That's the lipstick that can't fade when you wake yourself up
you've been talking in your sleep and the worst part is
when you can't shut yourself up.

And the words that you hear seem torn and still true
so awful and perfect that listening is too much
but they are your own words.
How clumsy of me.

And the worst part is when you want to be quiet
but the sleep self denies, and lives through the night
speaking things you didn't know you could understand.

So you bite your own tongue and you dissolve your own words
they don't feel like yours, do they?
But your lips are stained
and they look the perfectly awful colour of the truth
so waking up and seeing your face adorned
with the mouth of someone who shouts the answers

the answers you didn't know you could understand,
feels distantly powerful.

The memories of the sleep shout are dead, they've gone to a space
that doesn't exist when you try for it.
And you are clumsy again
and you wait, again, for night to come.
To speak what is horrifyingly, beautifully whole.

I was always taught about boundaries. What they were, where they are, and when and when not to break them.
"Don't be afraid to colour outside of the lines!"
"Don't let him do anything that makes you uncomfortable."
"Four-paragraphs, typed, double-spaced, MLA-style, 17,000 words."
From some people, I have been taught that they are restrictive, others say that they provide the order needed to function. I have decided that they simply provide context, and border the limitations of whatever they surround.

I find myself in-between borders right now. Recently, I moved out on my own. Completely. I have a room and a kitchen and a bath to myself. Most of my friends are envious, but I am slightly daunted. Without the context of my family, who am I?

At school, I am the student. The actor. The best friend and the class clown. What am I when I am alone?

Leaving home has been a flurry. I am still deeply connected to my family, and they are just a phone call or a plane ride away. But they aren't here.

School is a perfect new context: I have a family there, I connect with them, and I love them. But none of them define me like the people I grew up with.

When all the distracting is done (my computer is off, the books are closed, and the classes are over), I have been finding myself lying in bed, weeping. I miss my dad's voice, and my cat's yowels. I even miss my sibling's little fights. I miss my mum's jokes, her hugs, her words of wisdom. And I miss my house.

They will always be an important part of my life. Always.
I am mourning my separation from them, even though they are still here.
And I am scared to move out into the world of adulthood, real work, and living.

This too shall pass: one day, I won't feel so disconnected. One day, I will have my own family. Today, I extend into the world. Scared, and new. But I will always have roots to return to, no matter where I find myself.

I love you all, and miss you tremendously.

The day started at nine with the sun waking me up, and not my alarm for once. Breakfast was cereal, broccoli and cauliflower, and chocolate cake. I went downtown because it clears my head. This city's downtown feels like a film: even the beggars sell underground newspapers and sing show-tunes. I debate if I should buy some silly shoes I saw in a window. Instead, I move toward Chinatown and sneak through a bicycle alley to a coffee shop for some liquid awakeness. As soon as I step out the door, a lady offers me a card: a golden Buddha, for fortune. Hand-painted. She says namaste in parting.
I call Mum because I promised, but mostly I need advice. I sit on a bench and smell mini-donuts and we talk.
At Russell's, I buy two Shaffer plays I've been meaning to read for ages.
I stop at The Patch, essential to most of my downtown trips, determined to browse only. I leave with a big brown sweater, a scarf, and bone earrings.

Downtown, this downtown, lets me think. I write better, I think better, and I even smell better after spending an hour there. I never liked the one back home that was cold and busy. This one is small and slightly pretentious, but charming.

This day was my day. I was self-indulgent so I could forget about exams, required readings, and renting a home. I wear the souvenirs of that trip to keep that feeling with me. That downtown feeling.

To ask, "Why?!"

Nothing just happens. I've become conditioned to accept things as they come, not wondering about the reasons things happen.

That is one of the words that comes out of the mouth of a child most frequently. They want to know how everything works, how the world is...they have so much to discouver.

Don't I? In my classes, I am given facts. This is how it is, how it was. The girl in me, the one who went through school needing to know the backstage to every bit of information, and has emerged. I'm asking questions again. I am curious, and I don't intend to change.

Why not?

I talk you over the mountains to this seat in the sand
where we lie. It is a blanket in a million pieces.
Did you laugh?
I can understand why, reading the lines around your mouth.

There is water, unfriendly brine. Too grey to explore today,
so you - always with more spirit - test it with your finger
but are shocked away.
We will come back when the sun is out.

You and I speak and the words are never words.
My hands are never just hands, your eyes more than what they see.
And everything that passes
is true.

I was watching the water collect in pools all over. The bunnies don't seem to mind being soggy. I took my bike to keep my feet dry.

Regina Spektor - Braille


She was lying on the floor and counting stretch marks
she hadn't been a virgin and he hadn't been a god
so she names the baby Elvis
to make up for the royalty he lacked

And from then on it was turpentine and patches
from then on it was cold Campbell's from the can
They were just two jerks playing with matches
Cause that's all they knew how to play

And it was raining cats and dogs out side of her window
And she knew they were destined to become
sacred road kill on the way
And she was listening to the sound of heavens shaking
thinking about puddles, puddles and mistakes

Now it's turpentine and patches
Now it's cold, cold Campbell's from the can
They were just two jerks playing with matches
Cause that's all they knew how to play

Elvis never could carry a tune
she thought about this irony as she stared back at the moon
she was tracing the years with her fingers on her skin
saying why don't I begin again
with turpentine and patches
with cold Campbell's from the can
after all I'm still a jerk playing with matches
it's just that he's not around to play along
I'm still an ass hole playing with matches
Blowing out my wishes blowing out my dreams
Just sitting here and trying to decipher
what's written in Braille upon my skin...

I'd like to think I understand. But I know what goes on is beyond my reach of comprehension.

Despite much media coverage and corporate support, one of the world's most horrific natural disasters goes unchecked. And often ignored.

HIV/AIDS affects millions around the world, but it rages most terribly in Sub-Saharan Africa. It is not uncommon to be born with the illness or to have relatives taken by it. It is not uncommon to suffer a painful death in a crowded hospital. And that is if you are lucky.

The real injustice of the entire situation is how preventable the illness is. Treatment has been developed that drastically improves quality of life by making it manageable.

And yet, it rages on.

These people are not often educated about the use of condoms and the practice of safe sex. Awareness is being spread, but more is needed.

Many cannot afford medicine. To them, it is a death sentence.

Today, December 1st, is Word AIDS day. Please take this opportunity to make yourself aware. Make others aware. Get talking!

Some resources

Otter's blog with part one of Stephen Fry's documentary
The Stephen Lewis Foundation website (Excellent information from this grassroots organization. Link to donate, news of changes made and ways to help)
Product (RED) Information on what different companies are doing to raise awareness and funds.
AFP Article

I tried to write some poetry last night

but the well was dry, taxed too far

I've stolen sips once in awhile

and the perfect water kept my throat wet

Tangible and tasty droplets teased my tongue

and I drank until they became grains of salt.

That was when I choked.

Some of the brine is still in my eyes

and they sting, everything is seen through a new lens.

Yet the blurred faces still make sense to me.

And I understand their smiles.

Perhaps someday my vision will clear.

Maybe I will never be thirsty.

I think I will drink my water

From another pool, this time.

Nature had it right the first time.

Observe, become.

...you'll know it!