I'm like tangled up headphones

Trying to pair with the AirPods

 I'm like your saving-grace coupon

That expired last month

I'm the hole in the wall 

Where a nail used to be

I'm the draft in your folder

That no one gets to see

 

I'm a leftover entree

That no-one wants to eat

The spot on a sun-bleached floor 

Where your chair used to be

The pile of clothes

That you choose not to keep

A safe tightly locked

Inside, its only key

 

I feel like the blueprint

That never makes it to the page

Or like planning an encore

That never makes it to the stage

A charger for the phone

That you lost six years ago

Opening your mouth to ask

When you know the answer's "no"

 

The world just keeps rushing on

While I've been dragging my feet

And maybe I'll find this funny

Once it's not bittersweet

My heart kept right on beating

While I watched it bleed

And everyone moved on.

Without me.

Feb 24, 2025- There Is A Road

There is a road. Sp, in S, along the river. There is a road, I cannot drive. It does not matter how bright the day, how light my mind. I drive it and the sky outside my windshield is dark and there is a squeeze, wrapping itself around my heart and lungs and throat, trying to choke me out. My wheels are aligned, perfectly fine, but they pull to the river regardless. I could have been having the best day, but on that road, I want to die.

Even now, when I assume I’m better, it’s scary to drive without my bass in the back. She was always my reason to fight it, I have plans for her past myself, and without an excuse, even on a good day, I’m scared of myself.

I’ve been feeling better since coming down here, that is true. But I’ve been running up against a familiar struggle, musically, a day-in-day-out battle for and against the thing I love that I’ve been locked in for 7 years now.

I know that my depression has a real impact on my mind. The thoughts you have most often pave themselves into your mind’s chosen highway. There is a real reason that even when I don’t want to die, want to live, actually, that Sp makes me feel otherwise. But it’s only just now that it’s occurred to me that perhaps something similar has been happening to me, musically. Perhaps that’s why my battle is ongoing, still. I worry that those 6-7 years have well and truly fucked me up. And that’s terrifying. I don’t want to look back into the mirror and see who I’ve been. 

Feb 9, 2025- On Escapism and the End of the World

During a sixth grade parent-teacher conference, Mrs. M praised my above-grade-level reading skills, and I was proud. She then promptly told my parents she was concerned about how much I was reading, and accused me of using my books as a form of escapism. I felt very hurt. It hurts less now that I can recognize she was right. 

She was right about me using my books for escapism, and she was right to be concerned about that too. Now I’m supposed to be an adult. And I’m having a hard time behaving like one because I can’t seem to resist the urge to just hide away and escape.

It’s no help that I can identify where the urge is coming from. I mean, look at the world right now. Trump went to the Super Bowl and the trade war tariffs are back on. It’s cold and windy and I’ve been sick for the second time in barely two months. The closest person who cares about me is 2.5 hours away, the closest one who could make me feel better is 4, and the one I want lives in a whole ‘nother province. At least her premier isn’t a major dickwad who attacks trans kids. Life right now feels kinda like staring down the barrel of the actual end of the world while feeling bad about all of the awful things you didn’t list. And the gun feels like it’s been in front of my face my whole life, and will stay in front of where my face had been after it inevitably goes off.

So yeah. I get why I don’t wanna be in the here and now. But dammit, knowing why does nothing to curb the urge. The world is ending and I have fucking assignments overdue and the ending of the world has made me feel too exhausted to work on them, so the unfinished assignments just get added to the end-times pile. 

But goddammit, I have shit to do for classes that are interesting and required for the work, for the life I want. The gun is in my face. I can’t afford to escape. So Mrs. M was right to be concerned. I can’t be indulging in escapism. I need to figure something else out. Because dammit, I still have work to do. 

Jan 13, 2025- Obituary

She was a gem.

I don’t think she knew it, but she was. She was so good. Nothing objectively great, but she was good. Intuitive, she took to it pretty naturally, and curious, which certainly helped.

I’ve been rereading her work. I’d been kinda thinking back, like, how delusional to let her meet with that publishing lady. How cocky. But then I reread her work, and I get it. As an adult now, I see that the kid had something going on.

