Beautiful Cynicism III

Je ne vois plus d’oiseaux, ni du soleil, depuis ma poste dans ce couloir. Un couloir baigné de lumière fluorescente. Je me suis installée à la place désigné au plein milieu du couloir. D’ici je vois tout, bien qu’il n’y a rien à voir. Il n’y a personne, sauf quelques professeurs ennuyés et quelques gardiens errants. Et la jeune dame qui fait le tour du campus. Elle se promène partout et nulle part, ses mains remplies de papiers, ses pas plein d’urgence. Elle a l’air importante. Est-elle importante? Personne ne le sait. Mais on la voit marcher, marcher sans cesse. J’attends. Je passe des heures en attente. De quoi, me demande-t-on? Un peu d’activité. Sinon, je me contenterai d’une petite geste ou d’un sourire gentil.

Il y a des gens qui éclatent de lumière, dans lesquels la lumière bouge, danse, scintille. Des âmes radieuses. Voilà un garçon. Ses yeux sont bleus, mais pas le bleu riche de l’été – plutôt le bleu pâle de l’hiver: limpide, lumineux. Il y a un clarté presque effrayant dans ses yeux, tel que son regard est sérieux. Pourtant, ils sont plein de curiosité et de douceur, ces yeux. Ils révèlent une fragilité et une tendresse peu communs. Quand il vient m’interroger, il me regarde avec une intensité dévastatrice. Pendant ces instants, son regard m’appartient. Pendant ces instants, toute son attention m’appartient. Pendant ces instants, je ne peux regarder qu’à lui, ne peux me concentrer que sur lui. Un garçon, un étranger. Mais pendant ces instants, il m’appartient, et je lui appartient. La durée d’une conversation, la durée d’une éternité: c’est pareil.

On se demande ce qu’il y a d’important dans la vie. Et on répond par la bouche: l’amour, la famille, la charité. Puis on répond par nos actions: une piscine, une villa en Espagne, une télévision à haute définition. Qu’est-ce qu’il y a d’important? Le vivant, certainement. La mort aussi.

As I weaved my way through the crowds I observed my fellow consumers. There were happy couples, teenagers with attitude, elderly ladies badgering their grown sons, harried-looking mums with tots in tow. I moved among them effortlessly, never really feeling a part of it all. I think I may have actually been smiling.
My family gathers together on Christmas Day, but remains within each smaller immediate family unit for Christmas Eve. I realised that this will be the first Christmas Eve that I spend alone in nearly a decade, my family unit having been decreased from a cozy two to a solitary one. As I walked across the bus loop to the street, I thought of the ghosts of Christmases past, and thought for a moment that I had become one. I felt unmistakably ‘of the past’, as though a fraction of a moment from some indistinct winter long gone had been displaced to the present day. Maybe it was the way the light hit the ice on the pavement, or the way the snow smelled as it fell on my face, but I was suddenly utterly convinced that I was about to hop on a westbound bus and head for my grandparents’ house, which I called home, and where I would find my Baba hard at work canning something or other in the kitchen, whilst my Dzizi dozed on the chesterfield while a football game played loudly on the TV. Life is so very different now.

Instead, I headed east, taking the bus downtown. Seeing the traffic snarl at The Bay, and knowing I was armed with the appropriate fuzzy winter accoutrements and a pocketful of music, I decided to walk the rest of the way home. Blocked streets gave way to deserted, if slippery, sidewalks, and I walked uninterrupted all the way to the village. The falling snow glowed green by the light of the giant Christmas tree at Great-West Life; as I stepped on to Osborne Bridge I looked down at the icy river and noticed that someone had made a snow angel right on the riverbank. Ten years in and these Winnipeg winters still feel magical. After awhile it gets tedious, and I complain as loudly as anyone else about the bitterly cold winds – but early on in the season I’m still in awe by the sheer preposterousness of the snow’s whiteness, the water’s iciness, the wind’s sting. In some ways I’m glad this place still doesn’t feel like home, because I think if it did, I’d lose that sense of wonder.

In the village, three strapping young lads walking just ahead of me started a snowball fight; when one errant sphere nearly hit me, all three stopped to apologise profusely. So many perfectly lovely human beings, so many handsome men… yet we tend to think only of those who show no interest in us, or who happen to be the “ones that got away”. Are we really that vain? Is it really all about winning after all? Or are we just all emotional masochists at heart?

