short passages / observations / reflections
⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .˚ 𖥔˚ . 𐭩ᡣ˚.⋆
You to I.
Letter addressed to: Jeanine. Letter from: Jeanine
Hey you,
Its funny, being here.
The clouds feel smothering at times, today more than other days.
Smothering me not in the way my mother smothers me
affectionately after a long time apart, but in the way
of itching and twitching to get out from under them.
Somewhere beyond the mist is a beautifully clear blue sky. I’ve seen it, she’s there and she’s wonderful!
I want to blow at the sky and spread the cream cheese thick on rye, crank up the volume and kick back,
very far back.
I can’t kick back the way I can when the clouds are gone.
They bother me and I can’t shake them.
I feel I won’t make much of today, but its only twelve fifty-eight and maybe it will happen later.
It’s funny, being here.
Being here where no one knows I’m here, or that I’m newly here, that the clouds are smothering me here, no different than how they smother when I’m not here.
It’s funny, but I’m not laughing (yet).
It’s fine and sometimes alienating, the days are long, the water has a weird taste, and the coffee is reasonably priced.
I’m fighting the lonelies by blasting Yo La Tengo, drinking buckets of tea, and fighting the urge to think of time spent as wasted.
You hang in there,
From I.
⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .˚ 𖥔˚ . 𐭩ᡣ˚.⋆
Time is Money.
Time goes on for every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day, of every week, of every month, of every year, of every leap year, of every decade, of every century, of every epoch, of every period, of every era, of the entire eon. Time supposedly heals all wounds. It is something we can use efficiently, sparingly, something we can ‘waste’ by not fulfilling ‘productive’ time. We can have a good time; as can we have a bad time. We can also have an O.K time. We have explored how to kill time, we dream of going back in time and speculate travelling forward in time. We can buy time by doing other things than what we intended, and sell our time by means of a wage. We complete things ahead of time, think about someone all the time, nag at people who take their time. We have selected a prime time, wish someone has the best time, reflect on moments as the worst time, have the time of ones life, all in good time. The currency of this time, is money.
Money goes on for every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day, of every week, of every month, of every year, of every leap year, of every decade, of every century, of every epoch, of every period, of every era, of the entire eon. Money supposedly heals all wounds. It is something we can use efficiently, sparingly, something we can ‘waste’ by not fulfilling ‘productive’ money. We can have good money; as can we have bad money. We can also have OK money. We have explored how to kill money, we dream of going back in money and speculate travelling forward in money. We can buy money by doing other things than what we intended, and sell our money by means of a wage. We complete things ahead of money, think about someone all the money, nag at people who take their money. We have selected a prime money, wish someone has the best money, reflect on moments as the worst money, have the money of ones life. All in good, good money.
⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .˚ 𖥔˚ . 𐭩ᡣ˚.⋆
Conversations to my right on the bus.
It is 1971 and the boy is on the bus from Downtown to Commercial Drive, where he lives. He is seven years old with his teeth tender and his nails short. The sleeves of his oversized cotton shirt are rolled up and he sits eagerly, waiting for the moment to alert the bus driver of his stop. He lives on Commercial Drive with his mother and his baby sister who greet him with post-school porridge and hot tea, the boy’s cheeks sticky from the lunch-time jam war. The short hairs on his forehead are clumped by salt of sweat, he is yet to learn to tie his undone laces.
Today is 51 years later and he is still on the bus from Downtown to Commercial Drive. He sits beside a woman, aged 64, whom he compliments by stating that she looks younger than she is. He begins to explain his age, that he is two years shy of 60 and speculates his perception of time. He is on the same bus that he has been all these years and this is special for him by the sheer repetition of the fact. He believes that when he was 25 years old, he sat down, and woke up 50. He hears that after 60 years of age, time slows down. He claims this is partly due to illness and forgetfulness and partly due to a dread of life that slows down one’s perception of time. He is on his way home to his wife and his daughter who wait to greet him with porridge and tea, with his cheeks sticky from a viscous smudge of time. The view from his bedroom window overlooks his childhood home, his window a 30 by 50-inch frame of his youth.
⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .˚ 𖥔˚ . 𐭩ᡣ˚.⋆
Dictionary of Memories.
A dictionary of the memories of growing up in an international community and the differing traditions around eating food in the evening.
SUPPER. Shared with friends and family around the table that seats 6 but is occupied by 8. Usually at half past six after a long afternoon of playing outside. Feet muddy, cheeks scarlett. Post-play giggles linger around the table as the pan is placed in the center of the table on the cork mat. Each plate is served up and we eat quickly, eager to pick up where we left off before bedtime comes near. We have to calculate the half hour wait after eating before we can go out again, else we might feel poorly.
TEA. “What’s for tea?”, we ask as our muddy feet meet the ‘welcome home’ doormat. Households with tea time are the busier households with an often ‘grab-and-go’ style of eating. Hence, time for tea is when you are hungry, but you aren’t to wait too long as not to have to scavenge through the bits leftover. Tea is a fixed structure of potato - veg - meat components, unless its curry night. Tea time is casual, easy going, and anonymous.
DINNER. Dinner time is at 7, don’t be late, dad gets off work at 6, there may be traffic. Don’t have lunch after 4 - you won’t be hungry for dinner. We’re having whatever we have left in the fridge, this isn’t a restaurant! No phones at the table. Get your elbows off the table. What did I say about phones at the table? Stop bickering, this is the only time of the day we spend as a family. No, you can not skip dinner to see your friends. You can finish your game later. Finish your plate, no food goes to waste.
EVENING MEAL. We set the table for the evening meal, light candles part of the centerpiece around which we gather, and listen to Dave Brubeck among other musicians, the pace of which is slow as not to irritate the jazz-opposed. The tablecloth is stained but washed, the cutlery shiny and complete, well-worn. We hover over topics relevant to the time and day and dwell on the likeness of being. The evening meal is something to look forward to and something we look back on.
⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .˚ 𖥔˚ . 𐭩ᡣ˚.⋆
short passages / observations / reflections
⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .˚ 𖥔˚ . 𐭩ᡣ˚.⋆
You to I.
Letter addressed to: Jeanine. Letter from: Jeanine
Hey you,
Its funny, being here.
The clouds feel smothering at times, today more than other days.
Smothering me not in the way my mother smothers me
affectionately after a long time apart, but in the way
of itching and twitching to get out from under them.
Somewhere beyond the mist is a beautifully clear blue sky. I’ve seen it, she’s there and she’s wonderful!
I want to blow at the sky and spread the cream cheese thick on rye, crank up the volume and kick back,
very far back.
I can’t kick back the way I can when the clouds are gone.
They bother me and I can’t shake them.
I feel I won’t make much of today, but its only twelve fifty-eight and maybe it will happen later.
It’s funny, being here.
Being here where no one knows I’m here, or that I’m newly here, that the clouds are smothering me here, no different than how they smother when I’m not here.
It’s funny, but I’m not laughing (yet).
It’s fine and sometimes alienating, the days are long, the water has a weird taste, and the coffee is reasonably priced.
I’m fighting the lonelies by blasting Yo La Tengo, drinking buckets of tea, and fighting the urge to think of time spent as wasted.
You hang in there,
From I.
⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .˚ 𖥔˚ . 𐭩ᡣ˚.⋆
Time is Money.
Time goes on for every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day, of every week, of every month, of every year, of every leap year, of every decade, of every century, of every epoch, of every period, of every era, of the entire eon. Time supposedly heals all wounds. It is something we can use efficiently, sparingly, something we can ‘waste’ by not fulfilling ‘productive’ time. We can have a good time; as can we have a bad time. We can also have an O.K time. We have explored how to kill time, we dream of going back in time and speculate travelling forward in time. We can buy time by doing other things than what we intended, and sell our time by means of a wage. We complete things ahead of time, think about someone all the time, nag at people who take their time. We have selected a prime time, wish someone has the best time, reflect on moments as the worst time, have the time of ones life, all in good time. The currency of this time, is money.