I remember, I took this like, life-writing class many years ago, and one of our final assignments was to write our own obituary, which triggered me. I can’t remember if I even ended up writing it.

But I have been writing her obituary. All these years. That’s way too long to spend writing an obit. The body’s only good for so long. And I’ve been writing it and writing it and mourning her the whole time. And I can’t tell if the long, drawn-out grief has now made me delusional. 

Because I’ve been thinking, what if she’s not actually dead? I know, I know, I’m just delusionally hopeful, overly attached to her from spending so long writing her obituary. But what if?

I mean, never finished the obituary. And without the obituary, who’s gonna know when the funeral is? Haven’t had the funeral. Where is the body? I haven’t seen her. I know she’s not in the ground yet. 

So, what if something else happened? What if she survived? Then what? Do you think she’ll ever go back to it? I hope she would.

I hope she does. 

Jan 12, 2025- Falling, Flying

I’m looking at my feet again.

I always used to do this, as a kid. You’re supposed to look where you’re going, but I always wanted to see where I was putting my feet.

Right now, my bare toes are in the sort of chalky dark brown dirt. Not really a ton of grass to go touch, which is a little bit of a shame, but dirt is nice too. A little bit of dirt left on the carrot after dunking it into the water barrel, fresh out of the garden is the best way to each them. That’s how I used to do it as a kid.

I used to do this as a kid, too. I’d run up here and throw myself off the ledge, often. The water below is nice, to be sure, but my favourite part has always been before that. I love the moments where I’m aloft in the air. I love anything that can make me feel like I’m flying.

This used to be easier when I was a kid, I think. Maybe I’m wrong. The walk up here seems shorter in my memory. The cliffside seemed less high.

I don’t feel afraid of the height. The water’s down there, and I’ll like being in it well enough, even if it is a little cold this time of year. I’m not afraid to do this, but I would be lying if I said there was no apprehension. It’s not the height, I do know how to swim; I think it’s the fall. The best part. I do this because I love the moment, hanging in time, soaring through the air. I’m not afraid, but what if this time it just feels like falling?

What happens if I’ve gotten too big for the air to hold me, and I just fall? What happens if I don’t get to fly anymore? I can’t make myself younger, can’t make myself smaller. 

I know I won’t need to. I know that my body vs. the air, the air always wins the first battle. Even like this. I know that.

The ground at the edge of the cliff face is more rocky than chalky-dirt-y under my toes, which is a good thing. A stable thing. The view is pretty much the same. The evergreen trees across the water, on the other side. The deep blue-grey water itself. The air is fresh and clean and it feels right,  through my nose, in my lungs. It settles something in my chest, a nice, comforting little weight, and I bend my knees. Rock on my feet, straighten and shake my arms, then bend again. Breathe the air in, feel that nice little weight. Start to lean forward, feel it start to become a fall, and push, the texture of the rocks leaving a familiar memory on my toes. I am mid-air, hear its gentle, welcoming rush past my ears as time slows. I’m suspended for only a moment until gravity tugs, and I begin to fall.

And the fall feels like flying. 

Oct 20, 2024- In Pursuit of the Piece of Paper

 I’ve been kinda writing/not writing on paper, and some of it I want preserved on here just because. So today is a spam day.

:::

Don’t tell anyone, especially not my piece of paper, but sometimes, I wonder if I missed it. Briefly, but I do wonder. 

I’ve never really doubted that I want to become a music teacher, even now. Do not mistake my wondering for doubt. I’ve been very lucky in my certainty. I will be a good music teacher. I see that confirmed in many places in my life.

But musically? Musically, I never feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be. I know I’ll teach it well. But I’ve spent 6+ years of my life pursuing this thing that, at times, I feel I’m no good at. May have never actually been good at. And in pursuing it, I have been asked to set down all these other aspects of myself. I’m supposed to only care about music, want to be the best at it, want to dedicate my entire life and being to it.

But I don’t want to live and breathe only music. And I don’t want to be the best.

