Thanks & Nostalgia

It’s hard to remember to be thankful when my grandparent’s house suddenly feels shrunk by the influx of relatives.
The air is thick with boisterous laughter and stories. Some funny, some unnecessary.
The floor is littered with spoken, inexorable opinions. (Forgotten for now but they will undoubtedly be picked up and shown around again.)
All I want to do is hide. (And I do, for a while, with my fellow hermit brothers.)

It’s hard to remember to be thankful when I think that this time next year this house that my grandparents have lived in the past 50 years will be sold and they will have moved to be closer to their only daughter (my mother). I’m going to miss this house so much; it is the place I love most next to my own home. Though I am glad they're moving closer...
It troubles me to see how much my grandfather has aged. How slow his movements are… how hunched he stands. (My grandmother seems the same as ever, gentle and full of helpful energy. But still, she's aging too.) I hate how old everyone is getting! Including myself.

It wasn’t until I lay in bed Thanksgiving night that I finally gave thanks to God for His many blessings. I think this year I am thankful for the memories most of all. I cannot contemplate a life without memories. Right now, especially, since remembrances of my grandparent's house are filling my head....

Watching shows like The Brady Bunch and Leave it to Beaver on cable. (Quite a treat for us!)

Anticipating Christmas in the basement with the cousins. (Wondering why the adults upstairs keep talking and drinking coffee while we can’t keep our eyes off the tree and the presents underneath it.)

Playing the ancient piano in the basement that hasn’t been in tune for several decades, at least.

Swinging on the swing on the slope (aka 'hill') in their backyard. Closing my eyes and pretending I was flying. Arguing with siblings and cousins whose turn it was. Sadness when most of us grew too big for it.

Blowing out the gas flame in the fireplace with fellow curly-haired mischievous cousin… The confession when the basement started to smell of gas. (No harm done, thankfully. We weren’t the first ones to do that, either. The constant blue flame proved too great a temptation for quite a few of our predecessors and successors.)

Laughter in the teeny kitchen, crazy games in the basement with my siblings… the list goes on.

My older-younger brother and I used to say that we would buy this house someday and live in it. That thought makes me sad now.

Moving on is bittersweet, I am truly realizing that now. Overall though, I am thankful for the wonderful times I had here and glad I can remember them with such happiness.

(I found this picture in my grandparent’s basement. It’s me, around 4 years old or so, on the aforementioned swing.)


{Sorry if this post isn't very coherent. I'm overflowing with contradictory emotions, reminiscences and tiredness. Oi.}

Perfect Stranger

Across a room that teems with faces
Is your face. A stranger's face.
You're a perfect stranger,
My perfect stranger.
I've never seen a stranger as perfect as you!
So perfect for me!

I hate missed connections and
This threatens to be one.
So, let's meet
Quickly! Before it's too late
And we leave on separate paths.
Divided without ever being whole,
Without knowing our perfect strangers.
For I hope that I am your perfect stranger too?

Some day, I think, we will be strangers
No more.
A little strange? Admittedly.
Estranged? Never!
Perfect for each other? Always.

{Picture from the film Amélie.}

Appreciation for the familiar.

"When you talked earlier about, after a few years, how a couple would begin to hate each other by anticipating their reactions or getting tired of their mannerisms… I think it would be the opposite for me… I think I can really fall in love when I know everything about someone. The way he’s going to part his hair, which shirt he’s going to wear that day… knowing the exact story he’d tell in a given situation.
I’m sure that’s when I’d know I’m really in love."

~Céline, Before Sunrise~
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Do you feel that way? I do. Sometimes I think there is nothing so comforting as the familiar. Sure, experiencing new things is great; the thrill of the unknown is unparalleled! But at the end of the day I just want to be reassured by something predictable. Though I am not one for daily rituals that must be performed. Just being in a familiar place with the people I love and know is enough for me.
{...Though this is probably because I'm a major homebody.}

The burgeoning story.

I've been carrying around a story in my head for a while now.
Not a short story, as in a few pages and it's done. No... this is much longer than that. It's patiently been humming in the back of my brain. I've been ignoring it. But now its kicking against the bars of my mind.
I can't neglect it much longer. It's burning a hole in my pocket. I can feel it tingling on the tips of my fingers.
It wants to be told!

It's like carrying around a mouthful of water. I know I shall either have to spit it out or swallow it. Swallowing it would be the coward's way out. I know I'm going to have to spit it out. Soon. And it will be so relieving!

But till then, I am holding it close to me, not wanting to let it go yet. Why, I wonder? I think because I am afraid it shall disappoint me. I am afraid that it will cheapen and lose its lustre in the harsh light of reality.
Also, I'm in the midst of two other stories. One I am at a standstill with. The second I have been nursing for about a year. They are both technically on back burners already...

Hm... I think this story is about to get its long deserved turn at front and center in my literary efforts.

la marionnette.

Brittle bones that can barely hold the weight of my inadequacy.
Lungs filled with glass, vocal chords that only speak carefully chosen words.
Strings attached to my meaningless limbs, a tawdry frock whose garishness I detest.
A painted smile, a mask I cannot, dare not crack.

I am a marionette.
My master is a harsh one.
"Dance, dance!" she cries.
All I want is to sleep.
Sometimes I think I'd rather be dead, than alive through her maneuverings.

{Distorted carnival sounds;
Bright and coloured lights that whirl.
A carousel that never stops,
A ferris wheel stuck at the top.}

"Dance, my puppet! Danse, ma poupée!"

On the stage with the blinding lights, the insincere music never ceases.
My dance of my deceit never ends.
All in hopes to please the audience that I'm afraid to look at now.

The hands that fashioned me were gentle,
I remember them faintly, faintly.
My creator made me with a purpose!
I remember his kind voice told me.
He put something of himself in my heart.
I can still feel it pulsing, pumping his life into me those times when I want death.

I wish I could have stayed with him,
directed by his wise hands
But someone... someone thought they knew better than my creator.
That someone thought they could control me better than he ever could.

So, I jerk and bob to the unrelenting commands;
Too broken to make things right.
Forever to be haunted by this knowledge:
The someone who holds my strings,
the someone who controls my actions.... is no one but myself.

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{I wrote this yesterday when I was supposed to be doing school, hehe. A lot of my writing seems to get done when I'm supposed to be doing other things... like sleeping! Ah well.
And while, yes, this is allegorical, it is not a representation of how I'm feeling right now. I just don't want anyone to worry about me; I'm fine! Admittedly though, I have felt this way in the past.}


{Image found here.}