An Unexamined Life…

“I found the definite action; but the bullfight was so far from simple and I liked it so much that it was much too complicated for my then equipment for writing to deal with and, aside from four very short sketches, I was not able to write anything about it for five years – and I wish I would have waited ten. However, if I had waited long enough I probably never would have written anything at all since there is a tendency when you really begin to learn something about a thing not to want to write about it but rather to keep on learning about it always and at no time, unless you are very egotistical, which, of course, accounts for many books, will you be able to say: now I know all about this and will write about it.”
-Death in the Afternoon, E. Hemingway

Comme à chaque printemps, la neige fond et dévoile sa multitude de crottes puantes. Cette année ne fait pas exception. Mais elle restera sans doutes dans les annales pour sa puanteur remarquable.
-L’auteure de ce blogue, écrivaine et militante à ses heures, à sa façon.

You would think that after eleven years I’d be over the worst of it. I would anyways. It’s some kind of freak phenomenon where I mourn in reverse. I was so strong when she died, I don’t think I cried that much after that day. And I have been able to recall, to share, without breaking down for years. But these days… I don’t know. It’s like… Like she’s here, trying to tell me something I worked hard to forget. I want to hear her voice. I hear her voice. I want her to be here with me, being the mom she never really was, but that I so desperately needed. Need. I’ve been teased before about my liking older men, something about me looking for a father figure. That might’ve been true a long time ago, but lately I have experienced emotions that led to thoughts I never let myself explore further. Time, life and compromise has helped my dad and I mend our relationship. I don’t know if  that would’ve happened with her. I’m not killing myself with the regrets, the what-ifs, I’m simply overwhelmed by an immense sense of loss, a loneliness that is completely new, unknown in its nature, its provenance. Why now? Why does she come up in conversation, why do I stumble upon one of her notebooks while going through my own, why do I see her reflection when I look at mine? I’ve fought so hard not to be like her, not to be her. The fears are gone, I am me, completely. And I wonder if it’s because of that that she’s making this sudden come back. I’ve let a lot of guards down, I’ve opened up, secure in who I am, who I’ve become. Not so far removed from the woman she could have been had she chosen a few different paths maybe. But overall… I could turn this over this way and that way, pry open the memory chest, cry over old birthday cards, but it won’t do any good. I don’t understand why it’s happening now, or how long it will last. But I guess I just miss having a mom. And everything that comes with it.

And it struck me this morning. The fortresses. I used to say “I hate people” and I really felt like I did. But above the collective stupidity, what I hated most I guess was to feel left out. Locked out. Denied all the supposed riches I thought I saw behind the windows, from outside.

What has changed is that I am a fortress too now. I hold my own riches.

Certains trouvent peut-être le bilinguisme ici un peu déroutant, ou dérangeant… mais c’est comme ça dans ma tête. Parfois même en pleine phrase, ça change. Je vous évite une partie de chaos quand même.

***

It’s not like we didn’t know this. Like we’ve never read it anywhere or didn’t feel it at some point or another. But it’s true. We’re all walking wounds, at different stages of healing. Some so fresh it hasn’t started yet. But it will.

***

“You don’t ask a lot of questions”
“Maybe I don’t need a lot of answers.”

***

I’m walking amongst (I LOVE that word. The way it makes your mouth, your tongue work. Say it, say it out loud, feel that?) fortresses filled with treasures and secrets. Just being able to peek through the windows is cool. I don’t feel compelled to break in, tear down the doors, know. Being aware is enough. They’re everywhere. And they’re beautiful.

***

Je viens de terminer le journal d’Eleanor Coppola, écrit pendant le tournage d’Apocalypse Now. Une traduction pénible, une lecture pénible, mais néanmoins intéressante. Et puis soudain, vers la fin, crise conjugale. Infidélités.

Une phrase, et puis là, dans le wagon de métro, le mal de ventre, la tristesse. La compréhension immédiate de ces sentiments écrits il y a déjà plus de trente ans. T’as beau te faire à croire que t’es guérie, qu’il faut beau, que la vie t’es si bonne ces derniers temps que c’en est même un peu suspect. La douleur est maintenant plus superficielle, mais la réalité de ces blessures elle, ne l’est pas. Je ne sais pas ce que ça veut dire. Je ne sais pas si je veux m’attarder vraiment à ça. Est-ce que mon coeur est irrémédiablement endommagé ou bien je mêle trop de choses ensemble?

Le plus difficile c’est de cesser de porter toute la responsabilité des sentiments des autres, de leurs gestes, sur mes épaules. D’arrêter de me voir comme un monstre, moins qu’une femme. De vivre les rejets comme autant de constats que je suis juste inadéquate, pas assez.

Mais avec le temps j’apprends aussi, surtout peut-être, à m’accepter. Accepter tout, en entier. Je sais aujourd’hui que je ne suis pas cassée. Que je n’ai pas à être réparée. Que de rechercher l’approbation des autres ce n’est qu’une façon d’éviter d’être ce que l’on est vraiment.

