pot of gold...

Today I had this momentous click on the bus... I ventured to listen to some music that normally I groove to for a few minutes and then start to tear up when I realize how it was virtually the soundtrack for my summer-angst-diet cola-and-smokes period, sort of like a blue or a pink period but much tackier. Anyways, somehow I found myself a few minutes in and unable to curtail my grinning. What had changed?

I got to thinking about how glad I was that I came to Ireland this summer. It was an especially epic decision for me and the pretense for the voyage is finally not a matter of importance for me. For some reason I remembered some really great moments that we had that I suppressed because some other moments were not so good. How are you still on my mind, I sometimes wonder. But the truth is really much simpler than I've been admitting to myself. Things were fun, you were the twinkle in my eye, if only for an instant, and I dare say I was in yours. I remember how normal somethings felt with you, watching the CBC and drinking tea in the morning. Having butterflies and not eating for a few days. Playing pool and talking jive. Being soaked with rain. Bowling. Crazy evangelists on the bus.

And so maybe for that time you were the gold at the end of the rainbow and elusive as it is, I saw it once. And I will again. Leprechauns, dangerous little creatures. Don't tread lightly when considering an overseas voyage to the Emerald Isle, as she is as enchanting as she is heartbreaking.

Cheers to the disassociation of bad memories with good music.

dibs on the dylan...

Sometimes, whether you like it or not, the truth rears its ugly head like a bearded woman waking up from a long winter's nap, and it's not pretty, not by a long shot.

The other day I found myself doing the John Cusack, making lists, alphabetizing my collections then I switched to a more Jason Lee-esque obsessing wondering what I would get dibs on, such as mall rights and for me, listening to Dylan, when the catastrophic relationship that was ended.

And so the truth of the matter remains that I still obsess. I do. I'm not going to lie. Everyone knows I did. Is it a woman thing? I don't think so because the two examples of such desperation were males, but its definitely a human being thing and it doesn't go away.

In my dreams, I'm the Queen of Hearts and I hold court every other Tuesday and I hear the battles of who verses whom and I sentence people to years worth of Britney Spears on repeat or award unoffending parties dibs on the Dylan.

But alas, alack, heavier than the stones in my pockets, is my sense of inequity and a deadly waking fear of dying alone.

oh curious rambling, I have not forsaken you...

I haven't forgotten about this blog, though I'm sure its readers have. That's okay. The reason I haven't written in so long is because a. I've been busy updating the travel blog and b. Having difficulty separating traveling me from Canada/normal/person with roots me. I don't know why I'm still so esoteric in terms of blogland but I still have a difficult time just letting it all hang out, spouting my mouth off because this is a forum for doing so, but it's not just in blog land that this issue raises its ugly head.

I wish I could say it as I feel it. I wish I had the answers for the questions that still plague me. I wish I could get over it, that, this, you, me, the weather, the government, etc. Maybe I'm just weak. Maybe I'm just sad. Maybe I'm just a storytelling of hearts, all beating in 3/4.

I don't know what I am. Isn't that what it's all about, though? Finding out? And to think my rambling would come to this.

the soft revolution...

When we've all grown up and stopped our protesting on principle, where will we be, you and I? Standing on the same side, weapons down, hearts heavy or I am out there alone?

Will the ties that bind simply loosen themselves until such time that their slackened strands beat only out of habit? When the bluebird stops singing on our shoulders, does that mean that the clock has struck 12 and I'm standing next to a pumpkin, wiping away tears?

Do friendships need physical distance to evaporate or did they share the same bed and yet were miles apart? Will you and I ever see to eye to eye ever or again?

Let your feelings of doubt wash over you like a warm blanket. Let them in, let them die, mourn their loss and move on.

moving sale...

That's unfortunately a bit of a mis-gnomer as nothing is for sale here. However, I am moving, however temporarily to
http://laureninsevilla.blogspot.com/
so please check me out there. This is to accommodate my new life situation and to depart from the old. I am not giving this up, just letting it remain a place for my thoughts (unrelated to my travels and the visiting eyes of parents who though doubtful with the internets, might like to pry).

Keep posted on my travels at the other spot, that's right TWO blogs. Gross, but understandable.
Hasta muy pronto-ish.

-Diggs.

sign of the times...

I recently drove home, from my old home to my even older home but that's not important right now, westbound from Calgary to Vernontowne via the new and literally out-of-this-world construction encompassing Rogers' Pass. Jesus. That is a sign of the times. A far cry from when Paul and I took the bus to Vancouver through sleepy, winter deathtrapville. Now it is bustling, late summer outer-Jetson-city-limits style with divided highway reaching to the sky and a bridge fit only for a rocket ship (if rockets took bridges that is). The whole way home I thought about Matt and Jamie and how they would love all these crazy rock formations and how different it all looked since my last trip home.

Anyways, that bridge is a sign of the times. And while I'm on the subject, let me talk about other signs of the times. My full car careening down the highway with my mom at the helm, a sure sign of her attempt at controlling my inevitable departure to Spain. Fair enough. The coolish nights in Vernon that signify the coming of fall (only barely). Our new summer cabin, furnished and looking fabulous (development and luxury). Wincing, holding back tears but refusing to break down and finally letting myself admit that you hurt me more than I've ever been hurt and accepting the fact that I'm not a bad person for wanting to forgive you but never ever forgetting the deception, the heartache and just the general lack of compassion you brought to the table: a sign that I'm going to be okay after all.

I hate to do this blog style but it's the only way I know how. I'm not playing cold war games anymore. It is not my responsibility to fix this. My life is fabulous and I have many people who love me. It's my party, and sometimes your invitation just gets "lost in the mail".

a parliament of owls...

Re: Getting out of a roundabout.
A worthwhile resource: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roundabout.
It would appear that when dabbling in roundabouts, both verbal and non-verbal communication from all participating drivers is key. Would one signal left with the intention of going right? I doubt it. Wouldn't failure to signal in its entirety only lead said driver to go round and round with no seeming end? And so, the lesson here is this: Afraid of roundabouts? Unsure how to navigate them? Then: Learn how to properly communicate before setting sail across the UK, or wherever your final destination may be.

Re: Today's shenanigans.
Last night was wonderful. I've never felt more loved in my life, except for this morning when all three of my parents mystically materialized at the same longitude and latitude at my house and the universe did not implode in on itself. My father was pleasant and the most pleasant of all? Jamie was there for breakfast with my mom and I and I felt like the most normal, most lucky and most loved daughter on earth. Not even three men and a baby could compete with me today! Now I need some sleep, some H2izzle and some Stacey and Clinton.

Now, who's in need of some humble pie?