Cannibal Heart

 I have been neglecting this medium, recently, partly out of disinterest and partly because - as I explained to David, my one faithful reader, on Friday night - sometimes I feel like it's good to take a break from these things, to go full on off-the-grid Malaysian-plane for a while, so as not to inundate the internet with my woeful and self-serving diatribes. 

Tonight, the moon is a waxing gibbous, with 97% illumination, two days away from being full. It's a good time for new beginnings, to draw things to you with purposeful will and intention. If I didn't think it would make me feel like one of the girls from "The Craft", I might just try to cast a spell. As it is, I guess some sort of a blog post will serve as my evening ritual.

I've been thinking a lot today about the "hook up culture", aka "modern dating", and moreover, the fact that I am completely and totally inept at it. Well, okay. That's not entirely true. I'm not inept at attempting to do it, during the beginning, dizzying stages of flirting. However, I consistently fail, after the hooking up is done, to view the whole thing in the detached, laissez faire manner required to play this game with any skill. In fact, time and again, I am reminded that I "can't take these things so seriously", that there is something fundamentally wrong with me for seeing the men with whom I become romantically-involved as actual human beings, with complex emotions and interests and feelings, or for expecting these men to view ME in the same way - or indeed, to view me as anything more than, (to quote my brilliant friend, Christina's, phrase), "the headless torso".

Speaking of disembodied torsos: I was watching a Jeffrey Dahmer biography just the other day, as I am wont to do from time to time.  In his prison interviews, he discussed his grisly crimes and the complex reasons behind them. It turns out that, deep down, poor old Jeff was really lonely. Unable to deal with his dark fantasies and unwilling to talk to anyone about them, he became a full-blown alcoholic by the time he was fourteen. Later, when the killings began, he kept parts of his victims, and in some cases, ate them, because he just wanted to feel close to them, or to keep them with him, somehow.... Now, I am certainly not implying that I've any intention of turning into a cannibal serial killer to keep my dates around. Anyone who knows me knows that I hate cooking. And yet, I found something inherently-relatable, something pitiably-human, in the words of this inhuman monster. I think all of us have a desire for lasting emotional closeness with others. So why is it that the modern hook-up culture is geared to provide us with the complete opposite of that?

 In much the same way as we can obtain anything now from the comfort of our own homes, without having to attend to pesky little chores like getting dressed or showering, the current internet-driven dating world means that we can order up human interaction, quasi-romance, flirtation and sexual encounters with a few clicks of a mouse or taps of a phone screen. Maybe I'll spend a while perusing your gratuitous profile pics, and if I think your cleavage looks half-decent, I'll  "poke" you. Maybe, if I could picture you on top of me after a few beer, I'll swipe right. While I'm shopping on ebay or etsy, while I'm buying tickets to some concert online, I'm also ordering up another person's attention and affection. Click to add to cart. Instant gratification. Buy now. Winky-face emojis and, if I'm lucky, some sort of half-clothed bathroom selfies. Maybe a dick pic. When are we meeting up, BB? What can you do for ME, babe?  Where dem titties at?? ;) :D xoxox <3 <3 Lolz.

Now, I can usually get into this first part with comparative ease. Being fiercely-communicative by nature,  I revel in these connections, friendships or faux-romances.  I start out playing the game with flair and a certain calculated grace, born of age and assumed wisdom. But somewhere along the way, usually before the actual physical meeting takes place, something goes terribly, irreversibly wrong. I start to take the xoxo's to heart; I start to assume that sentiments of affection actually mean that the person might feel in some way affectionate toward me. I begin to assume that, because the guy stays up till all hours of the night chatting with me about all manner of things, that he actually enjoys talking to me. 

In that twisted, delusional manner that characterizes my M.O., I begin to really treasure getting to know this person, learning all about his life and his own unique set of interests, fears and hopes for the future. And, most horrific of all: I begin to think that he also thinks I'm some kind of unique snowflake, and that this whole thing is just as emotionally-gratifying a process for him, too.  Intellectually, I know that he's got four other chat windows open, that this ain't his first rodeo, either, that he sails with dogged assurance through the pantomime of "getting to know you", secure in the knowledge that soon, he will be able to put his penis in my vagina... And yet, that one deranged part of me, that Dahmer-esque hunger for human connection, overrides all sense of reality, of right or wrong, and I think, "Yup. This time, this is gonna work."