Weeks slip by, unnoticed: time refuses to stand still. I’ve always been acutely aware of the passage of time, yet this doesn’t seem to make me immune to the shock of the realisation that a stretch of time has suddenly passed without fanfare. It’s been weeks since I’ve posted, though I’ve been writing almost daily. Nothing fit for public consumption – and I do use the term ‘public’ rather loosely. The past month has been a frenzy of work-related diversions, little bursts of productive energy punctuated by long walks, endless music, and not enough sleep.

I’ve recently fallen into a bit of a musical memory hole, dusting off albums that I haven’t listened to in years. Each song calls forth a memory of a time, a place, a glance, a touch, a scent. It’s odd how seemingly insignificant remembrances can appear to us, so achingly real that we feel them in our very core. A re-experiencing of the past? Or is it just an illusion of the past? When it’s that vivid, I swear that I’m re-feeling my past… but how can that be? Isn’t it really my past as viewed through the lens of the present? But then how can it seem to feel so authentic?

The city is once again covered in an ever-thickening blanket of snow, returning it to its virgin state. The trash carelessly littering the sidewalks and back alleys, the small oil spills and puddles, the crosses laid at intersections where lives were lost: all have been covered completely now. It’s this city’s endless second chance; a chance to start over once again.

For the past several years, I spent nearly every day in a particular neighbourhood in the city. Six months ago, my reason for being there disappeared, and I too disappeared from the neighbourhood. Well, technically, anyway; I’m still in the area twice a week to visit my grandparents, but I never go beyond their home. Further north I had not ventured – until yesterday.

It’s funny; what we do and who we know determines which neighbourhoods we frequent. Any city’s citizens are rarely intimately familiar with every area, every quarter, every street. We have our comfort zones – where we live, where we work, where our favourite haunts are – and we rarely, if ever, leave them. Sitting on the bus yesterday evening riding down Main Street, everything felt normal, banal – until I reached the frontier: the street past which I have rarely gone in the past six months. I felt something shift inside me, a change in my consciousness that was palpable. As the bus continued on its route, I felt myself slipping into a time warp. Looking out the window at these streets which had once been so familiar to me, so quotidian, I suddenly felt foreign and strange. I recognised those streets, I remembered them; I could hear them telling me their stories, stories that I already knew but hadn’t heard in a long time. For the first time in quite awhile, I felt nostalgic.
The bus turned, and we went from one neighbourhood to another. The sun was beginning to set; there was a faint smell of smoke in the air from the odd backyard fire pit. I knew that the last time I had been on that street, in that area, was months ago, in another life. Something totally unprovocative, unremarkable: the fodder of everyday life. And yet yesterday it felt so powerful, almost overwhelming. For the first time in quite awhile, I felt sad.

I do not lead an empty life. I love the people in my life; I enjoy my job; I’m not lacking in passions or things to do or places to go; I’m feeling settled in my soul. I’m relatively happy. And yet, something has been missing. It’s been quietly gnawing on me for awhile. I hadn’t been able to put my finger on what, exactly, has been bothering me – until last night. I got off the bus one stop too late, and had to walk awhile; it was then that it dawned on me. Something so simple and cliched as to be embarrassing to admit: I feel purpose-less. Not necessarily lacking in goals or ambitions; but in a sense of building towards something.

I spent most of my twenties building towards something: building a life in a city in which I hadn’t counted on staying for long, building a life with someone. Relationships are always complicated. It wasn’t just him; I thought about all the people and places that had become part of the rhythm of my life over the course of the past eight years. And when a relationship ends, or metastasizes into something almost unrecogniseable, you lose not only a partner, but a whole network of people and places that you had become a part of, and that had become a part of you. Family and friends, restaurants and parks, streets and homes you visited regularly are suddenly divorced from your reality. Which isn’t to say that this new reality is necessarily unpleasant; it’s merely become a shadow of its former self. A skeleton lacking meat on its bones, a corpse waiting to be fattened up. A life waiting to be rebuilt in a different way. What I had been building for all those years had already collapsed before my eyes; the shaky foundation gave way some time ago, despite our honest efforts. But as I walked through those familiar streets last night, I realised that I had lost something else in the implosion: the main thing I had been focused on for years. My “purpose”.

between light and dark
     sun and wind
     word and deed
like hoarfrost on a winter’s morning
like a heart hardened one time too many
firm, yet so delicate
     suspended in time
     and cold to the touch

It never happens in one fell swoop.
Goodness slowly chipped away
     one molecule at a time.
Units of trust and respect, expressed in
     smiles
     laughs
     sighs
     and gentle moans.
Can we ever be aware, truly?
Can we ever comprehend the loss of something
we never knew existed?
That delicate balance of trust and respect,
of hidden and visible,
of knowledge and fears.

