Turtles and intrigue.

So, I guess I haven’t been quite as good about keeping this thing updated as I set out to be, have I?

Oh well. It’ll come as it comes, I guess, and you all will just have to accept that.

It’s only been about a week since I last posted…not THAT long ago.

This past weekend, I was down in Massachusetts for Fair Weekend in the town where my grandparents live. It’s always a bit of a mini family reunion the third weekend on August. And it’s been at least 7 years since I made it to the fair. And it was lots of fun.

Small and simple, the Hardwick Community Fair claims to be the oldest in the country, and at 245, it may well be. Even if it isn’t, it’s still pretty darn old. We got to check out the cows and alpacas and blacksmiths and lumberjacks and frog jumping and pie eating. And I drove forever and ever. Okay, maybe only a total of about 8 hours over the course of three days, but for someone who doesn’t even own a car, that’s a lot of driving.

It was great to spend time with the family and to see my grandparents and to spend time in their big old house (and raid their attic for all manner of crap that I really don’t need, but that’s not really the point…).

Check out some of the pictures up on Flickr.

In other news, I had a very odd dream last night in which I, among other things, attempted to stop people from stealing tires and engines from parked cars. When I attempted to do this, they started throwing turtles at me. Big, honking, live turtles. Very bizarre.

I’m blaming the jambalaya that I had for dinner last night. That a certain gentleman cooked for me. A certain gentleman with whom I’m rather intrigued at the moment.

Makes you all curious now, doesn’t it?


Waiting at the window

I was just waiting by the front window, scanning the street for my father and step-mother’s car (they’re up for the weekend) and it occurred to me how much of my life has been spent waiting by a window, watching for my father. He’s perpetually late. I would see him at least every other Sunday growing up and would start watching at the window at least half an hour before I knew he’d show up, hoping that he’d be early.

My father is not a particularly expressive man. He’s the product of German and Hungarian parents, the Central Europeans not known necessarily for their emotional outbursts. That’s not really the point though. I relished those hours away from my mother’s house growing up, even if they were austere in actual emotional communication. It was in sharp contrast to the over-emtional (and oftentimes false feeling) environment that made up my daily life.

When I came out to my father, he had virtually no reaction. Maybe he already suspected or maybe he was just so much of a hippie that it didn’t really strike up as something at all to worry about. We’ve never really talked about it much except when I came out to my mother a second time and he got pulled into her emotional whirlwind, something he was less than thrilled about (not that I blame him).

We understand each other even if we’ve never really talked about it, I think. I know he loves me even if he never says it. I know that I’ve always had his full support in everything I’ve done, except when he hasn’t thought it a good idea. On those rare occasions, he’s expressed his doubt but allowed me to make my own decision.

Here I am, 25 now, waiting at the window excitedly for my father. Part of me feels 12 again, anxious to get out of the house and go off and spend a day with my dad, no matter what we might end up doing.

This is very different, though. This time he’ll actually come inside the house–well, apartment–because it’s my home. Tomorrow he and my step-mother will come to dinner at my home. It will be, I think, the first time that I’ll have made him dinner. Somehow that seems significant, particularly as someone who sees food and communal dining as an expression of love and deep connection amongst people.

Anyway, back to my window to watch for a man who, though he says little, means so much.

Clearing the cobwebs

Awfully dust round here, isn’t it?

Well, I’m once again going to write a post about how terrible I’ve been about keeping on top of posting to this sad, little blog of mine. Except that this time I have a plan.

I’ve been doing a fair bit of thinking recently since my birthday at the end of June. The big quarter century and all.

The one thing that I’ve really come to the realisation about is that I am, indeed, an adult. No longer can I pretend to be a teenager or a university student. Which, for those of you who know me, was never what I was trying to be anyway. Always I was trying to be an adult but perhaps was being shifted into other, easier, pigeon holes. Well, no more. I’m smack dab in the middle of my twenties and it seems as good a time as any to fully claim the mantle of adulthood.