***

I don’t use the “The well” category as much as I used to here. It’s a good thing I guess. But sometimes I miss being able to reach in it and write about it. Not that I have lost all sense of depth, but I’m frightened by the ease with which I can move away from it. I’m torn between relief and shame.

***

***

PS: Je déménage à Verdun le 1er juillet. J’ai changé d’idée, et je l’assume pleinement! Je reviens (presque, bon, parce que Verdun, Montréal, tsé) dans ma ville natale. Je suis heureuse. Point.

PPS: Mon beau Stéphane, je ne t’oublie pas! J’ai jamais été super bonne à la tag, je cours pas vite. Mais ça s’en vient.

PPPS: I’ve started selling stuff on ebay and I have no life left whatsoever.

I think I know why it doesn’t work for me. the [things].

I want it to be as messed up and confused as it is in my head, inside, deep in there where it doesn’t matter to anyone but me. where I know where every[thing] is, where I can pick up some[thing] I left in a corner years ago, gathering dust, losing importance, until the moment I need it.

when I try to make sense of [things], it just does not fit anywhere in my mess. the boxes, those neat little boxes we’re supposed to fill diligently, store properly, in an organized, alphabetized way. classified. they just don’t fit. on top of a pile of my own important stuff they sit, not in the least securely, ready to fall, ready to explode on the floor and expose their nonsensical content to

it doesn’t work like that up here, in here. anybody who has set foot inside knows.
it doesn’t work like that
[things][exploded boxes]

Je n’y pense plus. Ou si peu. Juste assez pour que ce soit facile à balayer de mon esprit, facile comme on dégage une mèche de cheveux qui obstrue la vue.
****
I felt like talking to you the other day. Then I realized I can’t remember your phone number. Not that I would’ve called, you know. Not for real.
****
I hate that
there has to be an asshole
to every story
‘cause that means I get to be one too
once in a while
and I really hate assholes
****
Surprised or amused stares while I write. With a pen and paper. In the metro. And once our eyes meet, you know I was writing about you. No need to get self conscious, I got the good stuff before you noticed me. Once you know, you’re not as interesting honestly.
****
But sometimes the words I write survive only in hurt and sads of all kinds. One day in January I decided they needed to go. They went, I stayed. Of course it’s just a symbol but who cares? It felt fantastic.

Curieux comment il y a moins de cinq and j’avais une carrière bâtie essentiellement sur ma force de caractère, ma drive, mon leadership et ma rigueur professionnelle. Aujourd’hui, à 41 ans, ces qualités sont reléguées au deuxième rang alors qu’on me sert un avis disciplinaire pour mon mauvais caractère. Un avis avec une date d’expiration. Si les choses ne changent pas d’ici six semaines, je me retrouverai au chômage. J’ai rarement eu plus envie de l’être. Le corporate speak me répugne. Alors que certains me félicitent de mon travail et m’encouragent dans mes initiatives de façon non-officielle, directement au dessus de moi on me tape sur la tête par écrit, parce que je dis exactement ce que je pense, mais surtout, directement aux personnes concernées et pas nécessairement sur le ton de Passe-Partout.

Je n’ai pas envie de changer. Je sais que j’ai très mauvais caractère, et je comprend ce qu’on me demande, mais je n’ai aucune, AUCUNE intention de me conformer. Si je n’ai que ça dans la vie, et bien c’est mon identité. On m’a dit “tu sais, perception is reality”, no shit Sherlock. Ce qu’on m’a appris aussi, c’est que je pourrais être 50% moins compétente et avoir une meilleure attitude (ver-ba-tim) et je ne serais pas dans le trouble dans lequel je suis présentement.

Me voici donc devant un dilemme absolument déchirant. Faker une volonté d’être autre chose pour ne pas offusquer les ostis d’eunuques avec qui je travaille, ou bien simplement attendre que les six semaines passent et me faire montrer la porte.

“When life is in good trim, when the line which strings our successive words together is galvanized into proper working action, the tale is quite other. The words surge pell-mell. In minute observation they form short, fascinating, tight-packed rings and loops, but in vast generalizations, with more than lightning’s swiftness and force they fling their nervous line wide and net whole hemispheres of meaning. They sweep through every corner of the heavens. With a giant’s ease they balance entire worlds against each other, unite them, divide them, make clean division through minutenesses and confusions at which the finest non verbal tool would retire helpless, and put the whole plastic universe through figures of differentiation and comparison as smooth and harmonious as those of a ballet. The width, splendour, and variety of this stream are, in fine, just what makes life an intoxicating and lordly thing.”
-Dora Marsden, The Egoist Vol. 4, No. 8 p. 114

Taken at the Modernist Journals Project. A huge thank you to Chris for sending this wonderful link my way.

A very long time ago, when I was all that (not!), Steve Faguy from The Gazette did a profile on An Unexamined Life… I was reading his post about getting a permanent job at the newspaper and through his memories I was reminded of that very special time in my life, that place I was in.

One of the things he wrote that I always remembered was this: (…) writes about emotions the way a political junkie talks about parliamentary procedure.