Operant conditioning of the soul
Am I so used to the shock
as to have rendered it no longer shocking?

I wade knee-deep into memories
the scent of cilantro
    warmed by afternoon sun
the song of the wind in treetops
    dancing in Mount Arrowsmith’s shadow
A sign of strength, or a sign of
    weakness?
And what if I cannot tell the two apart?
And what if they are one and the same?

My heart aches, my blood boils
my breath catches in my throat
    that familiar feeling of
    hitting my head against a brick wall
    again and again

The moutain, bathed in the
mauvish hues of a sunset,
my curves, soft and supple,
bathed in pleasant but ancient history,
my cloak of bubbles a message
from another time,
    of Molotov cocktails and
    love in every room

I bear witness and feel… nothing.
Well, something.
I can’t forget, as was sung
and, equally,
I forgot to remember to forget
as heard on my mother’s stereo
so many moons ago.
Why does the wisdom of our elders
not prevent us from repeating our mistakes?

Pensive? Perhaps,
and why not?
Have I not lifetimes to conjure,
    memories to deconstruct,
    hopes to nurture?
    … or was that the other way round?

Perhaps I have grown used to the treachery
Perhaps I have grown tired of it all
Perhaps I have grown
    Or
perhaps it matters not, simply because
he is here and so am I

La lune est grande, très grande, enrobée de brouillard, penchée juste en haut des toits des maisons du quartier. Après une nuit remplie d’un sommeil interrompu, elle s’est levée avec difficulté. Pourtant, elle est debout, c’est ça qui compte. Depuis quelques temps, la ville – et la province, vraiment tout le pays – est dans le grand froid, un froid énorme et lourd. Le mercure du thermomètre ne bouge pas beaucoup: il reste piégé en dessous de -31 degrés, la température la plus chaude de ces derniers jours.

Tout d’un coup, la belle du ciel jette sa cape de brume, et toutes les couleurs deviennent clair dans le froid du petit jour: l’ivoire de la lune, le brun sinistre des arbres morts, le blanc de la fumée des cheminées, le bleu-lavande du ciel matinale. Est-ce que la lune sera pleine ce soir? Peut-être un manque d’équilibre ces jours-ci est normale, après tout…

Un moment – rien qu’un instant – bref et sans importance, gravé sur la mémoire d’une personne, totalement oublié par l’autre. C’est ainsi que la vie se vit: on ne peut pas deviner les pensées secrètes des hommes. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Nous vivons une vie semblable mais pas identique; nous croyons savoir ce que nous trouverions au fond des coeurs de nos pairs, mais ce ne sont que des suppositions. Une vie commune mais séparée. Chacun bâtit sa propre réalité.

Dans son monologue intérieur perpétuel, cette bande son à sa vie, ce sont des petits moments – une geste négligente, une odeur, le reflet de la lumière dans une flaque d’eau – qui deviennent importants. Des moments qui
sont peut-être insignifiant, peut-être même pas remarqué par la plupart du monde, mais qui gagnent en importance à elle. Il y a des souvenirs qui sont très clairs, qui se jouent comme un film sur les paupières, qu’on peut revivre si facilement. Elle prend ces petits moments et elle les tricote, soigneusement, à la main; elle les relie à des autres petits moments, pour fabriquer un tissu riche, luxe, majestueux. Une robe de souvenirs, convenable à elle et à elle seule. Divers moments quotidiens, matière brute travaillée et transformée: la substance de la trame de la vie.

La méchanceté, elle ne l’aime pas. Mais c’est l’indifférence qui la tue.

Un de ses grands défauts est sa tendance de comprendre trop tard le vrai sens des choses. Il y a toujours cette instant où tout devient clair, où on voit droit devant soi et on comprend, enfin, le sens d’une geste, d’une parole errante, d’un regard… Peut-être est-elle trop emballée par sa propre histoire, ses souvenirs, son monologue intérieur? Une douce réalisation la frappe, humblement, sans fanfare, just like that. Face à ce qu’elle voit comme une indifférence atroce, enfin elle comprend. Les êtres sensible réfléchissent à n’en plus finir; ils savent que chaque mot porte un poids, qu’un regard simple peut raconter toute une histoire, qu’un sourire peut changer le cours d’une vie. Ils savent également que les gens les plus sensibles peuvent parfois être étonnament insensible. Ceux qui font de leurs souvenirs une belle maison lumineuse, ouverte à tous qui souhaite la visiter, sont condamnés à une déception perpétuelle. L’âme rêveuse connaît bien le compromis qu’elle doit faire.