Along with that, I feel as if I need to start acting a bit more like an adult in small ways. Making sure that things that are important to me get done.

Like this blog, for example. When I’m not writing here, I’m not writing anywhere and writing has always been a very important means of expression for me. I’ve always been a textual person–reading everything I could get my hands on from the time I could read on my own and scribbling in my chicken scratch handwriting ever since I had words to put down on the paper, and now type on the screen. Writing forces me to organise my thoughts and to re-evaluate them and to turn them around in different ways. If I can’t explain it in writing, it can’t be a very clear idea. And, I know that since I’ve left university and started writing far less that it’s become much more difficult for me to write extended pieces of text without having to take breaks and to really think about things. In essence, I’ve let my writer’s muscle atrophy, which is not good for any kind of muscle. Starting today, I’m committing myself to writing at least a little something every day. Even only a few sentences. I want to start to work out my writer’s muscle again and get it back to where it used to be.

When I was a teenager, I wrote a fair bit of fiction. I shared it round and always got positive reviews and encouragements but it became more and more difficult for me to write as I was required to write more and more non-fiction for school. I haven’t thought about writing fiction for years and I doubt at this point if I’ll ever really go back to it. That’s okay, though. I think I can write a pretty mean essay, too and, maybe it’s the easier way out, but I think, ultimately, my essays and blog posts will be more meaningful to me (and hopefully to others) than my fiction might be. Looking back at the fiction that I was writing in high school, it’s very clear to me that it wasn’t so much fiction as personal fantasies, things that I dreamed for myself or for others. Which isn’t to demean these few stories that I still have saved on this hard drive, transferred over from computer to computer; rather, I just think that it’s important for me to focus on one kind of writing and to really hone this side of my writing while still acknowledging that it has roots in my teenage fantasy worlds of coming out stories and the like.

So, that’s one of the major things that I feel that I need to take responsibility for. Another thing that I’ve noticed recently is that I’m starting to get a little softer round the middle than I used to be and I’m realising that I really ought to do something about that sooner rather than later. I just need to find a gym buddy: if it’s a social excursion, I’m all for going to the gym, but I don’t have very much self-motivation to do it on my own.

Another thing that has recently become important to me again is photography. My father bought me a decent Pentax point and shoot camera when I was 9 or 10 and I still have it floating around somewhere. I haven’t used it since probably my first year in MontrĂ©al, however. I bought myself a digital camera for my birthday. It’s also an auto-focus and I did seriously consider springing for a digital SLR but I didn’t want to make that level of commitment to something that I haven’t seriously pursued in almost seven years. Well, I kind of wish I’d gone for the big ticket. I’ve been taking a lot of pictures and plan to continue doing so. It’s likely that I’ll start up a companion photoblog or maybe keep everything centralised here and at least post some thumbnails here to point you all to my flickr stream. I’ve got a bunch of stuff up on facebook for those of you who are there and you’ve already seen it but I think I want to start using flickr more since it’s (obviously) more geared towards photography.

I’m not really sure what my goal is with the photography (likewise the writing) other than as a way to record my environment. I don’t think I really need any more specific goal than that but perhaps that will change. It’s another creative outlet for me and perhaps something will develop with the meeting of images and text. Stranger things have happened.

Oh, and then there’s this whole moving cross country thing. Still thinking on that. Almost bought a used car on a whim the other day as a concrete step towards making that happen. But I didn’t. I still have plenty of time, though. A whole winter to get through. A last winter (at least for the foreseeable future) in New England. I’m thinking about the end of May / beginning of June as a departure date. June 5th is my Portland anniversary date. It’s a Thursday next year. Perhaps it will remain my Portland anniversary date but serve to mark a new year in a new Portland in 2008. Hm. That has sort of a ring to it, doesn’t it?

In any event, now that I’m supposed to be writing here daily, you’ll all get to read plenty about my plans for the future, I’m sure.

It’s all so very exciting, isn’t it?