Pearson

Here are twelve ways of knowing/ what blooms even in the blindness/ of such longing.

It's late enough – and I'm sleepy enough – that I'm reluctant to commit to a lengthy post. Perhaps this disinclination to journal is an indication of my mental state, but what?

Just thought I'd share, however. I am in a gorgeous place – Project Week has come around again, and I find myself on Salt Spring Island once more, primed for a week of Adventure. (Actually.) My group is taking classes with this aerial silks studio (Google Aerial Silks, Salt Spring Island) and it promises to be … something excitingly new, if nothing else. My host family's house is absolutely lovely, with little cushy nooks everywhere, and lofts in both bedrooms, and a flourish of flowers in the entrance. There are skylights overhead, and the view is spectacular. I have set up camp in the loft, though two beds beckon below. The settledness of Canadian host families, the domestic bliss, unsettles me, however. More and more. I am catching wisps of thoughts in this direction: I can't, don't want to be settled and happy like this (yet). I need that constant caffeine buzz, deadlines jostling in the back of my mind, a little tension lining my sleep. Before, I used to lament the omnipresent stress in our lives, perhaps pressed into an MRT train during rush hour (though I heard it's gotten a lot worse), perhaps in a stolen hour between classes, books spread accusingly open before us. But there was always a caveat that I didn't think I would have it any other way, and after that, a nagging suspicion that it could just be a platitude to ease slightly the weight pressing into our shoulders.

Maybe not, if it keeps coming up. Or maybe cultural influences are hard to shake. Who knows? I am currently listening to this mix. But host families are also meant to be settled, meant to be happy, meant to have lived their lives with stories to tell. We see them at their rest, the plateau.

Then again, I might just be lying to myself. How will I know? These days things are getting better and worse, and is love as pure and consuming a state as I used to think? On Friday night there was an amazing theatre production by a co-year and for no reason at all, we had gotten a little closer, and then a lot, and the night before we discussed literature and university and Pearson, and after the show he wanted to talk about it, a sort of social commentary about American suburbianism. So much effort had gone into it it was overwhelming, and it wanted a little editing but it was nevertheless still marvellous and technically amazing in places and more than a little fucked up, in that dizzying way only a nascent genius can manifest. At the end, as last year, I found myself thinking, I'm a little in love with this guy; the question of romantic intent is completely irrelevant. Love is that surge, and also the simmer of something slow, and also the waiting, the waiting. And the other flashes, the possibilities, even as, even as this poem runs through my head and sometimes when I am with someone else I forget, laughing. The beautiful thing about poetry is that it tells you about yourself with far greater clarity than you can ever manage.

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