Thursday, February 16, 2006

bite-size rants. Moths. Aren't. Gone. Seriously -- we threw everything out. We're existing on water and toasted Gyprock at this point. THERE IS NOTHING HERE FOR YOU, MY WINGED NEMESI...sisses. FLY, FLY AWAY. Why do shoes cost as much as a small walk-up in Brooklyn? I think I could like shoes, but I'm JUST NOT ABLE TO AFFORD THE DOWN PAYMENT. My lungs are rattling like like a cockroach stuck in a cigar box. I'm tired of the rattle and the ongoing illness that perpetuates the same. I don't think of myself as sickly; in all truth, I'm rather robust. Like a good cup of coffee. I just keep SPILLING said coffee and ending up a little empty. My iPod buds keep falling out of my ears and into my shirt. Picture this: early morning, Vancouver commuter bus. Everyone is dressed for work. People look chic in their dark professional wear. Meg sits in the midst of these people, hand digging around down the front of her sweater, mumbling that she's missing Ricky (Gervais). Oh, gosh. It sounds even worse now that I type it. I'm turning 32 in April, and still, I have not done the following: bought a house; travelled to Europe; kicked the Hooters mascot in the jewels (OH WAIT, YES YOU SURE AS HECK DID, MISSY); been fly-fishing; been to a resort; driven a motorcycle; given birth; won a gold medal of any kind; written a novel; done anything huge for humanity; gotten a post-secondary degree; gotten caught between the moon and New York City; or managed to get that damn Kylie Minogue song out of my head. I REALLY NEED TO GET ON WITH IT. The people in my office have cultivated a weird addiction in my life: raisin toast. I eat it at work and now I just found myself thinking, "8 hours until raisin toast!" And that's just pathetic. I have not yet discovered a method of long-distance labour inducement. I still have hundreds of rants, but now I have to sleep. Or try to. But who are we kidding? See you in two hours. 11:58:30 PM    well, yes, but...  [] inside out. There is so much going on inside the average person. It's true -- some days I can see it. The bus driver wishing he was at home, sipping coffee and watching ESPN. Or the Food Network. The barista wishing he was doing what he was doing in Italy, where people wouldn't pester him to make everything "extra hot." The businessman on the corner staring enviously at the bike messenger. The woman smoking outside my building and wishing she was inside. Or outside. In Madrid. There are so many stories, so many dreams, so many hopes, so many disappointments... so many thoughts stealing minds away from the details of everyday life. Even the man in line ahead of me ordering a muffin -- is he thinking about what it would be like if his band in college hadn't broken up? Would he be here, in a suit too tight for his frame, looking bored with a skim-milk latte in hand, or would he be in frayed jeans with frayed nerves from the reverb at sound check? Is my bank teller working up the nerve to say that she's in love? Was that convenience store owner a doctor back in Iran? Did that old Irish man ever live in the old country? Is the woman who runs the crepe shop really from France? Is the guy in the elevator from Newfoundland missing the moody darkness of his native ocean shores? Has that kid with the dog lived anything beyond life on the street? Are they irritated by stereotypes and assumptions? Are their hearts speaking a language that contradicts their outsides? Do they wish they could leave these jobs and roles and histories behind? And can anyone see me dancing in my head and writing novels with every fresh cup of coffee that meets my lips? Do they know I see the world in shades of lemon and robin's egg blue? I wonder about interior lives every time I see someone with a faraway look. And sometimes, I get that look and escape into mine. That's where I can write poems and sing arias and wrest the exotic from the ordinary. That's where I stop mourning the disappointments and let dreaming take hold. Where I can sleep, where things are easy, where life is simple. And yet complicated in the most beautiful way. 12:06:43 AM    well, yes, but...  []

© Copyright 2006 Meg Fowler. Last update: 3/4/06; 2:32:30 PM.