Great spade of life

I went to Jon's last evening and we talked apartments. Looks like we'll be able to afford a townhouse or floor of a house. He was concerned about what happens if he gets a job somewhere else, like Toronto; doesn't want to keep driving to Orangeville. His preference would be to work in Guelph though.

It's the uncertainty of life. We never can know. We can only do our best to make commitments to the ones we care about.

He wouldn't want to leave me in the lurch.

Two month's notice is all we can ask from anyone. All we can ask of life, and sometimes it doesn't give us. What about me? Who knows what happens when I get a job.

I thought about a townhouse, having a little walkout in the back, planting tomatoes and an arbour with flowers. Maybe I'll pick up where daisydumont and Gerry have left off; a little of the legacy. Letting the great spade of life turn phrases in my garden, moistening the mulch with my tears. Putting a little life into the things that grow, ideas that struggle to reach the sun and finally bear fruit.

The main event of last evening was watching Atom Egoyan's Exotica, which I found at a used bookstore last weekend. It is one of my favourite movies, right up there with The Joy Luck Club, Magnolia, and Pulp Fiction. Even though I've seen it many times, it still holds together. The acting doesn't start to appear thin when I know what's going to happen. Jon and I both like movies in which several stories, seemingly unrelated, weave together and finally reconcile—or not. In Exotica everything comes together in the end, satisfying.

Yesterday I went back to the gym and picked up where I had left off. This same theme of everything working together. Did the whole routine this time, but couldn't quite finish the shoulder exercises. My weakest muscle group.

Dim in the afternoon. Working out in a basement, with muscle hunks on every side, pushing, pushing. Trying to become something bigger.

I'm pushing with words here, too. Trying to make something of my mind, bulk up those muscles. That's what this writing exercise is all about. Strange how much I look forward to writing in my journal now that I have chosen this form. I always looked forward to free_writes. Had to restrain myself not to do one every day. Silly really. Why should I restrain myself from the pleasure of writing?

The answer: balance in everything.

Now that I'm writing this way daily, I can hardly wait to put down my thoughts, impressions, images. Can hardly wait for my life to clear, so I can send my mind on a long run into imagination. Fiction. Poetry. Images streaming by.

Still, I put limits on it. Beyond this daily posting, except for important events, to keep my friends informed, I will write everything else in my handwritten journal. So there I sat late last night, pen scrawling across the page. Ideas! Ideas! I couldn't wait until this morning. How refreshing it is to feel such eagerness to create.

I wake up and the first thing I think of is writing here. The feedback, the comments, yes those are important. Telling me I'm not alone. A writer must always be conscious of the reader, must picture who the words are being written for.

Having faces to attach to the names helps.

I carry on with this adventure. Strange is the texture of my writing mind, the bright playful meadows it runs through. The rhythm is always flying, like a blaze of light, bright words billowing under a September sun.

Sunday word association

1. Pointless:: in Seattle
   
2. Sadistic:: Malicious
   
3. Bunny:: Hop
   
4. Betrayal:: Thwart
   
5. Oliver:: Twist
   
6. Star Wars:: Bright
   
7. Let it ride:: Forget
   
8. Ray of light:: Madonna
   
9. Tight:: Fit
   
10. Gadget:: Professor