I wish I hadn’t given up writing. I look at my musical self in the context of this new world and I see the innateness of my writing. Not that it’s any good, not anymore. But it was natural. It came to me in a way it does not come for others, even if they love the word. And I wish I had nurtured it more. Wish it was not something I felt required to give up to get my piece of paper.

I know I have rose-coloured glasses on right now. Music makes me feel bad about myself. Writing could too. Still. Maybe I feel bad because I have divorced myself. I wish to write. I wish to art without pressure. Without the weight of paper crushing rock.

I don’t regret what I have achieved. I guess I just still miss myself.

23

23 was a hard year for me. Freshly 24 (though I feel like I've been this age for months, feels like I've been going on 60 for years), I find myself looking back on the last 365 days. This time last year I was fresh in the grief of suddenly losing my beloved aunt, and in the midst of great turmoil in my job. I was staring down the barrel of, finally, the last year of my drawn out degree, and ready to be done with it all. 

The following months were akin to when you try to climb a snowbank. You try to put your feet in the spot you think is sturdiest, only to find all the snow shifting from under your feet as you put the weight of your trust in and on it, sinking waist-deep into the snow. The trouble at work only grew worse, and I took on far more responsibility than ever should have been an option. What should have been a standard three-class term became a depth of sticky snow I got stuck in. I could prioritize my classes and let my beloved department fall apart around me, or I could keep the show going and give up on my classes. Neither were a good option. I regret being in the position to make that choice at all. I failed two of my classes as a result, just scraping by into convocation.

But I did convocate! Six years of struggle led to a proud walk across a stage, a wave to my conductor and a hug from one of my favourite profs. Bachelor of Music Honours, a piece of paper to be proud of and a few letters to tack on to my email signature. We threw a party, and I got to bask in my own accomplishment for maybe a week. 

The deadline to apply to enter my sequential degree had come and gone without fanfare, and my notice, thanks to the turmoil in the department. Shortly after convocation I found myself with a void in front of me where my future should have been, the path I'd been banking on for years having slipped away. Chasing emails and playing phone tag, trying to carve something back into the new void took up the bulk of my summer. 

I remember telling my mom shortly after I received my degree that I felt like I finally had my feet back under me, I was ready and able to take on whatever would come next, and in someways it feels like the universe took that as a little challenge. I made the sudden choice to move four hours away from home to a new university and program, to live in a city where I knew absolutely no one, to try my hand again at a full course load, which I'd never been able to achieve before.

Achieve I did. It was hard, but not nearly as hard as I had expected. I got rolled a little when the void had appeared, but what I'd told my mother about being ready was true. I cut a new path into my void with no expectations, and I cannot believe that I've come out unscathed. In fact, I've come out better. I achieved great marks in all my classes, even when I was scared of failing. I've never done so consistently well in my university career, especially impressive considering I've done so with five classes, some student-teaching, an ensemble, and private lessons, never mind the massive change I'd made. My mental health is back where it hasn't been for the better part of a decade.

I've been looking in the metaphorical mirror for the last six years and haven't been able to recognize myself hardly at all. I've been so ashamed of who I've become, how little I feel I've been able to do. I happened across my grades at supper today, and it felt like looking in the mirror and seeing my own reflection again. I recognize myself. Who I am today is who I used to be, not who I've been. Capable. Creative. Busy. Sometimes even happy. I wish I could take this reflection back to who I had become. I wish I could show her, in the moments where she questioned if she'd ever get better, get back to herself, this proof that she would. I wish I could show her, in all of the times she has felt so stupid, these grades, tell her that I've felt that too but there is objective proof that's not the truth. I wish I could show her this path through the void, under my feet, and have her look back across what she's traversed, show her that she's not nearly so small and so afraid as she feels. 

The thing I should be proudest about this year is probably my degree. It was a lot of work, took a lot of awful years to achieve, and I am proud of it. But not nearly as proud as I am of myself and these last four months, even setting the grades aside. I've accomplished more than I had come to believe myself possible of. I am so, genuinely, proud of who I am as I sit here writing this. 23 was hard, and I came out on top, came out the other side so much better than I went in. So, here's to the challenges of 24!