Junicus

Nostalgia

2009-04-11T23:17:00.005-04:00

Nostalgia is looking at this blogger box and writing again. Listening to music that used to comfort you during a very different time and being surprised that it still does now. They say that smell is the most powerful connection to a distant memory. I agree. A man wearing a cologne that another man used to wear still brings me to my knees. When we have the ability to download smell off the internet we will need a more word more powerful than nostalgia.

All day I've been trying to think of a band that I can't remember (from another time). And find a CD to another band (from yet another time). All because I want to hear that song again. That song that played a thousand times when I was in that place with those people back then. I can picture it. I can feel it. But I can't hear it.

On an episode of The Sopranos, Tony said that "remember when" was the weakest form of conversation. What about thinking, picturing...am I wishing, longing? No, just remembering. Fondly. Looking back. Not on a time that was better than now. Just a time. A great time. One that gets better even as it moves further into the past. People I have lost touch with, but think of every so often. So thankful for what I've had. Even if I no longer have.

Every memory is clouded with joy and perfection. This must be a survival mechanism. One of the things I realized when I started writing was that I wanted to capture the accuracy of my feelings during the moment. The truth of what happened. How I really felt at the time because I knew I would not be able to trust the memory of it. And it's true. Looking back on things I wrote in the past I surprise myself. I don't remember myself. Somehow it's a pleasant feeling. One that makes me want to look forward instead of back.

listen

2009-02-16T19:26:00.000-05:00

Amazing Guitarist
by Wolverine

Arch

2009-02-07T16:34:00.001-05:00

Found

2009-01-24T00:22:00.001-05:00

2008-11-17T18:14:00.002-05:00

"Life, thought the naked man, was a hell, with rare moments recalling some ancient paradise."

~Italo Calvino, Difficult Loves

It snowed today

2008-10-20T17:15:00.007-04:00

It started here.

With a beginning like that, how could it not end in happily ever after?

So random, two people crossing paths. Each roaming freely for months hauling around backpacks both to end up there: in that country on that beach on that day at that time.

A passion and a love that grew so strong, so fast, so unexpected.

3 years flash by. There are more trips. Stories get written. Songs are sung. Moments of pure unadulterated joy and freedom.

And then the inevitable?

Somehow my heart was already in pieces before it ended. Every time we hurt it's every time we've been hurt. What was once a carry-on flung over my shoulder becomes a trunk that two people cannot carry.

And so it ends. In a city on a street at night.

3 weeks go by. I cry. I read. I run. I take long walks with my camera. I stare at white walls.

I know I will spin again. That is inevitable. And as for happily ever after?

I still believe.

2008-10-19T17:28:00.003-04:00

Precision Demolition

2008-10-12T22:53:00.002-04:00

I looked to my left and there it was

2008-08-13T21:11:00.001-04:00

Worry

2008-04-22T23:33:00.003-04:00

She worried about people; he worried about things. And between them, that about covered it.

"What would you think of our daughter sleeping around?" she said.

"The porch steps are rotting," he replied. "Someone's going to fall through."

They were lying in bed together, talking. They had been lying in bed together talking these twenty-five years. First about whether to have children, he wanted to (although the roof was going fast); she didn't (Down's symdrome, leukemia, microcephaly, mumps). Then, after their daughter was born, a healthy seven pounds eleven ounces ("She's not eating enough"; "The furnace is failing"), they talked about family matters, mostly ("Her friends are hoodlums, her room is a disaster"; "There's something about the brakes, the water heater's rusting out").

Worry grew between them like a son, with his own small insistencies and then more pressing demands. They stroked and coddled him; they set a place for him at the table; they sent him to kindergarten, private school, and college. Because he failed at nearly everything and always returned home, they loved him. After all, he was their son.

"I've been reading her diary. She does drugs. She sleeps around."

"I just don't think I can fix them myself. Where will we find a carpenter?"