Like all true psychopaths, after awhile, I get too confident and I get found out. My hideous crimes are uncovered after the eventual in-person meeting, the awkward sexual encounter, the hungover-yet-hopeful brunch. This is the point, according to modern dictates of good taste, at which the transaction is finished. The two participants now accordingly return to their own lives and computer screens, to peruse what new items are available for acquisition. It is only the true crazies of the world who still want to stay in touch, who wish that that person could have stuck around for maybe another brunch or two, who spend days, weeks, months even, rereading the conversations and words exchanged, maybe listening to a song or songs that were discussed at some length, cherishing these macabre souvenirs, locking them away in dark closets of the mind. 

I never meant to hurt anyone. I just wanted to keep them with me. I hid it well, at first, and you never knew, because I seemed like such a nice girl.

Not Waving But Drowning - Stevie Smith

Nobody heard him, the dead man,   

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought   

And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking,

And now he’s dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,   

They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always   

(Still the dead one lay moaning)   

I was much too far out all my life   

And not waving but drowning.

Mythology

Despite my best efforts to actually do something productive with my evenings, the past few days have been insanely busy and draining at work, causing me to desire nothing more after 5 p.m. than to curl up with my cat, Lola, watch some sort of true crime documentary or series on Netflix, and write - poetry, clumsy attempts at music, or this silly blog. 

I have been struggling lately, because there is someone who still haunts me. I had grown terribly accustomed to communicating with this person, particularly in the evenings. We do not talk now. I miss our long, involved conversations about all manner of topics, both sublime and ridiculous. I miss the way he made me feel. I suppose it is of my own volition, and the fact that I cared too much, and cared even more when he didn't, that we currently do not or cannot talk to one another. Still, I almost always feel this tiny void in my heart that must needs be filled with words, even if they are only words to myself.

Lately, I've been feeling very drawn to a place close to my house, a marshland nature sanctuary called Swan Lake. I've spent my whole life around or near it. My childhood home, in which I lived for 26 years, was only about a five minute drive from the lake, and my current abode is just about the same distance away. Now, as an adult, I find it a wonderful solace to hike the trails and wander through the changing topography of the area, hearing the strange cries of the birds and the soft scuttling of things unseen in the tall, dry grass.

This peculiar little place, a combination of marshlands and forested cliffs, was once the property of the Girling family, who emigrated to Canada from England in 1912. I recently found some whimsical and haunting old photos taken by one of the Girling daughters, of life at the lake. (Forgive my inability to figure out how to link directly to things, just yet):

http://www.saanich.ca/discover/artsheritagearc/saanicharchives/exhibits/girling/girling_swanlake.htm

From the 1950's onward, Swan Lake became a dumping ground for sewage runoff. The ecosystem was nearly destroyed by pollution, until the city stepped in in 1975 and, through ardent recovery efforts, restored the lake and its surroundings as a protected nature sanctuary.

When I was a child, walking around Swan Lake with my Dad was an afternoon of free entertainment, a chance to play, to feed the imperious white swans and squabbling mallard ducks while standing on the rickety floating bridge that crosses the lake, and to be carried away by my father's fantastical stories.

For all his unassuming demeanor and quiet simplicity, and although he would never admit it, much less even realize it himself, my father is truly possessed of one of the most creative minds for storytelling I have ever encountered. As a child, I delighted in his bedtime stories, which he always came up with on the spot. He would perch on the edge of the bed, and I'd laugh as the whole side of the mattress would sink down with his weight, a fact that I'd always gleefully point out to him. He invented a host of characters in these evening tales, many of whom recurred in the story lines: "Pooh-Pooh Barry", the petulant child who refused to eat his vegetables or do anything his parents asked him to do; or The Rangers, a gang of kids living in Arizona in the Old West, who spent their time building a clubhouse and committing anonymous, random acts of kindness toward strangers and passers by. 

Dad's stories at Swan Lake took on an even more magical element. As we passed boulders, grottos, small caves where muskrat lived and twisted old tree stumps, he wove a complete history and mythology of the place to rival Tolkien in its detail. The Witches' Den... Listening Rock... The Hallway of Trees. Our walks came alive with the tales my father stitched together with the delicate spider's thread of imagination, stretched over the framework of the natural scenery.

