the travels begin

Vancouver International airport. Waiting at my gate, aptly located at the far end of the entire airport, having already gone through Purgatory I am now awaiting the jaws of Hell to open up and swallow me and then board me onto a solid steel vessel posing as a bird to take me to Chicago of all place, Chicago I ask you, who wants to go there? I have every intention of getting on the first available flight out of there as soon as I land, I assured the sour-faced border official as she took my fingerprints, I am going to Stockholm, to Stockholm, SWEDEN, yes, thank you, happy christmas.

And then of course there were metal detectors to pass through after I'd checked my suitcase, without any jackets, hoodies or shoes or metal objects on my person, and of course, having completely miscalculated the size of aforte-mentioned suitcase I was wearing two hoodies, a jean jacket and a winter coat, plus almost-too-tight leather boots straining between my calves and the narrow-cut jeans that I carefully had to peel off in order to get the fuckers off my legs, and then there was this laptop to be removed from its laptop bag and a forgotten belt with metal buckle that caused the detector to beep at me and as a punishment I was molested with an equally beeping piece of plastic. Yes. It was all very lovely. As usual. It is now a quarter to eight. I've been here since six. I managed to fish enough coins outs of my pockets to buy a coffee but have not had as much as a sip of it yet since like everything else in Hades it's scorchingly hot and have only managed to spill half of it over my hand walking to, yes, the very far end of the bloody place. I have not slept for two nights. I bloody hate airports. In fact, the only thing I hate more than airports are aeroplanes.

I was quite anxious about this trip, in fact I was panicking all night, but now I am merely pissed off.

Happy Christmas.

Let's do the time warp again.

There is nothing as magical as the fall of the first snow of the year. We could see the shadow of it through the frosted window and we ran outside and we were four again, but unfortunately time reduces the impact of magic, and each year it wears off quicker than it did the year before. We stood mesmerized for ten seconds staring up into the white noise. Then for the sake of being stubborn and not wanting to admit to ourselves that the magic had worn off and that we were freezing we occupied ourselves in comfortable silence for another minute: I made a snowball and threw it against the neighbouring building, then another one. Cesar wrote his name on the ground. I mapped out a peace sign with my footprints. Cesar did pirouettes and tried to catch snowflakes with his mouth. When you look directly at them they fall with such speed you lose sight of them immediatelly, but when you gaze through them like a blanket they seem to drop in slow motion to the ground. After the one minute we admitted defeat and strolled back inside to warm up again.

I can't believe I'm flying on Monday.

We haven't left the apartment for two nights, with the exception of the brief encounter with the snow. Cesar is going crazy. I wish I'd never had to leave again. He says we need a bigger place and more friends. I'm shutting the doors to reality and shrinking my world. How did we ever find each other and of what is our middle ground made of?

Time to get cozy on the couch and drink coffee and chew nicotine mints. I guess I quit smoking again. It's like this past year never happened, like it was all a bad dream, I'm right back where I was a year ago to the day -- I wonder what's going to happen this time around...

The first letter

It’s one o’clock in the morning. As usual, I can’t sleep. I had this image in my head just now, in the bathroom, glancing at my own reflection as I turned back to the door, okay staring at my own reflection as I mapped out my distinctive features, and as I was looking into my own face in the dirty mirror glass, I gradually began to see past it, past myself, or past a layer of myself,
my vision sort of blurred but I could see myself more clearly.

I won’t take any Tylenols again, I promise. Trust me, I learned my lesson last time.

Something made me think of you, though.

Not just hearing your voice reason with the otherwise luring insanity of the back of my mind, but something else. A thought, maybe. An image most likely. I don’t even think in words anymore, I think in images and they’re not exactly clear either, they’re all overlapping, and morphing, and constantly moving. I find it hard to focus. I think I was remembering something about you,
a look you gave me or a secret smile.

I think about you a lot lately.

Especially when I can’t sleep. I know, it’s unhealthy. Most likely I am becoming obsessive again. But it’s not like before, when I was younger and I would lose track of time, or my grasp on reality; it’s different this time, now I can have my head in the clouds and keep my feet on the ground. It’s like what I was telling you about the mirror, I see past the first layer,
reality,

and I can gaze beyond it without it actually disappearing or changing, it’s still there, still very much real, just toned down.

Transparent.

Someone once told me that if I you run into a bear in the woods, the best thing to do is to drop down on the ground and play dead, in which case the bear will most likely leave you alone as opposed to if you start running. If you start running the bear’s instincts will kick in and she will take up chase. And they might seem like big, clumsy teddy bears, but they will catch you and one swat to your head with one of those paws could kill you in a second.

I quickly discovered that the technique worked with people as well, or situations.

Later on in life the two bled together.

Playing dead became a way of running. And as long as I was running away, I was dead to the world, just like Juliet. Recently, I can’t help but think it’s Romeo I’m running away from. You know, maybe it’s easier to just stay dead. Maybe I don’t want to wake up again and face the tedious cruelties that await me. Maybe I have good instincts and know what’s best for me… or maybe I’m a terrified little ferret.

I’ll wait for you, that’s what you said.

Well, you wrote it on a wall. We were such kids. Am I still a kid to you? Do you even know me, really know me? No, of course not, what a stupid question, how could you possibly? I don’t know you either. I think I’ve been too afraid to get to know you. I think I’ve been running away. This is no surprise to you, I’m sure. Do you even care?

I keep imagining that you share my thoughts about this and my memories of us, but you probably remember things a lot differently and it all probably means something altogether different to you, if it means anything at all.

It’s almost been five years since the first time I saw you.

