Something To Muse Over

As if I don't do enough of that these days. I checked my "thoughts" tab and I have 17 of those pesky things. Talking about various things that quite honestly just repeat themselves over and over again. I have no more original thoughts, just trite sayings repackaged in shiny word wrapping.

I would be sure I am boring people, but I only have five people who read my blog, so there is not much of a problem there. And I missed the disjointed way of expressing my thoughts, because it was so easy to digress forgivingly and hide my thoughts behind beautified words and phrases.

. . .

Stella first transferred to our school in grade nine, and our first impression of her was "bookworm and computer geek." She was the girl who read in all of her classes, going through a book every three days.

I was the girl who read while walking down the halls, narrowly avoiding trees and lamp posts and the tangy metal lockers painted brown-green-blue. Who volunteered at the school library in part so she could get new books before everyone else saw them.

Maybe we were destined to be friends.

Or maybe we were only friends because we sat next to each other in BTT, and I was the only girl in the class aside from her who knew how to code a website.

On the bus ride to Niagara Falls she, horrendously bus-sick, slept on my shoulder, and I wondered, what happened to Nora? Since when had I stopped sharing everything with Nora and hung out with Stella instead? Nora, who was as close to a best friend as I had ever had. Stella, who I now walked home with for lunch every single day.

The week we got back the principal's office called for Nora. She went and did not come back for the day. Later on she told me the principal accused her of changing her (and a lot of other people's) grades in our science teacher's grade-book.

"Do they think that, even if I did change it, I would be so stupid as to give myself a really high grade?"

That was what she said. She thought another friend of hers was responsible.

But I remembered doubting her, even though I would have trusted her just a year ago. And I wondered how that had happened. How I had come to realize she was not all that innocent.

. . .

The first time I went back I met up with Clover and JJ. We watched movies at Clover's house and played some Wii game. Then we walked through the dark roads near Finch and Vic Park to JJ's house. Her parents were still awake, anxious, because she had called nearly an hour ago and forgot to call later.

As for my parents, well, they had no idea I was walking outside at midnight.

There are a lot of things my parents did not know about me. A lot more things they still do not know about me. Late-night excursions outside was only one of them.

But for some reason nearly all of these things involve night-time.

I may have a too-deep love for the night. It is, after all, where my dreams flourish. Entangled. Silvery-black. I have written about dreams, and written about night, and I must have written about hiding things from my parents.

So when we stayed up until three in the morning, watching silly dramas that made no sense and trying hard not to sleep, I should not have felt odd. Not at all.

Not nostalgia. I do not know what that means anymore.

. . .

I can feel it in my throat, first. A tingling feeling that trickles down to my stomach. I refuse to believe it is my heart. It strikes when I am at my house, or else when I am with a friend, or else when I am at a party. It is perhaps envy, I think, but that cannot be so when I am alone. It should not be nostalgia, as I am wont to believe, because how can you be nostalgic in your own home?

House, I mean. How can you be nostalgic in your own house?

But the tingling, breath-taking feeling lingers. It starts to hurt to breathe. I am longing for something, I realize. Desperately longing for something that is not quite there. I am reminded of it alone, or else with friends, or else with strangers. It is there when I laugh. It is there when I cry.

Undefinable. Yet ever present.

I think I want something tangible, because I am too materialistic to want something intangible. I want something I can touch, something I can hold. Something that does not ring in my ears as laughter does. Something that smells sweeter than the crumpled shirt by my bed.

I want it so badly I cannot breathe. I can only want. I let it fall down my throat, and when it passes I am normal again, only left with a faint maybe I should.

Maybe I should. But what is it that I should?

I call it nostalgia, even though it cannot be nostalgia, because how can you be nostalgic when you are still in your own house?

Such a ridiculous notion.

. . .

I still talk to Stella sometimes. She is the same. Bookworm. Computer geek. School-hater. A little bit paranoid. Very much so adorably hilarious. I think that is why we all loved her.

