"The smoke in my lungs like the cloud of my own regrets..."

- "lovesick lullaby," big rude jake

Music is made for keeping secrets. It's a time-capsule of emotion waiting to be opened. It's a wire to the limbic memory. It's confusing & confused.

I wonder how Poet's doing right now?

On Friday we took advantage of the Free Friday Film at Innis to see a movie I've wanted to enjoy for awhile: "Like Water For Chocolate." Aside from the highly improbable births, I thoroughly enjoyed it. It really is as beautiful as a Gabriel Garcia Marquez book, and as funny. (I'm still trying to finish Love in the Time of Cholera, dammit!) I think my favourite part was the naked sister running off across the fields to be swept up by a horse-riding revolutionary.

Sprout kicked up a storm throughout, so I hope s/he isn't getting any ideas about being born on a kitchen table amid the smell of chopped onions. Which I have to admit, would be kind of cool.

Yesterday the Boy & I worked our way through several chores: first he washed a massive amount of dishes while I worked through an email backlog, then we went to my parents' and took advantage of their appliances (4 loads of laundry! Our machine is in the basement, past FCN's backdoor. Nuh uh. Not doing that shit.). In between loads, we ran out for some cleaning supplies & various presents. We ran into Nic at the food court of the mall, which was kind of strange - he's still in 14-year-old mode, deliberately sitting at garbage-strewn tables so that no security guard can accuse him of hanging around without buying food first. Still, I quite enjoyed the chance to talk with him and an unidentified Indian friend, who wanted to know what the word "blaxploitation" meant. I also enjoyed the change to recharge my numb & aching right leg, which had predictably gone to sleep on me somewhere in the glassware department of Home Outfitters. After a few minutes, my brother & his friend left to eat Indian food (what else??) and the Boy & I continued our shopping.

Final score: presents secured for the Boy's father's birthday, and also for the Boy's cousin's wedding shower. I got some lovely multicoloured folders for my marking (which is something of a shout out to Amy - coloured organization is the best!). We picked up a pizza on the way home & spent the evening eating snacks and watching the hockey game (Boy)/reading (me). The Sprout likes pizza and pop - but who doesn't?

Me: Where are you guys going?
Nic: We're going to eat Indian food.
Nic's Indian friend: He's practically brown by now.
Me: (smiles) Nothing better.

I think I'm getting depressed again. I've been crying more and more; a hopeless feeling has started to overwhelm me with frightening regularity. Our trips up & down the stairs past the troll's door have turned into nightmares of adrenaline that're starting to feel like panic attacks. I'd rather sit in the children's section of the local library than go home. But the thought of moving in with my parents is enough to spark wild schemes in which I get in the car on my last day of teaching and drive west until I find a cheap bachelor's apartment and a hospital to deliver the Sprout.

I can only hope that coming to the end of the four remaining weeks of teaching will help. And that living in a schizo-free house will alleviate some of the filial blues that dog my days. Other than that...well, maybe Preacher has room for me in Edmonton. Or maybe Miri would let me stay with her in Wolfvegas until I calm down.

(Don't get me wrong; I still love the Boy. Depression isn't logical.)