Et si on ne veut pas se trouver? Si on veut se cacher, loin du monde, dans un petit endroit tranquille, sous le soleil, penché sur une roche? Et si on veut se cacher de soi-même?

A return to a common theme: stress. I’ve always been an anxious sort, and judging by the temperaments of many family members, I come by it honestly. The ironic thing is that when most would experience joy or happiness, I tend to experience stress and trepidation. Such as this past week. During the last several days, I discovered that due to the kindness of others, I would be making a trip overseas; I got a new job; my Baba continued making slow and steady progress; I was able to spend some quality time with the love of my life. All wonderful things. Yet the whole week, I simply could not relax. I went through the motions – warm bubble baths, singing along to Rosemary Clooney, drowsy weekend mornings – yet there was always this tension within me, smouldering somewhere deep inside and refusing to be extinguished, regardless of what I threw on it. I sleep, but don’t feel rested. I laugh, then feel my heart sink.

And yet. And yet…

On dit qu’on devrait voyager avec le coeur léger et l’esprit ouvert… J’aimerai être léger comme un chat, un animal qui saute sans se blesser, qui marche sans faire du bruit. Un animal solitaire et beau, plein de confiance en soi, qui dirige sa propre vie sans hésitation.

Another day just like any other day. Alarm clock buzzing, sun streaming in through the window by her bed. She reached over, hit the “snooze” button, and yawned. After composing her daily mental to-do list, she swung her feet over the side of the bed and got up. Morning fog obscured the view of the nearby park, but the sounds coming from the open window told Helen that only crows and seagulls were playing there. It was a beautiful morning. She pulled a ratty pink housecoat over her striped pyjamas and stepped into her fuzzy pink slippers. As she left her bedroom, Helen noticed the red, blinking alarm clock: 7:55.

She could hear Vanessa stirring in the room down the hall. Soon the house would be a flurry of activity as Vanessa was readied for school, but for now, all was quiet. This was Helen’s favourite time of day, the calm before the storm. She put on a pot of coffee, collected the newspaper from the front steps, and fed the cat. “Better make Vanessa’s lunch before she wakes up,” Helen thought to herself. She realised she was too tired to be creative. “Peanut butter and jelly it is,” she declared. The cutting board was kept in a drawer by the sink. Above the sink was a window, overlooking the back yard. As she sliced the bread, Helen watched tiny hummingbirds dart to and from the feeder on her balcony. “Their feathers are so shiny,” thought Helen. “They nearly glow.” She went to the cupboard for the peanut butter and picked up the container: empty. “Damnit!” In the old days, she would have cursed, and yelled to no one in particular, “Can’t anybody replace things when they finish with them?” But that was back when there were other people to blame. Now it was just Vanessa and her. And she couldn’t really yell at an 8-year old for finishing the peanut butter. Helen sighed. “I just hope there’s another jar in the pantry.”

As she walked back to the kitchen, Helen could hear Vanessa moving about down the hall. She waited patiently for her daughter to emerge from her bedroom. The sun continued to rise, warming the whole kitchen. It really was a beautiful morning.

Vanessa appeared in the kitchen doorway about 5 minutes later. She was still in her nightgown, a thin, frilly lace thing given to her by her grandparents last Christmas. It was decorated with tiny embroidered flowers. Vanessa loved it; she insisted on wearing it almost every night, if it wasn’t too cold. “Have some juice,” said Helen, as she offered a glass to her daughter. Vanessa replied with a big yawn, flashing her tiny, perfect white teeth. “But I don’t want juice, Mummy. I want pancakes!” Vanessa never spoke harshly. Instead, she always made her demands in a quiet voice, full of sweetness and innocence. Helen couldn’t help but smile. “Oh, all right. Bring me the mix from the pantry,” she replied. As Vanessa skipped down the hall, her hair reflected the rays of sun coming in through the window. She took her floppy bunny doll with her, one of its legs dragging on the ground. The bunny had been a gift from an aunt, for Vanessa’s third birthday. Vanessa immediately christened it “Sam” and carried it with her ever since. She took it everywhere – grocery shopping, family dinners, walks in the park, and, of course, to bed. The only time Sam was left at home was when Vanessa went to school. Helen had tried to persuade Vanessa to leave Sam alone more often, gently reminding her that she was getting older and was no longer a little girl, but to no avail. Sam was her security blanket, and she wasn’t ready to let go. All Helen could do was throw Sam in the washing machine once a week. “If she insists on being seen with a stupid bunny, at least I can make sure she’s being seen with a clean stupid bunny,” she thought.