Their daughter married her high school sweetheart, had a family, and started a health food store in a distant town. Although she recalled her childhood as fondly as anyone--how good her parents had been and how they worried for her, how old and infirm they must be growing, their house going to ruin--she rarely called or visited. She had worries of her own.

~By Ron Wallace from Micro Fiction

The funniest thing I have seen in quite some time

2008-04-21T14:24:00.001-04:00

2008-02-04T17:50:00.000-05:00

"Don't be amazed if you see my eyes always wandering. In fact, this is my way of reading, and it is only in this way that reading proves fruitful for me. If a book truly interests me, I cannot follow it for more than a few lines before my mind, having seized on a thought that the text suggests to it, or a feeling, or a question, or an image, goes off on a tangent and springs from thought to thought, from image to image, in an itinerary of reasonings and fantasies that I feel the need to pursue to the end, moving away from the book until I have lost sight of it. The stimulus of reading is indispensable to me, and of meaty reading, even if, of every book, I manage to read no more than a few pages. But those few pages already enclose for me whole universes, which I can never exhaust."

~Italo Calvino, If on a winter's night a traveler

talking to strangers

2008-01-05T15:44:00.000-05:00

Distractions can be pleasant sometimes.

I meant to log some project hours at the library for work today.

Instead I talked to a stranger for an hour while drinking my favourite coffee.

This is not something I usually do. I am the first to admit that I am shy. However it is something I very much enjoy. As long as the person is not a freak (which you know in the first five seconds after which you can easily dismiss them) there is something fascinating about watching someone you don't know wax on about whatever. I mean, it always starts out as pleasant enough conversation with each party contributing dialogue, but I am such a champion listener that somehow it turns into a platform for "what should be done,"; "what is right"; "what is wrong," etc. I think I have cathartic eyes.

I remember a few years ago I was on a bus. I am the person that you sit beside who doesn't speak or even look at you. The person who disappears into a separate world reading her book. But on this bus ride as soon as I sat down, the guy next to me started talking. We had a good conversation which is not something that comes naturally to me when it's with a stranger. It wasn't about anything really. Just bits and pieces for the hour long ride. He said that every time he rode that bus he always talked to the person next to him. More interesting than looking at the back of people's heads, he said. And he's right. I can't count how many times I rode that bus. But I only remember that one ride.

And I can't count how many times I've bought coffee from my local coffee joint. But I will remember today. To each of them, I am just another person they talked to. But for me they are the person that talked to me.

So, to all those individuals that live to talk to others. To those that talk to the person sitting next to them on the airplane, the person standing in front of them in the checkout line, thank you. And don't ever stop talking.

Landlocked blues

2007-11-13T14:18:00.000-05:00

If you walk away I walk away
first tell me which road you will take
I don't want to risk our paths crossing someday
so you walk that way I'll walk this way...

and the world's got me dizzy again
you'd think after 2[8] years I'd be used to the spin
and it only feels worse when I stay in one place
so I'm always pacing around or walking away

I keep drinking the ink from my pen
and I'm balancing history books up on my head
but it all boils down to one quotable phrase
"If you love something give it away"...

I've grown tired of holding this pose
I feel more like a stranger each time I come home
So I'm making a deal with the devils of fame
Sayin' let me walk away, please

You'll be free child once you have died
from the shackles of language and measurable time
And then we can trade places, play musical graves
till then walk away walk away walk away walk away

So I'm up at dawn, putting on my shoes
I just want to make a clean escape
I'm leaving but I don't know where to
I know I'm leaving but I don't know where to...

~Bright Eyes

I can't put it out

2007-11-11T14:46:00.001-05:00

I slept nine hours last night, but my eyes betray me. Big black circles. I have 86 terms to learn for an exam tomorrow. I know about 20. I have an assignment due on Tuesday. I am not yet 1/3rd done. I have a 12 page paper due on Thursday. I've written one paragraph. The stresses of a typical student, I guess. But instead of working, I find myself preoccupied with other thoughts. I revert to staring across the room. Here, in the library, rows of journals fill my view. Usually a calming environment, but I feel a fire in my belly. I'd rather be anywhere than here. Any country other than this one. It's been too long now since I left; the forces of school and work constraining my movement, controlling my time. I want to disappear again into that world of pure freedom where no one knows me and the ones that do have no idea where I am.

ahyah!