Once, upon arriving at the lake, we encountered three police cars and an ambulance in the parking lot. We were told that we could not go down onto the floating bridge, since a man had drowned in the lake, and a "recovery effort" was in place. My Dad told me, when I continued to pester him, that the bottom of the lake was a tangled jungle of murky weeds, and that it was deeper than anyone realized, and that sometimes, people didn't come back up.

 I never found out if they found that man, but even to this day, when I walk along the floating bridge and toss handfuls of seeds to the bossy little mallards, I stare down into the deep bottle green water, and imagine blanched bones entangled silently in the eternal, jealous embrace of the weeds.

Stef's Super-Dramatic Teenage Poetry Corner - Episode 1

I used to write poetry all the time, to the exclusion of all else. I occasionally like to share some of it, sometimes because I'm proud of it, or because it's funny or sad, or just so that I don't lose it as I go through life and gradually misplace papers. So here's one from 17 year-old Stef:

 The Dryad Speaks  (1997)

Autumn at last,

And painfully so.

There is no way to pretend August anymore.

 Summer's vintage has ceased

To flow through the oak leaves -

Already they calculate their deaths,

Adorning themselves in crimson and gold

For the grand funerals

Of November.

Old - I am old,

Yet I cower 

As a dwarfed tree in the shadows,

Afraid to count my rings.

I remember days

When every green was an emerald - 

But you hang in my heart

Like a spider,

Snaring spindly-legged, frantic dreams,

Draining them of life.

When will the screaming saws

Spill my amber blood,

To make room

For a child's garden?

After awhile,

We cannot help but notice

The change in the light.

Hot Mess Express

Since I seem to be wrong about most things in life, these days, it should come as no surprise that the AGALLOCH show last night was totally enjoyable and a great deal of fun. Contrary to what I had expected, the energy was high, the music was completely engrossing and the crowd was surprisingly jovial and friendly. I ran into a lot of familiar faces, and Curtis and I spent the night hopping between the show, and, during the breaks, descending the stairs into the neon-lit gay bar next door, to chug back rum and Cokes and chat with congenial drag queens about their fabulous platform heels. 

I vaguely remember other events, after the show: sitting at the bar in the Bard & Banker and ordering four rum and Cokes at once, for "efficiency", and greedily gobbling down the cardboard-covered-in-cheese atrocity known as Second Slice pizza, before stumbling into a cab. I seem to also recall a terribly animated conversation with the cab driver, in which I insisted that he looked just like a Bollywood star, and sang for him, at top volume, the Ware Guru chant played at every Sikh funeral. 

Of course, today I am paying for last night's indulgences, as I've been nursing an appropriately-epic sized hangover for most of the day.

 Curtis, who has himself dealt with his fair share of problems as of late, leading to his own isolating tendencies, expressed great relief at the fact that he had gotten out last night and actually had a pretty entertaining time. I myself was pretty impressed by how quickly I transitioned back into the world of socialization. I guess I'm not such a hermit, after all. 

KVLT Classic

Yesterday, after days and days of stuffy weather, the clouds settled over the city like the feathery hind-ends of concerned grey hens, and the rain began to descend once more. This blessed relief was short-lived, however, since today has been another bright, blazing one. Still, I suppose that onto every life, a little sun must fall.

It's interesting that the weather changed yesterday, since it was also the day on which I decided that I too need to change the way in which I've been behaving and interacting with others.

 In an effort to not sit around tonight and mull obsessively over my various mistakes and shortcomings, I'm busting out my indestructible steel toe boots (for which I spent nearly $200 back in 1996, but who's laughing NOW, mom?), and heading out to see the AGALLOCH show with Curtis. This is pretty big for me, since it's going to involve interacting with other members of the human race - albeit, said humans will be comprised of a crowd of skulking black metal fans with hoodies pulled solemnly over their heads. Interaction, in fact, will be blessedly minimal.

It's vitally important at this type of event to appear as completely disinterested as possible. Woe betide you if you have too enthusiastic a conversation with anyone. And cracking a smile is pretty much social suicide. Instead, it is highly recommended that you stand in a slouchy position and stare straight ahead with detached apathy, pretending that some kind of esoteric meaning exists behind ad nauseum, doomy 6/8 ballads with an occasional Augmented 2nd for extra witchy appeal, because no one has EVER done that before.

 If you're a female black metal fan at one of these shows, you have the added advantage of being basically a unicorn. You get to perch somewhere at the back of the room like an Abyssinian cat, surveying the premises with cool detachment and casting looks of disdain at any lowly male who dares attempt to gaze upon your ratty jean vest and the many crudely-stitched patches emblazoned thereon. 

