(no subject)
About a week ago I got to meet dgirl1300 and her boy. 'Twas a comedy of errors, but goodness in the end, I think. It's strange how much translates across the page and the screen, how the difference between a zillion kilometers and a few centimeters of contact can be so anticlimatically small. Danielle was as quirky, deep and frank as I'd expected, and Ben had an uncanny ability to channel Timmith which made my head hurt. Both handled the fact that I was dragging them all over Alberta remarkably well, and I think they really need to move up here. *cough*GEEKMECCA*cough*
It was a day of goodbyes, out at Ferintosh. Memories have a way of ambushing me out there, walking on the frozen lake or running down Mount Eber for the last (?) time. Firsts and lasts are woven into that place, ridiculous significance startling me from the climbing wall or the soundbooth, the chapel steps and a mop bucket. 'Twas a day for the sudden resurrections and necessary deaths of old dreams, and I felt strangely glad for the lifeguard shack, the one bit of camp that always seemed entirely mine.
It is strange to think of Lone Prairie without Sonia, Darren or Jeff, strange to think of it in the hands of Stephen, Andrew, Shereen and Chelsey, and stranger still to think of it running without me--- or me running without it. Camp has had a way of defining a year for me, and it is odd to think of facing a new September without that crashcourse beforehand.
.
It's been a monstrous week since, though mostly not in interesting ways. I've finally been forced to think about the summer now, on a level past the absence of camp. I think I'm in for the Zambia trip in August, although I should do something about booking immunizations sometime. As for the rest of the summer, The Mustard Seed has job postings for four-month student 'internships' that sound cool, especially as I have no desire to do research, ever. I'd like to keep migrating downtown on a more informal basis, though that might be more along the lines of migrating into the river valley, given that the Hope Mission night shelter closes at the end of April. We'll see.
Overall though, it feels like life is working it's way to some sort of conclusion. I feel like I'm at the tail end of a chiasmatic poem as this 8 month stint winds down, as though everything that happens now is a subtle echo of earlier days, a carefully crafted plot arch intended to highlight the single point upon which the work... the year... has turned.
I'm not entirely sure what that point would be, quite yet. Something about hope, maybe, or redemption. But the weather's paused long enough today to decide that the sun is warm and the snow is melting, and some frail yet indestructible part of me is insisting that life is good, no matter how stress or loneliness or melancholy may wash over me.
It's hard to argue with that bit, sometimes.
It was a day of goodbyes, out at Ferintosh. Memories have a way of ambushing me out there, walking on the frozen lake or running down Mount Eber for the last (?) time. Firsts and lasts are woven into that place, ridiculous significance startling me from the climbing wall or the soundbooth, the chapel steps and a mop bucket. 'Twas a day for the sudden resurrections and necessary deaths of old dreams, and I felt strangely glad for the lifeguard shack, the one bit of camp that always seemed entirely mine.
It is strange to think of Lone Prairie without Sonia, Darren or Jeff, strange to think of it in the hands of Stephen, Andrew, Shereen and Chelsey, and stranger still to think of it running without me--- or me running without it. Camp has had a way of defining a year for me, and it is odd to think of facing a new September without that crashcourse beforehand.
.
It's been a monstrous week since, though mostly not in interesting ways. I've finally been forced to think about the summer now, on a level past the absence of camp. I think I'm in for the Zambia trip in August, although I should do something about booking immunizations sometime. As for the rest of the summer, The Mustard Seed has job postings for four-month student 'internships' that sound cool, especially as I have no desire to do research, ever. I'd like to keep migrating downtown on a more informal basis, though that might be more along the lines of migrating into the river valley, given that the Hope Mission night shelter closes at the end of April. We'll see.
Overall though, it feels like life is working it's way to some sort of conclusion. I feel like I'm at the tail end of a chiasmatic poem as this 8 month stint winds down, as though everything that happens now is a subtle echo of earlier days, a carefully crafted plot arch intended to highlight the single point upon which the work... the year... has turned.
I'm not entirely sure what that point would be, quite yet. Something about hope, maybe, or redemption. But the weather's paused long enough today to decide that the sun is warm and the snow is melting, and some frail yet indestructible part of me is insisting that life is good, no matter how stress or loneliness or melancholy may wash over me.
It's hard to argue with that bit, sometimes.