Fix me

*Note: I wrote this one on January 26, but I was too scared to post, but now that it's been some time, it's not as hard to post it nor as meaningful  In another sense, it's not as fresh as it was the day I wrote it, so I feel less vulnerable. Please forgive the lateness and the cheesiness, I was never quite finished with this one.


Goodbye.

I feel like all I've been saying lately are goodbyes.

Today it was "Goodbye J."

Goodbye J. When will we be in the same country again? I miss being in kindergarten.

Bye. Don't cry, I'll be home in a month. I miss your cooking.

Bye. I hope you have a great birthday. I miss our two hour car rides every day.

Bye. Don't grow up too fast. I miss you telling me how I suck at using technology.

Bye. Sometimes, I wish I didn't leave. I miss being close.

Bye. You amaze me. I miss seeing your stylishness each Sunday morning and your cakes.

Bye. I do wonder what it would be like to go to school with you. I miss teaching with you.

Bye. You are blessed with so much potential that you have yet to realize. I miss you driving me crazy.

Bye. You have blossomed into a beautiful dancer and young lady. I miss our early morning talks.

Bye. I am still astounded when I think back to that insane month of February. I miss rehearsals with you.


Most of my goodbyes are for a distance of 452 kilometres.
Compared to some people, that's nothing.

But, sometimes, it doesn't matter how far. Being separated at all is hard enough.

This time was different.

I didn't want to come back here. I didn't want to say goodbye.

And as I sit here with your suitcase, I wish you had come along to  deliver it.

So I could say-

Goodbye.
Don't leave.
Come back.

I miss you.


Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you

Someone, fix me.

Writing centres...

This morning, I had an appointment at the University College writing centre in Laidlaw Library.
Here's a photo I took this morning on my way back to res.

The work I brought in this time was not an essay for a school course, but two pieces of writing I'd like to enter in a contest or possible to be published in a school magazine this year.

(...if you would like to skip my commentary, scroll down to read the piece of writing)

It's funny because whenever I'm confident enough to have a piece of writing edited or read by someone else, it means I'm feeling pretty good about it. So, I pulled out two of my better pieces, fixed a few things and brought them in.

Dr. P is only person I have met who seems to purposefully make me feel uncomfortable about my writing. Purposefully. But, that is one of the reasons he's my favourite writing instructor. He holds nothing back as he criticizes and fixes my writing. He asks me what I'm trying to say in every. single. sentence. Not only does he completely take apart the content, but he dissects the grammar as well.

I mean, how scary is it to have someone read your part of your diary and then ask what you mean by "I thought he was cute because he had blue eyes." Did you think he was cute because of his blue eyes? Did you think he was cute then you noticed he had blue eyes? Why did you think he was cute? Does being cute really have to do with his blue eyes? Or was it something more? Why did you notice he had blue eyes? I'm not following your train of thought!

Terrifying.

It really is.

What I mean to say is...Everytime I go to the writing centre with a piece of work, it (what a vague usage, we talked about this, I'm supposed to explain "it"-alright, what I really mean is, "the session") makes me feel terrible. It does. Going the the writing centre, I needed the assurance that it was a candidate to be published. Then as I'm trying to explain my emotions that I've written down on paper, I feel like I have no idea what I was thinking when I had typed it out.

It's as if he took apart my life in ten minutes and teaches me to put it back together in the next forty.

Nevertheless, I love going there.

Ironically, I always feel like the best writer I could possibly by the time I leave.

Going there I feel confident. Being there makes me feel like crap. But, before I leave, Dr. P always tells me that my writing is...good.

I suppose, that's why I keep going back. I'm always left with some renewed confidence and optimism which makes me forget that being there makes me feel quite terrible.

Despite all that, here is the piece we spent most of the hour on. It did have a title, but only because I needed one for it when I submitted it, but I prefer to have untitled.

Oh, just one last note:

A piece of writing is always a work in progress.


_______________________________________________________________________

Blue Monday, nice ladies and Ballet class

This past Monday is supposedly called "Blue Monday."

It is calculated to be the most depressing day of the year.
You can read about it here: http://www.squidoo.com/depressingday

I suppose you could say I was feeling a little under the weather on Monday, but it was a bit more than that. With combination of dramatic news and cold weather, my head was buzzing by the afternoon. Not the nice kind of buzzing that I hear a good dose of alcohol gives you, but a warm, sluggish, nothingmakingsense kind of buzzing.

I wasn't quite feeling all that active. What I really wanted to do more than anything was crawl back into bed, curl up in a ball and sleep.

Being let out about half an hour early from management class was nice, but walking to the streetcar stop was nothing more and nothing less than cold. Frigid, windy, cold. For once, I wish I had one of those embarrassingly puffy coats that go down past your knees.

As I walked down Jarvis, I noted that Tuesday must be garbage collection day.

When I walked into the studio, my head cleared. Just a bit. Or I'd like to think so at least.

I'm still afraid of disappointment, my extensions that now barely reach 90 degrees, my centre is soft, my feet are now weak. But, I was already there and all I should do is to take it as it is. Then came warm-up, tendus, pliés...and at the end of the rond de jambe, we posed: Arabesque à terre with arms reaching back just a little.

The teacher asks me to demonstrate it. Feeling a little awkward and a little déjà vu, I plié and chassé into arabesque.

The lady behind me at the bar leans over and whispers, "your arabesque is gorgeous."