At the very least, I will have fun with my own thoughts. Also, I'm kind of interested in seeing Helen Money perform. And there will be beer. Sweet, sweet beer, nepenthe for all that ails.

Lepidotera: Collection and Analysis

Today, in an email to David, I confessed that, so far, I am quite embarrassed by this new blog. When I scroll through the entries, all I see is a bunch of self-pity, morose ramblings, painful wallowing and what amounts to nothing more than literary masturbation. Had I stumbled upon this page myself, I would have probably assumed that a chubby, 16 year-old goth kid with smudged eyeliner was writing it, while dripping candle wax on her pudgy arms and listening to Blood on the Dance Floor in her parents' basement, because they just, like, totally don't GET it, man.

I guess I don't often realize how unhappy I am until I read the words that I write. Perhaps that is why I finally decided to take up this silly pursuit, again. I figured it might be "therapeutic", or something. So far, it's at least prevented me from posting a series of cryptic, sad facebook status updates, a benefit for which I'm certain all of my online "friends" are deeply grateful.

Writing this has also, at the very least, allowed me to harness and contain some of the nebulous emotions and thoughts that swirl around me, and to view them in some finite, objective form, like tattered butterflies encased under glass. I suppose now it is time to ask: What are these strange specimens? Where did they come from? And what can be done about them?

First of all, it's not like I don't come by this shit honestly. A history of depression and mood disorders exists in spades on both sides of my family. (A favourite tale from the Russian side of the family recounts the marriage of my loony-tunes great-great grandmother, Luba, who, despite her obvious mental imbalance, was nevertheless wifed up by my hapless great-great grandpa because she was by far the most talented singer in their village). The many tangled roots that nourish my family tree prove that I didn't have a fighting chance at contentment to begin with. When this familial history is combined with my naturally-solemn and somewhat morbid nature, you have what is often referred to as "the perfect storm".

As of late, many external factors have also exacerbated my dysthemia. Firstly, as mentioned in a previous entry, I have had, with the exception of a few totally uncharacteristic moments throughout my life,  absolutely the worst luck in matters of the heart. This is likely to do with an acrid cocktail of my own devising, a recipe perfected through years of practice: Take two parts epic and poetic heart, (ruined forever for the cold practicality of the modern hookup culture by too many late nights, pouring over the wisteria-covered writings of Tennyson, the Brownings and of course, Poe);  add one part ill-advised interest in and susceptibility to emotionally or geographically-unavailable men who are fluent in the rhetoric of seduction; stir in a generous mixture of bitterness, borne of many failed attempts to find poetry in the hearts of the crude and uncaring; add a dash of self-esteem issues, and mmm-mmm! THAT'S the flavour of failure!

Now, many people are quick to pipe up and say, "Wait just a minute, now, Steph. THERE'S your problem. You're looking to SOMEONE ELSE to make you happy. You need to find happiness WITHIN YOURSELF, girl!" And to these well-meaning, armchair therapists, I say, "Piss right off and cut the bullshit."  

Yes, of course it would be ideal if we all loved ourselves and reveled in the ecstatic joy that was our own weird company forever, but I don't think that the wedding industry continues to boom, or that online dating sites continue to thrive, because everyone is so totally happy being by themselves. Whether driven by a desire for a fairytale ending, or merely by the need to stick a body part into another body part, we structure everything that we do around the attraction and pursuit of others. Anyone who denies that is simply denying a fundamental part of nature. Life has a desperate need to perpetuate itself, and humans are not inherently solitary creatures. I am actually a little tired of being made to feel like I am of a weaker character or constitution because I crave companionship and am not ashamed to admit that. 

While we're on the topic of finding happiness within ourselves: It's always fun to ask anyone who hands you that little nugget of wisdom exactly HOW you are supposed to go about doing this. Where does happiness exist in ourselves? Is it some sort of sub-organ, hiding just behind the pancreas or spleen? Does it show up like a freckle on your skin if you spend enough time in the sun? Any time I've ever posed this challenge to someone telling me to "look inside myself for happiness", ((and usually, it's some university-accredited therapist with a smugly-framed diploma on the wall of their office, hung next to a watercolor painting of orcas)), this expert will smile benignly, heave a small, pitying sigh, and softly say, "When you find it, you'll know. You'll just... know. Here. Pick a card out of this bowl of daily affirmations." The only thing I can affirm, after any encounter like this, is that I've just spent $150 to have some quinoa-munching crackpot tell me that they really know nothing more than anything I could have learned on Dr Phil, and are laughing all the way to the bank with my cheque.