2007-09-15T10:46:00.000-04:00

Today my body aches without movement. I have band-aids wrapped around each big toe, one covering an enormous blood blister.

I went to a Karate class last night. In high school I practiced karate for three years. I won a medal in a tournament. I had some incredible teachers that did what incredible teachers do - push you hard beyond the boundaries you've drawn for yourself. And then some. I felt confident and strong. I could do knuckle push-ups. I could do hundreds of sit-ups. I felt that if anyone tried to do anything to me physically I would be able to take them down. And then some.

Then I got busy, the club fell apart, and I stopped practicing. A few years went by. I tried again in university with a different club. There was a Japanese Sensei but not enough high level belts to keep me motivated. I stopped again.

Then I went to Japan. Ah, perfect, I thought. What is better than practicing Karate in Japan? I tried another club. Not what I was looking for.

It's been 12 years since I've practiced seriously. I try again.
And find exactly what I've been looking for.
Sensei is perfect. He is an old Japanese man, tiny in stature, thick in accent. He takes the "beginners" aside and starts going through the basic punches and blocks. My arms, shoulders, elbows, wrists, hands, fingers, thumbs remember everything. But below the waist I am mush. I can't touch my toes, my knees wobble, my feet tear on the floor. But still he singles me out along with two others as having experience.

"You have practiced before?"
"Yes, a long time ago."
"Where? Here?"
"No, Nova Scotia."
"Ah, beautiful place."
"Yes."
"Come here."

Japanese spins through my head. I want to speak to him, ask him where he's from, and if he misses ramen as much as I do. His English is perfect. "Power!" "Down!" "Touch your muscle. Hard!"

As the higher level belts kumite to my right, and the beginners learn the basics to my left, a senior black belt works with me and two other girls on a kata. My legs remember all too well the awkwardness of backward stance. We start slowly, working on turns, setting up blocks, and looking before stepping. And then, full on. My kiai is loud, filling the room. The two other girls are a little shy, but I know no other way. I have found my club.

my first moose

2007-08-13T00:01:00.000-04:00

So. You don't need to go to another country to have fun while traveling. The boyfriend and I went out east--Nova Scotia, which is originally home for me. A week-long roadtrip around the province and to PEI. Both trips I've done with my family, but somehow it's different when you are in control of when to drive, when to stop, when to turn.

Driving through sheets of rain to get to the island, then the North Cape Coastal Drive. The sun is strong, giving incredible contrast between the red soil, blue sky, and green fields. I've seen this all before, but not like this. Cruising on the hilly twisty roads with hardly a car around. He the driver, me the navigator. Roles that we are each content to play. We stop whenever we see something interesting. Lighthouses, windmills, old churches, the perfect ocean-side view, dairy bars, and any sign advertising something irresistibly mouthwatering.

Pulling into a gas station off the highway. Putting 42 litres into the tank. Checking the specifications to see how many litres the tank holds. 42 litres.

We camp, get bitten by mosquitoes, learn how to build a fire, set up our tent as the sun falls down. We get drunk on marshmallows, wine, and fire.

Cape Breton, N.S. Winding our way up, and down, around, and through the Cabot Trail in a trusty Toyota Yaris rental. The Maritimes are built for drivers; the boy enjoys every minute. Acadians, fishing villages, a moose just off a hiking trail, whale watching with pilot whales, a ski-lift ride, descending into a coal mine, stuffing ourselves with delicious seafood.