She took onto me because I was slightly more computer-literate than everyone else. Not by much. And because I put up with her rants. In return I learned about the precarious situation I was placing my computers into (the ever-present and ever-imminent bot-net threat), why I should play whatever game it was that she was interested in at the time, and someone to walk home with for lunch.

Where she would complain about vegetables.

And we would both agree that we liked potatoes.

She is the first person I talk to when I am going through my list of Canadian friends. And the one who always responds.

But I have not seen her in years.

I always think I am about to lose her. So close. One of these days she will just be a name, and I will stare at it and never muster up the courage to talk to her again. One of these days I will forget the Toronto skyline, forget the summer bright nights and the TTC through Vic Park-Finch-Don Mills. Where Fairview is. The newly renovated Fairview, all huge and glamorous and confusing.

The feeling in my throat is back again.

My Dear, I Don't Give a Damn

About trying to figure out what I want anymore. The past few days has gotten me thinking, I suppose, and suddenly I'm tired of thinking. Instead, I want to write. Mindlessly, because heaven knows how much thinking I've been doing lately (especially since some of it concerns heaven).

. . .

"I don't really talk to the old people anymore," Nora told me over the phone.

I nodded, but she couldn't see anyway. I knew who she was talking about. JJ and Clover, and maybe even Stella, although she and Stella were never really close anyway. My most vivid memory of them was the time they fought over who I should follow. I went with Stella that time, and Nora had been mad at me for weeks.

"I've got my boyfriend," she went on to say. "That's all I need now."

Clover told me later that Nora was a "changed girl." I mentioned the boyfriend. Clover had scoffed and asked, "Which one?"

"It's more than I can say," I said. Nora had changed, but so had Clover. So had the city.

But that was later. Right then, all I said was, "I'll call you later, Nora. When I get the time."

Which I never did, rather unfortunately.

But that was all later.

. . .

I did not know her, although my mom did, and that was all that mattered these days. She swirled her coffee-flavoured bubbled tea, just as I sipped on my taro one, and for a moment I could not imagine why anyone would drink anything other than taro-flavoured bubble tea. That it was an acquired taste, even for me.

The small things. The God of Small Things.

"If you don't find a boyfriend before you're out of college," she was saying to my mom, "you'll be doomed to be single for the rest of your life."

"It can't be that bad," my mom said.

"Yes, it is, for the girls it is. In Canada, anyway. Everywhere you go, you see single ladies. Even the ugly guys get snatched up like candy."

I would not have described him as candy. Sunshine, maybe. Not candy. Candy was for other things, things boys had no right to.

Sunshine and skies and marbles and metal posts and oh, yes, the Small Things, they were his. Things I would not—could not let go, because everything else I had to.

. . .

The green I knew well. Too well. It was bitter. I hated it because it was bitter.

Almost as much as I hated pain, as much as I hated raw tomatoes without sugar because they were so unforgivingly sour despite their intentions.

"You're going to Harvard, aren't you?" The man my mom knew as well asked me. I imagined it in a Boston drawl, although he did not know Bostonians had a separate accent. As far as he was concerned, there were only two accents of English. Proper English, and improper English. Foreigner English.

Harvard was a sharp edge on the borders of my carefully constructed dream world. It was too real, too out of reach to be real. It was what everyone wanted but me. Or was it?

I hated pain, hated sourness and bitterness, because they were sharp, cutting, unforgiving of anything soft and surreal. By definition, I should have hated Harvard too. I couldn't.

It is far from love, though.

. . .

University of Toronto, however, is not love, but close. I would not have said it without buildings like those of Trinity, but there are so many of them that I can only, in my analogies, describe it as lust.

I had Brent as an excuse for McGill, and buildings and grounds and pure beauty as excuses for the others. They were not the "legitimate" reasons, no. What about their research facilities? What about their teachers? What about their policies? What about their affordability?