It was infatuation at first sight and also the most terrifying thing I have ever experienced. I’m exaggerating. You were beautiful. I was speechless, worse, I spoke,

are you with someone,

and everyone thought it was a joke, even you, although the way you looked at me, the rest of the night you kept looking at me and smiling shyly, I’m probably inventing these memories as we speak, but it was New Year’s Eve and by right all our lives could be perceived magical if only for that one night and they did and the night lasted for ever until it was light outside and since it was the first of January and we were in the North of Sweden we had already missed half the day when the sun came up.

The next New Year’s Eve I was on an aeroplane going across the Atlantic Ocean.

I’ve yet to come back.

Do you think it’s possible that you are the reason I’ve lingered here, do you think maybe I’m avoiding you?

Other things have happened, to both of us, it’s not as black and white as that, why haven’t you asked me to come back, why haven’t you missed me enough to tell me to come back, do you even think about me at all? Nothing ever happened between us, so why does it feel like everything happened between us, and it was all that one night, that one night when something could have and was supposed to have happened and nothing most certainly did and that was my fault I pretended to be asleep by the way, I was scared, I ran away, and I kept running, it’s true, but if nothing happened why can’t I forget about you, why do I still lie awake at night and think about the way you looked at me, that first night and every night since it, and even that one morning,

you were framed in the light bouncing off the snow on the ground,

you had snowflakes in your hair, and your eyes were burning,

I’m not trying to be poet, I’m trying to be honest, but I think I’ve forgotten how.

I don’t even remember a single conversation I’ve had with you. All I have of you are images and I probably made half of them up. How sad is that? I’m beginning to think this has absolutely nothing to do with you, actually. I think this is about me. I think I’m avoiding myself, not you, or at least what you see in me, my own reflection in your eyes

as cheesy as that sounds, the way you look at me. No-one looks at me the way you do.

Or I don’t see it. Or I don’t care enough to take notice. It’s not black and white. Nothing is, not even my images of you.

The other night I actually got some sleep, but do you want to hear something ironic?

I had a dream and you were in it.

I was back home and you were there and I worshipped you as always and hid it as always and you, you were back together with your bastard of a boyfriend and completely oblivious to anything having ever been going on between us, so oblivious in fact that I started to doubt it myself, I started to think maybe I made it all up, and then I woke up, and now I can’t stop thinking about it. It wasn’t even real. It was a dream. And I’m losing sleep over it.
I’m thinking maybe going home for the holidays wasn’t the best idea, but I can’t wait to see you, to I don’t know, I don’t even know what we do, do we talk?

Do we touch each other or hug or make toasts or tell jokes or avoid or what?

I don’t even know anymore. In fact I think we’ve only been completely alone with each other twice. And there was nothing to say.

How can there be so much between us that it can fill up five years worth of sleepless nights and not words enough to fill five minutes?

I have to get up early in the morning, I’ve got errands, got to go check out this school, this art school down on Granville Island that I really want to apply to for next year, and then I’ve work in the afternoon, lots of markdowns to advertise and lots of retail fake Christmas cheer to spread with Rudolph, so I should probably go back to bed and at least try and get some sleep. But I really need to sit down an re-evaluate my life situation.

I’ll see you soon anyways.
Take care until then. Bye.
Yours, Ida.

crossing the road

I just said goodbye to Ana. (and she hugged me. Because it's almost Christmas. Or so she said... it was fine. I think she might be on my list of "People I don't mind hugging" now, so that's fine...) She's flying to Peru tonight. Now I'm sitting in Blenz on Broadway and Granville, thinking what if my world is falling apart again. What if I go back to Sweden for five months and then don't get accepted to Emily Carr. What if this is the end of the Canadian Road for me? I know I'm indulging in my anxiety and I just need to get my shit together and review my options and sit down and make a conscious, informed choice and stick to it, but I am so terrible at that stuff. To be honest it terrifies me. Because if you're a leaf in the wind and you land in the middle of the road or a lake, it's not your fault and maybe you were meant to get there and you have thus completely washed your hands off any responsibility of your own life, because this is your life, you don't want to fuck that up, right, I mean just imagine... well, that's ridiculous, I know. Anyway, I have to go to work. I know things will work out in the end they always do.

'tis the season to be anxious

So on Saturday I was feeling somewhat down, not exactly suicidal, but very Eeyore-eque, like everything is hopeless and there's no point to your existens and all that stuff. Not an alltogether nice feeling, as you can imagine.

On Sunday the world flipped over and I was upside-down for most of the night and bouncing between the walls, not literally, but almost. Not necessarily in a manic fashion, just very very uncalm, I suppose. I also started fretting about the fact that I wasn't feeling tired at all and that I wouldn't be getting any sleep and I had work in the morning, so long story short, when I found a little packet with six Tylenol cold pills I figured they would knock me out. Did they? No, no. They made me whoosy, and made me throw up in the middle of the night, and then toss and turn in cold sweat for the rest of the morning. I got up in time for work but couldn't shower properly because I got lightheaded and shaky, and the cold sweat and dizziness washed over me again, and... well, Ana and Cesar gave me hell for it later in the evening when I told them, making it sound like I'd tried to overdose or something which is preposterous because they were bloody Tylenols, but anyway... I realize it was stupid all the same and I mustn't have been thinking completely straight at the time, so I'm just writing it off as one of my antiques whilst being crazy.

Today is Monday and I've spent the entire morning writing lists which tells me that I am very anxious, but that's alright because I have to go to work now and who has time for anxiety when there are t-shirts to be folded? Later.