Someone once told me, "If you change one thing, you change everything." With this in mind, I really think my doldrums as of late are the result of desperately needing a major change. And I'm not talking about switching to Diet Pepsi instead of Coke, or taking a wok cooking class. I'm thinking something huge, something that completely shakes up my routine. More and more, I've had a desire to simply pick up and leave this godforsaken tea-and-tweed town, to run away, to start again in a city that's big, vibrant, alive. I've always been so scared of drastic changes, but maybe this is why nothing is changing at all.

Eulogy

Sometimes, you are forced to come to the realization that what you want from someone is never what they can give to you. It can be a brutal awakening, to be sure. In my case, I have spent the past two months of my life on a bit of a rollercoaster of my own engineering, hoping that someone who doesn't even live in the same geographic location as me can care about me more than as a friend.

 After two months of back and forth, some intense conversations, some vehement arguments, tears on my part, facebook deletions, reconciliations, a tumultuous, dizzying meeting, and a night together, all I am left with is more confusion, uneasy half-truths and the nagging feeling of being yesterday's news. I adored this boy, but he was always a dead end that I tried to turn into a highway. And when something's dead, it's time to bury it.

Hermitage

I've pretty much always known that I was a total fucking weirdo. As far back as I can remember, I've been a peculiar, melancholy and introspective soul, with little care for the lighthearted diversions regularly enjoyed by most members of the human race. Perhaps part of it has to do with my being, for all intents and purposes,an only child. (My two half-brothers, aged fourteen and thirteen at the time of my birth, did not live with us, and while they did share in some of the responsibility of babysitting and entertaining me, from time to time, I certainly could not count them as close playmates).

 My parents report various scenarios, from infancy onward, which raised a few eyebrows in the household. The new baby, it seemed, was fussy and cried often, seemingly for no reason. When placed into her Jolly Jumper - the swing that was all the rage for babies in the 1980s - the child appeared neither interested in jumping nor in any way jolly at the prospect of doing so. Noting the look of concern on Mother's face, the baby seemed to make a few halfhearted attempts to generate some sort of motion from the springy swing, before heaving a sigh of despair and hanging motionlessly from the harness, head lolled listlessly to one side. Mother remarked that perhaps the child might be touched in the head.

 While other new parents boasted that their toddlers were eagerly pulling themselves up to standing positions on furniture and teetering around living rooms on excited little legs as soon as they could, Ken and Virginia's baby was content to crawl, staring solemnly at her fellow, active infants with chagrin. Happy as little birds, the bubbly infants teetered with dizzy joy through kitchens and down hallways, chirping their nonsensical baby sounds. Ken and Virginia's child, with eyes so dark that they often appeared to be jet black, crawled with appropriate solemnity after them, pointing with grave concern at the electrical sockets in the walls, and saying, "Don't touch. Don't touch." Indeed, for her complete and total apathy toward physical pursuits, the baby more than outshone her infant peers in speech and cognitive development, articulating sentences from the time she was six months old and reading Dr. Seuss before she attended Kindergarten. 

Always feeling different, and knowing intrinsically that I was, has been both a blessing and a curse. I spent a lot of my late childhood and early teen years trying desperately to be the same as other people, to ingratiate myself with people who seemed to light up the world with their bright, fierce smiles and fearless senses of self. The trouble was, the things that I thought ought to impress others were mostly considered puzzling and "creepy".  Apparently, reciting "The Raven" in its entirety, by heart, to one's grade 8 cooking class partner, was less a way to make friends and more a way to elicit blank or concerned stares.

At this point in my life, four months into my thirty-fifth year, I am more keenly aware than ever that I am not like the other kids. With this awareness comes a crushing sense of loneliness that follows me throughout my days. I feel literally haunted by old memories, by times when I almost sort of kind of achieved a sense of normalcy. I move mechanically through work days at the funeral home, attempting to lose myself in the minutae of paperwork, or in the epic moments of grief that I witness every day. When 5 o'clock comes, I can hardly wait to return home and sleep. Sometimes, I'll sleep from 6 p.m. until the following morning, and still find that I have to drag myself out of bed to make it to work on time. The weekends, of course, are the worst. There are many in which I only leave the house to buy wine. I drink alone, and the warmth of this elixir envelops me, tells me that I'm okay, that I won't die alone, because at least it's there.