The "proper" reasons. They were the ones that did not matter, it seemed.

University of Toronto was, for my purposes, anyway, just as good as Harvard. As one of the best schools (for the most part) in Canada, it had everything any other school could offer.

So then came the trivial reasons.

What is the campus like? Is it large? Urban? Can I get intoxicated in its buzzing aura?

How is the reputation?

What will the others say? Those back home?

Small Things. How could I forget?

. . .

We stood under the blaring white lights, fixated on even more flashing lights. The scene was oddly familiar. Like ghosts that came back to haunt old roosts. Like déjà vu, although technically the expression is missing a verb.

Clover is to one side. Sandy and Carren on the other end. We lift up our iPads, waving them furiously around. Plants vs. Zombies. It is nighttime. No more sunflowers. The mushrooms will have to do. How many mines can you plant? What about the big walnuts? Spikes? You can only choose six.

We left to watch Despicable Me (not The Sorcerer's Apprentice, because "those movies you can watch on Tuesdays, for half price"). It had me laughing and crying, hiding my tears in the darkness. The 3D glasses over my own was dizzying, but it was worth it. I should have brought a water bottle.

I thought I heard Tea there, and Bryant, and Tybalt, but not the Egg. I thought about him when I mentioned that Ariadne had an iPad. He was definitely there.

. . .

No, I would rather not have a smoothie, I thought. I hate smoothies. I don't know why.

"I'd like a peach and strawberry smoothie, please," I told the person behind the counter. She scooped the fruit into a cup, added a dollop of yoghurt, and put them in the blender. With apple juice.

I now knew why I hated smoothies. Maybe. I hate apple juice. I only like two fruits anyway. Peaches and strawberries.

I took the smoothie. "And a chocolate ice cream, please? In a cup."

The ice cream was for another friend of my mom's. I just took the smoothie. Peach and strawberry and yoghurt and apple juice.

Not taro.

. . .

The Apple reminds me of Möhre's hair, bright, blood red. We passed by the Apple every time. Commented on it. Said we'd go there.

We did.

They don't sell apples. They sell candied apples, and apple candy, and apple bread, but mostly they sold pies. Apple crumble pies and traditional pies and cherry and blueberry pies. Strawberry pies.

We took the maple apple pie. Maple, laughable. We were leaving and we took the one thing that could tie us back.

I had never tasted a maple apple pie before. It tastes just like any other pie. Better crust, I suppose. The Apple crust.

Red as the bloody mountain sunset red. Möhre's hair.

. . .

She did not hear anything he said, except that he loved her, but not anymore. Rhett loved her. Waited out for her. So afraid of being hurt that he destroyed himself. But it was Scarlett he dealt with. Perhaps he had reason. Ashley was attractive. Well-bred.

Created a suit, and he fit the model.

Ashley and his sunshine hair. His stormy-colored eyes, although he would never be stormy. He was too calm, too well-bred for that.

A suit.

After all, tomorrow was another day. I may not be here anymore, I once said. He was a suit.

Suits have parts. Coats. Lapels. Pants. Shirts. Fake shirts, in Johnny's case. Ties. Maybe a hat.

Big, intangible, but with parts. Small Things. But it ends there.

. . .

I never did call Nora. Later.

. . .

Rover was fine. "What's her name?" I asked. "Lavender," she said, tugging on the leash. "L-A-V-E-N-D-E-R."

I went back to Luke and told him of my findings. We now knew all the names of the dogs.

I wonder what it would be like if I had known Luke in Paperclip. He was in my grade. Home-schooled, though. Would he know me as me? Would he have some sort of preconception? How would I have reacted, seeing someone I knew? Silly me. I might not have known him.

He might not have been with Rover if he went to Paperclip.

Never question Fate, that's what Allison always says. Fate is a grand master. Allison is his queen. It makes Prescott a king. Dark or light? I'm tempted to say light. But he loves the dark queen.

Never tempt Fate. That's another thing Allison would say.