale, I'd like to find a way to make people happy. Hmm. Maybe that's not so small after all.

05 November 2004


I remember that poem I wrote when I was pissed off. No. In love. I thought I was in love. I wanted so badly to be in love that I wanted to write a poem about it. I wanted to be mysterious. I wanted you to wonder what I was doing.

It worked. I left a message just cyptic enough to get your attention. You bit, which is what I wanted. Later I wanted you to be pissed off. But at the time, I just wanted you to want me. That worked too. For a while.

Meeting you was like meeting the part of me that I always wanted to fight with. Only, instead of fighting, I wanted to make peace. I so desperately wanted to put that part of me to rest. So I dived right in.

Do you remember when we met? I do, but just barely. I remember looking at your friend that night, and thinking, "How old is he? Is he younger? He must be younger." But he's not the one who invited me out. You were.

Then there was that song. It haunted me. But it wasn't the song, it was you singing the song. You wanted me to like the song. Even though I'm not sure I heard the words.

I took a chance.

You were the only person who saw that poem. You asked me to write out a copy after I e-mailed it to you. I lost it, and now that one piece of me is floating out there in your world. I'll never get it back.

Remember when we'd go for coffee? We'd sit in that Tim Horton's for hours. I think maybe you talked more than me. You liked to talk. You liked to hook people. I remember how it made me feel like I was special, like you were letting me in on a secret that you only told certain people. Maybe you did. Or maybe that's what you wanted me to believe. And I wanted to believe it too. I wanted to believe that it was all I wanted. So I did.

And that's what landed me here.

03 November 2004

Pop goes the bubble

I find my ebullient mood waning. After a glorious, fun, fantastic, exciting, crazy, wonderful, amazing weekend, I'm just tired.

My brain tells me that this is a temporary feeling that (more than) a little sleep will rectify. My heart is aching.

I'm disappointed with the US election results, as many non-Americans are, but I can't bring myself to be overly heart-sick about it. They made their own bed, and now they have to lie in it, as the expression goes. It's just too bad that they force the rest of us into the same room to listen to them snore.


I had previously written about 20 minutes of stream of consciousness, but it has since all gone missing.

I can't write anymore. It feels futile.