Money goes on for every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day, of every week, of every month, of every year, of every leap year, of every decade, of every century, of every epoch, of every period, of every era, of the entire eon. Money supposedly heals all wounds. It is something we can use efficiently, sparingly, something we can ‘waste’ by not fulfilling ‘productive’ money. We can have good money; as can we have bad money. We can also have OK money. We have explored how to kill money, we dream of going back in money and speculate travelling forward in money. We can buy money by doing other things than what we intended, and sell our money by means of a wage. We complete things ahead of money, think about someone all the money, nag at people who take their money. We have selected a prime money, wish someone has the best money, reflect on moments as the worst money, have the money of ones life. All in good, good money.
⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .˚ 𖥔˚ . 𐭩ᡣ˚.⋆
Conversations to my right on the bus.
It is 1971 and the boy is on the bus from Downtown to Commercial Drive, where he lives. He is seven years old with his teeth tender and his nails short. The sleeves of his oversized cotton shirt are rolled up and he sits eagerly, waiting for the moment to alert the bus driver of his stop. He lives on Commercial Drive with his mother and his baby sister who greet him with post-school porridge and hot tea, the boy’s cheeks sticky from the lunch-time jam war. The short hairs on his forehead are clumped by salt of sweat, he is yet to learn to tie his undone laces.
Today is 51 years later and he is still on the bus from Downtown to Commercial Drive. He sits beside a woman, aged 64, whom he compliments by stating that she looks younger than she is. He begins to explain his age, that he is two years shy of 60 and speculates his perception of time. He is on the same bus that he has been all these years and this is special for him by the sheer repetition of the fact. He believes that when he was 25 years old, he sat down, and woke up 50. He hears that after 60 years of age, time slows down. He claims this is partly due to illness and forgetfulness and partly due to a dread of life that slows down one’s perception of time. He is on his way home to his wife and his daughter who wait to greet him with porridge and tea, with his cheeks sticky from a viscous smudge of time. The view from his bedroom window overlooks his childhood home, his window a 30 by 50-inch frame of his youth.
⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .˚ 𖥔˚ . 𐭩ᡣ˚.⋆
Dictionary of Memories.
A dictionary of the memories of growing up in an international community and the differing traditions around eating food in the evening.
SUPPER. Shared with friends and family around the table that seats 6 but is occupied by 8. Usually at half past six after a long afternoon of playing outside. Feet muddy, cheeks scarlett. Post-play giggles linger around the table as the pan is placed in the center of the table on the cork mat. Each plate is served up and we eat quickly, eager to pick up where we left off before bedtime comes near. We have to calculate the half hour wait after eating before we can go out again, else we might feel poorly.
TEA. “What’s for tea?”, we ask as our muddy feet meet the ‘welcome home’ doormat. Households with tea time are the busier households with an often ‘grab-and-go’ style of eating. Hence, time for tea is when you are hungry, but you aren’t to wait too long as not to have to scavenge through the bits leftover. Tea is a fixed structure of potato - veg - meat components, unless its curry night. Tea time is casual, easy going, and anonymous.
DINNER. Dinner time is at 7, don’t be late, dad gets off work at 6, there may be traffic. Don’t have lunch after 4 - you won’t be hungry for dinner. We’re having whatever we have left in the fridge, this isn’t a restaurant! No phones at the table. Get your elbows off the table. What did I say about phones at the table? Stop bickering, this is the only time of the day we spend as a family. No, you can not skip dinner to see your friends. You can finish your game later. Finish your plate, no food goes to waste.
EVENING MEAL. We set the table for the evening meal, light candles part of the centerpiece around which we gather, and listen to Dave Brubeck among other musicians, the pace of which is slow as not to irritate the jazz-opposed. The tablecloth is stained but washed, the cutlery shiny and complete, well-worn. We hover over topics relevant to the time and day and dwell on the likeness of being. The evening meal is something to look forward to and something we look back on.
⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .˚ 𖥔˚ . 𐭩ᡣ˚.⋆