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Sunday, February 26, 2006
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eh, why not, then?
11:51:24 PM 
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ridiculously so.
Ah, I'm in one of those moods.
Despite the droning of the furnace and the clatter of rain from the eavestroughs and the creak of floorboards overhead, I'm hearing more melody than chaos.
At moments like these, the lavender oil in my candle smells like late summer and my skin smells like mint from a spring garden and the air through my window smells like winter and well... I've nothing in mind for autumn but softly-hummed arpeggios that sound like falling leaves and would smell like curling smoke from chimneys, if they had a smell.
I'm in love with notions.
I'm in love with hopes.
I'm in love with possibilities.
Even as the bills stack up and my elbow itches and the lettuce is wilting and the metallic taste of concern mixes with honeyed tea on my tongue, I believe that the future holds more to bemuse than bewilder me.
It's sickening, isn't it? This relentlessly delusional grin?
I assure you I'm no stranger to furrowed brows and the ashes of best-laid plans.
But then there is Was mir behagt, ist nur die muntre Jagd and there is the smell of the bakeries nearby and there are the flowers arranged in bins by colour and height, and a small, near-smiling dog tied just outside the coffeeshop, holding court with a snuffling nose.
I'm far too blessed to be as crabby as I am, most of the time.
So I get like this in the intervening moments.
Ridiculously so.
11:25:19 PM
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by heart.
i knew it by heart
every key, every note
when you played it for me
the room blue with dusk
the sofa sagging with age
and your guitar half out of tune.
i didn't want to say
i'd heard it before
so i fooled you
with my bright eyes
and told you i loved the song
when really, i just loved you.
10:34:29 PM
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inbox (1)
The Gmail Notifier owns me.
It's true.
I don't really know how to let go of that little glowing envelope -- or not-glowing, if my inbox is empty.
I like it better when it glows.
Before there was a small blue envelope in my life, there were various messaging systems, connected to various inboxes. Five, six, seven of them.
Few things make me grin like the words, "You have a new message from... " For nearly a decade, email has been my primary form of textual crack.
Sure, I read books and magazines and newspapers and blogs. But nothing tilts my windmill more than electronic epistles.
Now, that's not to say that all emails are created equal.
There are the emails from family and friends that arrive with bullet points, phone numbers, and hurried commentary. I don't expect much from those emails except pertinent details about this, that, or the other thing. I love the authors, but they're aiming for brevity over bliss.
There are work emails, which can often be interesting, but more often than not involve actual work.
There are the random one-liners that fill me in on blog comments made, or send along smartass/interesting links.
There are emails with FW: in the subject line, which get deleted.
And then there is spam, which makes me want to unleash virii on creepy Cialis marketers. If they're not already diseased enough, that is.
But the emails that I really love are ones filled with thoughts and ideas and laughter and truth and wisdom and jpegs of everything from David Hasselhoff to sunsets off the coast of Greece. These emails require me to click down, down, down the page to get to the end of their goodness. They make me smile and laugh and reply back at length.
I know an email is good if I can't bear not to reply. And I know an email is fantastic when I have to set aside time to reply.
I know that I've always loved learning about other people, which is why blogs are such great reads for me. But a good email is like a blog entry made for me, and me alone.
Mmmm.
Most people don't have time to read or write emails like these. Most people cringe when their inboxes are overflowing with items in need of response. Most people just don't have the patience to wade through genuine prose when they're expecting a forward full of cat pictures or jokes about the Midwest.
But, as many a pitying friend has told me, I'm just not like most people.
The days of love letters and letter writing -- real, handwritten words on real stationary -- are long gone for most of us, but I think that kind of romance still lives on in some of the multi-paragraph compositions I receive. When someone opens up to you and shares a part of who they are, or takes time to craft something worthy of a second, third, or fourth reading... well, it doesn't matter that it didn't arrive with a stamp.
It matters only that you've connected just that much more.
I know that emails bring out the instant gratification sponge in me. I know that I've said too much or said the wrong thing in many an email, and only realized it after hitting "send". I know that I've frowned in consternation when something I thought was "just right" resulted in a response of just a line or two. I even know that I've cringed when someone has told me much too much -- or at least, too much the wrong thing.
But I also know that the chances we take in opening ourselves up like that are some of the best things we do in a day, whether face to face or inbox to inbox.
I never would have thought, even a couple years ago, that I would have gotten to know some people the way I have through emails -- both in-person folks, and those I know only through the tenuous bonds of the web.
And I'm quite certain that a good portion of you reading this are shaking your heads and wondering why such things mean anything at all to me. Your inboxes are strictly utilitarian in nature.
But the first time I woke up to a heartfelt, silly, brilliant, awkward, and entirely perfect insomniac exposition from someone I couldn't help but adore... well...
I knew the blue envelope was a friend for life.
6:28:18 PM
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blogpals.
Patia came to Vancouver, and all I got was this lousy picture.
(Just kidding!)
12:35:01 PM
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chewbacca is trapped in my furnace room.
There is this noise.
Remember the fridge noise?
Yeah, that was annoying. But it went away when the old fridge headed to the Deep Freeze in the Sky.
We have a new noise. And if we hadn't gotten up to watch the game, we'd have been awake now, regardless.
It sounds like our favourite Wookie crying out at a Han Solo injury, combined with a noise akin to someone vacuuming in the VERY NEXT ROOM.
Something is very wrong with the furnace, we think. We wandered the hallways of the whole building in our PJ's, trying to figure out what was what, and we located the bulk of the noise there.
Guess what part of the building backs right up against our suite?
Gahhhh.
Someone make it STOP.
8:41:26 AM
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and for the first time in olympic history, the medals came unassembled (with an allen key.)
And they called them umenglog.
Huge love out to Sweden -- including the twins, Henrik and Daniel Sedin, our Canucks -- on a Gold Medal win in Torino.
You deserve it -- you played your asses off.
GO HOCKEY GO!
Now I need to go back to bed...
7:20:10 AM
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the post in which you come to see just how deep the hockey runs in my veins.
So.
The couch is covered in blankets.
The coffee maker is pre-programmed with Organic Peru for 4:45 am.
The alarm is set for 4:55 am.
Finland and Sweden: Gold Medal Olympic Game.
And we'll be there. Because we're not just about Canadian hockey teams or Canadian hockey medals.
No -- we're about seeing some good, good hockey. And the game promises to be a firecracker of a contest.
Nothing like getting up at the crack of dawn to bask in the glow of the CBC with big mugs of java, squinty eyes, hoodies on, quilts curled about, and cheers designed to let the third (less hockey-freaky) roommate sleep straight through.
We'll follow it up with an early breakkie at a greasy spoon, with hair in ponytails and makeupless faces.
We're not yet sure who we want to win. Maybe we won't cheer for anyone in particular.
Just the whole idea of it is enough to make us smile.
GO HOCKEY GO!
1:01:50 AM
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© Copyright
2006
Meg Fowler.
Last update:
3/4/06; 2:32:49 PM. |
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