Entry #689272, added on 03-03-10 @ 10:36 pm EST
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| dare to dream | Entry #689272 |
I've been ready for good news for some time, now.
Little whispers of it; in the soft sway of the late winter wind which hints at the end of the cold season, in the purply-peach sunset that comes long after I've come home and settled in. This winter has not been typical in the sense that we have hardly had any snow. There has been only one semi-snowstorm and that was during the first week of December. I've had no inclement weather excuses to stay home from school, and I've only shoveled the driveway twice since November. I live in Canada. This is not normal. The eastern seaboard has been hammered with it, cities had slowed to a halt (and, I have to say, that those snow-covered streets looked like regular winter roads to me, but I get that not everyone is accustomed to it), and warning after warning was issued from frantic meteorologists. I found it all odd, especially since I've worn regular shoes to school the last couple of days. Normally, I'm in 'sensible winter footwear' until at least the end of April.
I'm not complaining, even if evidence of global warming is all around me. It is good to be snowless when you can't stand looking at the stuff. It is good to watch the sun sink into a violet and salmon haze at a time of the day when it actually feels appropriate. Perhaps a change for the better is on its way?
A while ago, I wrote about my naked port. I wrote about all the ribbons and such that I'd lost when my work was banished after I failed to renew my upgrade. It stung, but I accepted it, even though I felt a little exposed, with my unsung work listing away without views or colour. Then, I find out that there's a contest going on, one which I hadn't heard of and had not submitted any work to, and somehow I won their long-form free verse poetry category. Apparently, I am receiving some kind of award for this. Then, I started to receive a slew of reviews for another poem I'd written ages ago, and though the twenty odd reviews were lovely enough, I was awarded a ribbon for it. It's red. I like red. Lastly, a lovely woman I met five years ago when we both joined this site emailed me to let me know that she was going to be featuring another of my poems in the newsletter she was writing, because she loved it so much five years ago and has kept it as a favourite ever since. The amazing part of all this? It's two-fold, really. The first thing is that not one of these things happened because I went looking for it. Somehow, everyone involved decided I was worth reading without me soliciting for their attention. The second part is that none of these poems are, in my estimation, what I consider to be my better work. All three are early attempts at poetry, and still I only heard nice things about them. These are validations that came from nowhere, and I needed them.
I know I wrote about my confrontation with my mother, but despite how horrid it may have come off, I can't deny being pleased that she actually did what I asked her to do, even if it was begrudgingly. She never apologizes, and she never does what I ask her to do. I think it's almost miraculous, and it shows she's capable of understanding if she tries. So, it would seem that even this was a positive, and I came away from it feeling amazingly composed, even though the words had been difficult and prickly. They were necessary and they were heard. I even had a slightly more subdued but totally honest conversation with M. last night in which I did the same thing as I did with my mother: I said what I needed to say without becoming too emotional or defensive, and I didn't back down. In fact, I told him that I spend so much thinking about how I sometimes fail to meet his expectations that I don't give myself enough time to consider where he fails me. It's not that we were angry at the time because we weren't, but it felt like something I needed to let him know, that while I'm not perfect, I needed him to know that I'm okay with that because there is no standard here to meet. I assured him that I love him, but I also feel like sometimes he is too self-obsessed, and this makes me think too much about myself, what I could do better or ease up on, etc. I don't want or need to think about these things. He's wonderful, but the bar isn't so high.
I'm beginning to understand that talking, instead of yelling or pouting, is a highly effective way of getting one's point across. It only took me this long to figure it out.
I read the book 'Lucky' for the second time today. I've read Alice Sebold's 'The Lovely Bones' twice and loved it, but this book is actually biographical, and let me just say that it's one engrossing read. I've read all Sebold's books, and though this one is her most disturbing, because I knew all of it actually happened, I think it may be my favourite. Even though it had me on the verge of a panic attack at times while reading it, I can't deny it was a really inspiring piece of work. I recommend it if you haven't read it. As it deals with Sebold's 1981 rape, and as she doesn't hold back on details, it isn't for the faint of heart. Just a little warning.
My sister K. went to see a house tonight that is up for sale in her neighbourhood. She only moved into her house three years ago, and has gutted it and redecorated it to the point that it is magazine worthy, but now she is thinking of buying this other home, a huge house with white interior walls and the word 'dream' stencilled all over the place. Yech. She wants it because it has an industrial-sized fridge and a huge stove with eight spider burners. Apparently, this is cool.
She barely cooks.
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