Now, don't get me wrong - I've been lucky enough, as I've traveled through the years, to find a few like-minded and kindred spirits. I have collected, like perfect, prized seashells, a handful of precious friends, to whom I am ever indebted for their humor, patience and good grace. I have even had the good fortune to have been in love, and to be loved in return. But still, the loneliness that hung over my cradle from birth continues to drape itself over me like a heavy, muslin curtain.

 Maybe it is the way in which I live now - alone, chronically-single, in an old apartment, preferring my own company as opposed to the effort it takes to get dressed up, to go out, to "network". Maybe it also has something to do with my total apathy for this quaint, yet sleepy little town. Or maybe it's just that many of my friends are all grown up now and have moved onto the next phase in their lives - marriage, children, real estate, RSPs. Just like taking those delirious first steps as a toddler, they have hurried toward these new, shining milestones, while I, as the grown up version of Baby Stephanie, have simply crawled cautiously along beside them, seeing only the dangers along the way.

I try as best I can to not feel sad about the way things turned out for me. After all, we are all the sum of our experiences, and we create our own realities through our decisions. I suspect that I have never wanted to achieve the things that other people do, but for some reason, I have a difficult time accepting that. I am saddened by the fact that I DON'T want those things, because by not pursuing them, I have carved myself out a strange little hollow of solitude that I must learn to accept.

 I'm not quite sure how it is that I missed the boat on a normal life.. but when I think back on it, I don't think I was anywhere even close to being near the dock to begin with.

Dream House

 Almost every night - and probably because I sleep so deeply - I have a series of intricate, detailed and occasionally disturbing dreams. I'm told that this isn't the norm, and that it's also rare to remember one's nightly visions in any great detail. Still, there aren't many nights that I don't dream, and not many dreams that I don't remember with the clarity of anything that happens during the daylight.

There are a few central, recurring themes in these dreams: Going on stage to perform in a huge auditorium with no chance to even look at the music beforehand; boats sinking, shipwrecks or submergence in water; seeing planes falling out of the sky, and houses. Someone once told me that to dream of a house or other domicile is to dream about your own mind. I do believe this is true. At many points in my life, houses, apartments and other dwellings have figured predominantly in my dreams. There are even a few specific houses or buildings that recur from time to time.

For example, during the worst days of my first major depressive episode in late 1998-early 1999, I regularly dreamed a small, cramped home with tiny rooms, all painted brightly, like Van Gogh paintings. The rooms were dim, with no apparent artificial light sources, but the walls were royal blue, gold, crimson. Each heavy wooden door led into another narrow room. A miniature, technicolor Winchester mansion, there was seemingly no end to the strange little house, despite its restricted dimensions. Some rooms were illuminated by smudgy windows that betrayed a white December sky stretched across the panes. Although I could never find the staircase, I knew that somewhere above me, in the dark, musty attic, the floor was littered with the bodies of dead birds who, exhausted by their frantic efforts to find daylight, had caused their own tiny hearts to burst. I could smell their sweet decay as I pushed my way past rickety wooden chairs and plush footstools, trying to find the door to the outside world.

In recent days, the home that I have been dreaming is a large suite in an old, stately building, in the downtown of a city I have never visited. I am living in this suite alone, but I am very conscious that its previous owner, an elderly woman of certain privilege, died there. In fact, I have left the suite largely as she had it at the time of her passing. I seem to have one main area, in the sitting room, in which I spend the majority of my time. I avoid the rest of the house, which is still decorated with an assortment of strange items and bric-a-brac belonging to the dead woman: yellowing doilies, dolls with glass eyes and bland, powder-white faces, delicate perfume atomizers and chipped Royal Doulton figurines. The old woman's furniture and brass bed are still where they were when she was carried away, and the bed is still made, with her white lace comforter folded daintily on top. I do not sleep in it.

There is no apparent reason why I cannot move these old relics, toss them away and make the place into something new. For some reason, though, I just "haven't gotten round to it". Not only that, but it seems that I haven't gotten round to looking at the place much at all. When I do venture into other parts of the suite, which isn't often, I find rooms that I never knew existed, spacious chambers decorated sparsely with only a few pieces of furniture. But again, somehow there isn't time to change it all. It feels better and infinitely easier to stay in my own little corner, disturbing nothing, and avoiding the blank stares of the porcelain dolls.

