i guess i should thank the construction crew that i've been cursing all week; they got me to work on time this morning.

wake-up call

it never occurred to me that my own sister may find me interesting or important enough to want to read my journal. i was shocked to discover that she did and always had. i was even more shocked to discover that, although i write publicly and want to be heard, on some level, i don't really expect anyone to listen. 

maybe it wasn't "shock" after all. maybe it was disappointment--even for me, the low opinion was very low indeed.

during this first and sudden blizzard,

when a normally 30-min drive home took 2.5 hours
when i had to switch between the heater and the window because the heater was giving me a headache
when the window--or, more specifically, the -20C--gave me a different kind of headache
when i had to put on my hat but take off my much-too-warm coat
when i thought, "the good news is we're barely moving"; and then, "the bad news is we're barely moving"
when my filling decided to ache at the worst possible moment
when i got so hungry i thought, "if i have an accident here, god forbid, the police will have to feed me before i'm able to speak"
when my fear made me forget my hunger

when i was met with songs, aash, and warmth, after the final insult of the temporarily blocked driveway

i think i understand what happened. i joined with the intention of starting #RightToBreakSilence. i tried and tried. i quickly realized, in utter disbelief and frustration, how difficult it was to do anything with my limited network of non-strangers. "while i'm here," i thought, "i might as well share some writing." i remembered: "i don't want to just see causes"--and i felt less idiotic. i thought further: "this profile might as well look like a real person."

the more futile my activism, the more things spiral into this huge attention grab. but, as we discovered, i've never before been so intently focused on myself; on my own physicality; on my own weakness; on my own capacities and incapacities. i'm deeply aware of how childish this is.

i'm not ashamed.

perhaps everything will be easier if i learn to accept the (many) things i'm not. i'm not an artist. i'm not a photographer. i'm not a musician. i'm not a singer. i'm not an actor. i'm not overly intelligent. i'm not a scientist. i'm not an architect. 

these stark labels--labels whose boundaries i don't believe in--are simply to say that i have no talent in any of these fields. 

the things i am feel inadequate because i admit inadequacy.
the things i am are tiny shards of glass.

this is not "striving for better." this is not how people live.

a co-volunteer at a literary event this summer asked if i'm a writer.

no. well.. i write a bit of poetry, but no, not a writer.

she probed:

so...when do you move from "someone who writes poetry" to "poet"?

when indeed?

even while i think nothing of my work, my life is nothing without it; if i'm not writing, i'm not a person; i'm not worthwhile.

but to say "poet" is, for me, impossible.

what am i good at? quickly putting people at ease--making them feel like they can talk to me with little introduction or acquaintance. what's that called?

i was happier without social media.

i was aware in general but not in detail... i was upset and outraged and heartbroken, but i wasn't heavy as rocks, hurt as the hills... trampled, really, by the knowledge of every shooting, every detention, every settlement, demolition, smear campaign...

i wasn't faced with my insignificance every moment of every day.

the devil really is in the details, boys and girls. ignorance really is bliss.

i need... i need to write. something. anything. this constant refrain today, pushing, pressing, pulsing against my teeth. but the words are just out of reach... floating somewhere in my throat, caught beneath my tongue. they can't come out. they won't come out. they're not here. i'm not here.

a look through four years of journal entries has shown me how little i've changed.. how i keep falling into the same holes; keep clawing myself out, breaking the same nails; how my opinion of myself hasn't changed a molecule; how surprised i am, still, by the cruelty of the world

thoroughly inspired by last night's Open Floor event to write a spoken word piece
...
getting over my performance terror will be quite another matter

on the strength of olfactory memory

a hazelnut-flavoured coffee threw me back to classes at Sidney Smith with ferocious nostalgia; with the heartache of a lost love; with the breath, smiles, tears of all my life

i'm often told, now, that i "don't seem myself." which self do they mean? the self who socializes? the self whose face doesn't betray every painful/unhappy thought? the cheerful self who spreads cheer?

sometimes that self can't do it.

זיכרונו לברכה

may your memory be blessed. i'm writing these words for the second time in less than a week... a refuge in what feels like a truer expression of grief, of condolence. may your memory be a blessing.

for years, i thought of this day.. how we would take the loss--how we would feel his passing. i never imagined that it would be in such a world; that he would leave us in such a world.

there are no better words.. none more beautiful, none more elegant, none sharper, none finer, none more acute, more suspended in time and memory and life and love than your own

let's not talk of love or chains 
and things we can't untie
your eyes are soft with sorrow 
hey, that's no way to say goodbye...

we will miss you more than you could ever have known.

rest in peace, L. Cohen.

someone once told me, long ago, that deseeding a pomegranate is an expression of love.

yesterday

when i was supposed to be the strong one

when sonata told me that she thinks.. she thinks she was prepared; and i thought it was a good idea to sit down for this phone call

when i prayed that she didn't hear my voice shake

when i realized that it was the first lunch hour i need not call

when my manager was shocked at how quickly the burial took place... when i thought it's better this way--isn't waiting somehow heartless; somehow cruel

....

when my mom told me how the death of her father didn't truly hit her until much, much later. when i wished that i had not been so young; that i could remember more than his smile

when i wished, under and around my guilt, that i had been there for my father's parents

זיכרונה לברכה

Эмма наша дорогая
may your memory be blessed.. may your memory always be blessed with the warmth and kindness of your life

lay your head where my heart used to be ... you'll never be free of me

the conscious process of letting go--of a thought, an idea, a hope, a person, your understanding of things, your idea of yourself--while sad and uncomfortable and searingly painful, at first, should be empowering.

can i accept the fact that i may never be published? maybe.
will this stop me from writing? no.
if i don't have the talent to edit professionally, will i be ok with doing something else? i have to be.
if i'm not effective in any way--about anything--will i keep trying? probably; i'm a terrible idealist.

will i ever learn to be a calmer, more detached, more graceful person? probably not.
does any of this really matter? probably not.

just live. find a way to live.

The Song of Sisyphus

...feeling, now, that the trauma of immigration may have erased the memories i developed prior to the age of six. there are none before canada. i've never said this aloud. there are four or five images.. snapshots.. locations frozen in stiff black and white. and i'm not sure, still, whether the details are real or whether i've dreamt them--filled them in with other people's memories.

...

my mother's cousins passed through recently and told her a family story--a ghetto, an escape in the night, this cousin's father a witness to the deaths. one canadian memory confirmed, now, as real, with a mixture of relief and deep regret. my grandfather told me about this, although it had blurred over time and joined other half-memories. even my father knew--but my mother didn't; or did, once, and willingly forgot..