Through the years since then I’ve lived a whole lot more than I could’ve imagined. What I thought was the worst of times, in hindsight, might not have been that bad. Yet again, in a couple of years from now I might feel the same way about the last few ones.

Years. Cycles. It should be frightening to be talking in years and not in months, weeks, days. But as I emerge, as a human being, as a woman, from a multi layered and armored cocoon, I can see, accept, that things take time. And that we have to take it. Take the time to cry, to suffer, oh so much and when will it ever end? But also to screw up, to not give a fuck and to just say fuck it all, fuck all that fucking bullshit.

And in the midst of all this, I lost faith in my worth. Thinking about myself first, about my own happiness only made me feel guilty. It’s a long, very long, very hard battle. But I am closer to its end than to its beginning. I wish I could send thanks flying around to everyone involved, but if you don’t mind, I’ll thank myself first.

Lui: L’important, c’est d’être heureux.
Moi: J’ai de la difficulté avec ça, faire des choses qui me rendent heureuse.
Lui: Tu ne devrais pas, il faut prendre soin de ton bonheur.
Moi: Oui, mais je veux être certaine de la justesse de chacun des gestes que je pose pour ça. Il est trop facile de confondre le bonheur, la liberté, avec la fuite. Alors que l’on croit qu’on avance, lorsque l’on fuit on ne fait que tourner en rond!

And so it goes. Full circle? Not quite. But the past is not so far that I can’t see it’s ugly face. As I tread along, it will remain visible, but only as a reminder that I will not hang around his lot anymore.

there’s a life
somewhere in there
a past tense of life
a life lived in albums

there was a time when we could just tuck them away. the pictures.
forget about them, their colors, their scent, their laughs.
just stick them in plastic pages.
never look at them again.
easy to forget.

lies! memories are as vivid as a damp print.

I don’t want to click, don’t want to like anymore. I don’t want to play, to pretend, to go through, to please, to ease. to laugh when it’s appropriate, shut up when it’s expected.

today I’ll do it. that’s what I always say, today. and then I forget why.

I wanted more meaning, more structure
a form of some kind to help me heal
I was thinking, the pyramid kind
that always draws the eye
but I’m not that kind
of architect

got my head around what I do wrong. the things that I do that end up hurting me and no one else. the pains I go through just so that I don’t hurt others is one of them. what I can’t grasp is how one can hurt deliberately, knowing exactly what the actions, words or silences will do and still do it. what’s beyond me is how a person can consciously harm and live with it, be ok with it, sleep well, even look the other in the eyes and not acknowledge what they are reflecting. control, power, self preservation, no matter. selfishness should not justify being mean to others. it angers me that this is the one thing I cannot read nor feel. always happens after, when it’s too late. it makes me sad in so many ways.

I latch onto the good. to a point where everything else becomes invisible.

because I will never stop believing there is good in each of you.

If the words do not make it to the land of the saved, what they were meant to tell never existed. Some things are better off left alone. In silence. Put to death by a blinking cursor.

We don’t need to go there.
**

Mais d’autres choses vivent toujours. Les rêves sont tenaces, et menacent même de se réaliser parfois. C’est pourquoi il est important d’en avoir plus d’un! L’idée germe depuis des semaines, et à force d’en parler, celui-ci ressemble de plus en plus à un projet.

Visiter Blue, Harry et Éric? Faire une boucle avec escales, faire la fête, faire la vie. Traverser l’océan. Traverser l’O-CÉ-AN. Aller visiter des amis que j’aime, connaitre un nouveau pays, de nouveaux humains. Respirer un autre air, découvrir ses parfums. La Grèce sera encore là quand je déciderai d’y aller…

**
En attendant je m’en vais passer trois jours ici. On me trouve bien drôle d’y aller seule. Je me trouve plutôt chanceuse de pouvoir le faire. C’est quoi votre problème avec la solitude?

**
Ma grande a décidé de passer sa dernière session de cégep chez son père. C’est moi qui l’ai encouragée à y réfléchir sans se sentir coupable. Entre ses études et le violoncelle, elle a peu de temps, et c’est un stress additionnel ce trimbalage d’une place à l’autre aux deux semaines. Ne me restera que fiston. Bon, elle sera à 5 minutes de chez moi… Et bien que j’apprécie fort mes semaines quand je suis seule, les semaines où ils sont ici me rendent heureuse. Qu’elle ne revienne pas tout de suite me fait réaliser que ma vie risque de changer encore plus dans les années à venir. J’anticipe et j’apréhende. J’ai besoin d’eux autant qu’ils ont besoin de moi. L’amour, la proximité, le partage, la chaleur. Mais bien que je ne sois pas prête à les voir partir tous les deux définitivement, je ne peux nier ce besoin d’être seule.

Complètement, absolument, égoïstement, j’aime ma liberté.

Once again. All changes saved.

Words we see, we read, and do not think twice about. Saved. The changes were saved.

Saved implies assimilated, accepted, approved of. Thought about. Considered and agreed upon. Saved. I can safely close this, as it is saved.

There are no more words worth saving.

Safely close this. Move on.