Strawberry shortcake, lobster rolls, fishing coves, boats, lobster traps, a famous lighthouse. Good, fun things. It always comes down to that.

three overseers

2007-07-24T13:12:00.000-04:00

glow balls

2007-06-08T11:36:00.000-04:00

The University of Toronto's pharmacy building.

pause

2007-06-07T00:44:00.000-04:00

Sometimes life is like the cliffhanger of the last episode of the season -
you can hardly wait to find out what will happen next.
Other times it's like the movie epic that will not end.
You don't care about the ending so much as the fact that it will be over.
I am stuck in a movie with an infinite reel.
And I desperately need to go to the bathroom.

Yann Martel is sending books to Stephen Harper

2007-05-29T11:11:00.001-04:00

www.whatisstephenharperreading.ca

it's getting warm

2007-05-16T12:47:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, I was walking to work, cursing the heat, sweating through my shirt, when I was reminded of what it used to be like. In Japan, inside my hermetically sealed one-room apartment, I would blast the air conditioning, while going about my morning routine half naked. When it got time to go to work, I would step outside, be affected instantly by the heat and begin to sweat before I had even entered the elevator. I would ride my bike the five minutes to the train station, carefully trying to keep my dress pants clear of the chain, always looking a little bowlegged. At the train station, my first stop would be for a cold coffee or ice cream to cool me off while waiting for the train. Getting on the train was pure pleasure with frighteningly perfect air conditioning, like stepping into a fridge. The 25 minute journey would refresh and revitalize me. Then during the two minute walk to the school, I would sweat again. Inside the building, it was not often better, as the Japanese interpretation of turning on the air conditioning is starkly different to that of a Canadian. A few not-so-subtle questions became routine: "Is the air conditioning on?" "Is this working?" "How do you make it stronger?" After that was settled, I would venture into the classroom where I would mash buttons until something cold and strong was blowing on me. On bad days, I made it blow hot air, which resulted in me running down three flights of stairs to find someone to fix it, lest I die.
So, as I sweat here in Toronto, I am reminded that it is not really hot here, nor does it ever really become so. I may sweat through my shirt here, but in Japan, I actually dripped.

where eight wheels takes you

2007-05-14T14:52:00.000-04:00

The first skate of the season is always fun. You get to go places that you wouldn't normally go on foot. Like this bridge, for instance. I've driven by it countless times. It's much better up close.

me vs.

2007-05-09T14:11:00.000-04:00

This is my new view. The 14th floor. Every morning I wake up to the sound of banging, sawing, and men yelling in deep voices. The first morning was terrible. Now it's more pleasant to wake up to the sound of a condo being constructed than it is an alarm clock. And this is how it will be for the next four months.

I have moved in with the boyfriend. It is a temporary summer gig, but one I still find jolting. Odd, given that I spend five days out of seven with him. Another life lesson, I suppose. I still have much to learn about many things. There is however something intensely comfortable about always having a warm body next to you and feeling excited when you hear keys in the door.

I have also started not one but two new jobs. Sweet jobs. Money jobs if you will. If you're a librarian, academic libraries is kind of the sweet spot. And I'm in two of them this summer.

Good for me. But. Change is still difficult. Even if it's positive.

You know how sometimes bad things will get you down and you'll feel so crappy that you will sleep for 12 hours because it means less time facing the day? It's even worse when these feelings and actions surface when no bad thing has happened. In fact, good things have happened. Yet I start to worry. I start to fret. I wonder why I'm not the cool confident cat that everyone thinks I am/used to be.

And then for some reason, amidst the sea negativity I think about writing. I read about writing. I write. Then I feel better. This is how I prevent myself from going postal. This is my release. This is how I figure stuff out, and know that everything will always be okay. Why do I always forget this?

Since September, school, work, and life have conspired to prevent the timely release of Junicus. No more. My fingers on the keyboard will be louder than the banging outside.

She plays, I eat

2007-04-02T11:06:00.000-04:00

--Antigua, Guatemala--

I was eating at a restaurant.
She was playing in her space.
I had a table and chair.
She had a ledge and some toys.
I had the boyfriend.
She had a couple of passersby.
We both shared the same view
the same open space
staring across the street at one another.