december 21, 2001.
On the train home.
I hear that train a coming, coming round the bend.
And I ain't seen the sunlight since I don't know when
I'm stuck in Fulsom Prison. And time keeps dragging on.
That train keeps a going, on down to San Antoine.
We're heading into hour 7 of the train ride home. This is our first time in a variety of ways: I've never been on anything but a GO Train, and the Boy's experience begins and ends with UK trains during the year he went to Glastonbury. I find the amount of legroom pleasantly surprising to tell you the truth, but I may feel differently when we roll into hour 20.
There's a loud (possibly drunk) guy up ahead, holding forth on a variety of topics both boring and obnoxious. I spent a few seconds wondering why we were blessed with his presence, but then realized that it's like wondering why I always stand near the tall guy who shouts suggestions to the band when I go to concerts: those boys are spread throughout the entire concert hall and yes, all the carriages are like this.
Oh! I think they're getting busted by the conductor. No, I suppose not. Next time.
Everybody has been telling us how hellish this journey will be, but I'm enjoying myself so far. The Boy keeps falling asleep on me and now he's singing Bob Marley songs in his raspy sick voice. It's kind of cute, really. As long as I don't get sore, I think I can sail through this experience...and if I do get sore, I can see if there's a space to do yoga and realign my back. Hmm. Now there's a good reason to elect the Natural Law party at the federal level: yoga cars on every trans-Canada train ride.
Yesterday was a strange spacey little day. The choir party on Thursday night was full of creamy casseroles and good feeling: I ate myself stupid and graciously fielded questions about my outfit ("I'm going to another party after this one") and my tattoo. This was a new concern to the general public, as to date I've never worn anything to church that could show off my lower back. For some reason, my PVC/Bauhaus/purple stripey tights outfit endeared me to all the respectable church people, and I felt petted & cosseted all night.
Next was the party at Jerry & Kerri's a.k.a. the Big Teacher's Ed End-of-Semester Blow-out. I had a tolerably good time, due in no small part to my assiduous dedication to a series of fruity girly drinks. I was there without the Boy, and I was pretty damn lonely when I gave myself the chance to think. So I tried not to think. There were a few bright spots: a drum jam that took possession of me in some very interesting ways; hearing the carefully-guarded drug stories of another person in the department (drugs is something One Does Not Talk About on the good ship Education); giggling helplessly when a girl told me that they'd started a pool to predict when the Anti-Stephen would take out the Christmas tree; hearing some wonderful praise of my teaching capabilities. But mostly I just skulked around in gothware & missed home. By the time I got back to my place, the combination of alcohol & loneliness had completely reverted me to an earlier university self. When my normal waking time rolled around, I roused myself from semisleep and discovered that I was a) still alone b) naked and c) blessed with a horrible taste in my mouth. Fan-fugoo-tastic.
As one might imagine, because I drank quite a bit & only hauled myself home at 2 a.m., I had to move carefully when I woke up for the second and final time to avoid breaking through into hangover pain. Yet first gear can be it's own reward sometimes. We got all of the packing done by midnight. I think it was the greatest packing experience of my life: I was infused with a strange beautiful calm that came from being perfectly balanced between tired and happy.
We also managed to take in the Longest Night Service at the church. Very sad. Rev. Robyn has a way of cutting through the ceremonial distance, right to the emotional heart of the matter at hand. I started to cry about halfway through the service, even though I was in the choir stalls - I just couldn't keep a lid on the emotion any more, and was much improved for the release. I cried for two main reasons: first because I finally had a name for the fear that has haunted me for five weeks, and that name was "career/identity;" second because once I started to feel anything at all, all the happiness and anticipation of this trip welled up like a natural spring and I could suddenly remember what it was like to be happy.
Okay. This is ridiculous. I'm listening to Bob Marley on headphones and yet I can still hear every word that comes out of this loud drunkard's mouth half a car away. How, I ask, can I create the deathless prose you love under these conditions? Answer: I can't. We'll speak again in Toronto.
this time 3 years ago: depress yourselves for a change