While both of these dream houses are different, they share several similarities of note. Firstly, the presence of clutter in some form, things that litter the dream landscape, that are in the way but have always been there. And of course, the idea of spaces that have yet to be discovered, rooms that lead into other rooms, a sense of infinite chambers with no certain end, is always the same.

 I suppose that, in the first house, I am trying desperately to get out, to find a way through the labyrinthine floor plan to the world outside. In the old woman's suite, I prefer to stay put, to not explore or disturb, to live as unobtrusively as I can in an unfamiliar space.

 Perhaps this is the difference of nearly twenty years: As we get older, we stop struggling like panicked, trapped birds, against the bizarre confines of our minds, and learn instead that we can survive if we quietly endure the space in which we find ourselves, leaving things we can't bear to face lying undisturbed in the shadows.

The Homecoming

In the long-bygone year of 2004 - a year in which I lived in my parents' basement, a perpetually-infected spiked nose ring adorning my face as I listened to Skinny Puppy on a discman and made weird collages to impress a guy in a black metal band - I started something called a 'blog'. Indeed, in this near-prehistoric time, well before the phenomena of Instagram, facebook, twitter, or even myspace were more than flashes of binary code in the minds of their crafty creators - when Missy Elliot was asking us all if, indeed, it WAS worth it, were she to work it - two whole years, even, before JT brought sexy back..perhaps, before sexy even LEFT, ((several reliable sources pinpoint sexy's departure as sometime in the early months of 2005)) - the blog reigned supreme as the primary vehicle for self-promotion and the creation of a virtual image on the internet. Not only that though, the blogosphere offered the catharsis of self-reflection, of potentially-obsessive navel-gazing, and in my case, it became the main outlet into which I poured a surfeit of childish hopes, morose musings and brutally-raw heartaches.

It started out as a lark; something to appease a friend who had recommended that I try my hand at it. I was of course no stranger to the art of self-analysis. I had pretty much always kept a journal; in fact, my former paper journal, a formidable, giant black binder encompassing every painful and irrelevant moment of my life from 1993-2002, inclusive, languishes even now under my bed, solemnly and slowly collecting dust. Once I embraced the digitized version of "dear diary", I found that I took to it with surprising alacrity and unbridled enthusiasm. Not only that, I developed a small yet appreciative readership and made some friends through livejournal who are still in my life today, including a fellow Doukhobor with whom it turned out I had a familial connection that went back several generations.

A fairly serious mental health crisis in the years 2008-09 rendered me virtually-unable to write and reflect, and my old livejournal fell into disuse. I still go back to look at it from time to time, which is a sensation akin to purusing photos of the dilapidated ferris wheel in the abandoned city of Pripyat - fascination, and a certain amount of horror. Recently,  I was shocked and terribly flattered to learn that an old friend, who himself has now taken up blogging, still revisits the wasteland that is my livejournal, still reads it for inspiration in his own writing. (You can visit his offerings and sardonic yet hilarious commentary about the many things he hates here:  https://crimsonhighway.wordpress.com)
 He has repeatedly goaded me to begin writing again. And thus, here we are.

 Bring back the totally unfashionable and tedious art of the blog, I say! Too long have we languished in the shallow cesspools of social media. The sincerity of true introspection and thoughtful prose has given way to the glaring megalomania of the profile pic, the hashtag, the tweet. It's so much easier and more efficient for us to consume each other, now; only now, there is even less substance for us to actually consume. It passes right through us, this slurry of snapchats and selfies, offering little in the way of intellectual or spiritual nourishment. And while I can't promise that reading this is going to provide anyone with their recommended daily  intake of vitamins and minerals, I can at least guarantee that writing it is going to be a great outlet for the constant, swirling vortex of thoughts that rattle around in my head on a daily basis.

 Like an old, sea-weary salmon, I shall return to my source, struggling upstream against the current to conceive something of myself, before it's too late. And like Missy Elliot, I'm going to put my thing down. Maybe I'll even flip it and reverse it.

 I'm probably going to write a lot of silly stuff, and a lot of sad stuff, and a lot of stuff that no one wants to read, but at least I'm going to write it for me.

At last, and again, a chance to say nothing about something, instead of merely something about nothing.