Heart of Glass

I don’t do so well with change. I know nobody does, but I also know that I am worse than most. The proof? I blubbered to the boyfriend for a week following my wombmate’s departure for Japan because the city already felt different without her in it. I wiped away a tear (or two, or three) before she even left because I didn’t want to face these streets without knowing she was somewhere along them, too. The idea of being alone here, in this toowhite second floor apartment, caused me to clutch fistfuls of Kleenex tight in the hopes of stalling the inevitable changes that would (and did) accompany her leave.

And now, I find myself running away from yet another change staring me in the face. It's mid-August, and whether you want to believe it or not, summer is almost over. Sure the season lasts well into September if you want to get technical, but the summer, my summer, of sticky nights and sticky mornings, and pink skies well past 9pm, and copious amounts of sangria consumed during those sticky nights, and I'll Believe in Anything and Age of Consent, and walks down backstreets at 2 am where you stop to pet every cat that slinks past you on its way home, and bacon never tasting so good, will come to an end in four days when I leave for the other side of the country. And sometimes I think perhaps I am not so scared of change as I am summer's biggest fan, but then I remember what greets me in September when I return. The cats will be locked up and the skies will be black as I embark on the scary M of A, all the while keeping my fingers crossed tight for the best.

Looking For Nancy

I originally wanted to start this blog in the summer because the summer is synonomous with new starts and what symbolizes a new start more than a new blog (I say this both sarcastically and seriously)? But I could never come up with the perfect title, or the perfect first entry, or the perfect tone, and so this blog remained only a mere musing until this week when work became so unbearably slow I was forced to get creative.

My blog is named after a poem by my favourite poet, Canadian or otherwise, Alden Nowlan. His words have inspired me, and will undoubtfully continue to do so here and elsewhere. I thought it was only fitting I give him some shout outs where shout outs are most deserved. Here's to you, Mr. Nowlan. One love.

Toronto Love Song

I found two dead rats outside my front door last week. If this isn't a sign to move, I don't know what is. As I've already tried to wax about poetically before (and before that and even before that), my house this summer hasn't felt like a home. It is too transitional. Too sterile. Too Pirates of the Caribbean Part II-filled. Too little of me and too much of other people.

But as in-between as everything has felt lately, this city has welcomed me throughout it all. Aside from one special boy and a wombmate, it has been my one and only, my rock, my bff this summer. I thought I knew it inside and out before we reunited permanently this past May, but I soon realized it is impossible to ever know it inside and out. Said wombmate left for Japan just a week ago, and the city has already begun changing in her absence. Landmarks are being replaced by condos. Favourite restaurants are getting made over. The west-end will soon become home. Yet despite Toronto's elusive quality, I still managed to find a way to wrap my arms around it and hold it close during all this time of transition.

And it was the perfect bff. It never left me lonely at night. It shared its most precious secrets. We roamed these streets together and learned to call them home.

Time to Move On

As of September 1st, I'll have moved four times in just over four months. I am becoming a pro at wrapping my most precious treasures in last week's newspapers and tucking them safely away in cardboard boxes borrowed from the local grocery store. I take great pride in making the most amount of possessions fit into the tiniest possible spaces. For me, packing has become an art form. A favourite game. A jigsaw puzzle of my life.

My newly acquired packing skills also carry some drawbacks with them as well. For one, it seems that my life spends half its time in transition, stacked in the backseat of a car, driving down a 400-series highway, moving from one house to the next, being unfolded only to be refolded again. And consequently, I've lacked ties to any one place for these past four months (or longer, if you really want to get specific). My high school bedroom has become a storage space (and a waiting room) for a bigger move. My current room was only ever half-unpacked because I knew another move waited around the corner. Bags and bags of favourite shirts and dresses are starting to collect on a boyfriend's bedroom shelf, which will only make the next move that much more tiring.

But (but but but but but!) in mere weeks, the neatly packed boxes waiting for me in three rooms across the GTA will finally come together again when I move into my new (and hopefully somewhat permanent) house. My most loved treasures will breathe a sigh of relief as I tear the tape off those cardboard boxes and set them safely around my room. Walt Whitman and Ernest Hemingway will find each other on my bookshelf. My closet will radiate 1960s glamour. My favourite boots will be lined up in a row, ready to conquer Fall '08. Bird necklaces will fly off my wall. Painting will occur because the room will feel like home. And New Order will be playing in the background.