A Returning

 Two years, approximately. A little less.

And it's... fitting. We come back to reread our last post, and nod respectfully at what our past wrote to us, and to anyone else who would happen to read it.

The long, slow winter was very real. We found not much hope, not much creative impetus to put toward anything that was not desperately urgent or a way to cope with difficult trauma, difficult circumstances, difficult emotions.

We have lost an old friendship, we have tasted the harsh kindness of sleeping in an overflow homeless shelter, we have entered and left two houses that both became socially awful places to be.

Now... at last, we have had stability of housing which has not become terrible and full of bad conflict, for... five months, which seems to have been about as long as it took for us to start to feel safe really unpacking into it and regarding it as a place we will probably be able to stay for the foreseeable future, until we choose to leave.

And we begin to turn our minds to proactively grieving some of the things we have lost. We begin to tentatively rekindle our exploration and classification of unfamiliar music. We go out and meet people.

It seems that warmth and sunlight has come at last to nurture some little shoots of hope from those long-buried seeds, after a winter that lasted well over a year.

 Hi. We're here. I'm here now.

And we will see, what we find to want next. 

Grim November

It has been some time, and so I will explain.

Things began to be sour, I think, in August. Habits which were endurable in the short term so long as they were being worked on and would improve over time seemed to worsen, signs of improving grew sparse or there seemed to be subconscious resentment at the pressure.

Too much responsibility was placed on me.

There was cause, of course; there were extenuating circumstances. My Stars left their job, trusting to another to support us, and then he lost his job too. And there was much discouragement and despondency. None of us were in fit shape to carry the limp weight of the others while we were robbed of strength. And so I did my best at times, but neither was I - and I lashed out and growled and broke down often under the strain, so little rewarded, so little relieved.

I believe I am still blamed for my failure to hold up the heads of my companions during that time, as well as my own, but I plead that it was not within my power, and ought not have been expected of me. I had not enough participation. I had not enough support. I had not enough compensation to see me through it, not enough nor gentle enough reminders; reminders which are invitations, rather than chastisements.

Of course, it is an advanced difficulty to succeed, with me, to my standard, in giving invitation and not chastisement.

But this is how it went on. I carried far too much, seeking not to let others down, but I must in the end. My patience, my spirit, was overloaded for quite some time, and my vulnerabilities pricked when I was gathering enough air and lift to begin to get somewhere, such that that liveliness would easily and swiftly drain away, and I would lie again lifeless in a wasteland of bitterness.

I do not say that I held no responsibility nor blame for these cycles - O, I was part of them. My failure to speak my boundaries while I could still do so without cursing made things worse. I was at times negligent. I was at times evasive.

And so it went, and until I had a room of privacy to myself for a while (the gift of interim hosts in the city of Kitchener, and O my great gratitude to them for the privilege), for six months I had no place I could retreat to which was mine to be alone in, mine to rest in, and not need to share it, neither night nor day. Looking back it shocks me that I lived so long in these conditions, and I did not seem to realize that that was a problem.

Of course, I was caught up in wanting to be there, be present for Stars if they needed physical assistance to get up, and perhaps then, I ignored my own need for privacy, for a crook I could lay in on my own and be undisturbed. There are reasons for this, of course, reasons. But O it was surely a part of my growing twisted and impatient and bitter.

And so it went until a particularly bright-careless and manipulative episode, of some of my love's worst habits. And then I told them I would not marry them. Not now, not like this. And so I would need to return North and leave the country, for I had no other legal basis to stay. And it was sad and sour but felt necessary.

We moved several times, because as everything descended into a slough of despond, we would not organize cohesively enough to close a rental agreement and did not have a place to go by the ending of the old lease. And so there was a hotel one night, and an Airbnb for a half-week, and then another Airbnb for the rest of the month, with our things in a storage locker a long drive outside town, near to where we had hoped to rent a place, but it was a scam. A scam we would ordinarily have spotted, but we were desperate for a place by that time, of course.

Much of our things have been left behind. My friends I leave with less, materially, than they had before, and some bitter memories of my impatience and desperation and the guilt of having drawn it. But still though, my friends I leave in a pleasant place, a roomy apartment somewhat bare but well outfitted with such things as the kitchen that came with it. I leave them in a place with an extendable lease and the flexibility to adjust time there, so that they may be sure of their next leap's landing before arranging to leave. I leave them nearer to some people who have been friends of ours, that we wished to be close to... And still do now, but less so. Less, for there has been loss and grief and disappointment.

I leave my friends and I hope very dearly that I leave them better for having spent time with me rather than worse, for all that they have less materially now and our lessons from each other have been grim. November was a very slow, very sad and waiting and grieving month for me this year.

I hope to pick up my project again. I have not done so quite yet. I have a bit more of ensuring my next living-space to do first. I was in no condition then, really no condition for it.

And that is how it went.

Claustrophobic Dreams

"Oh." I came into my room, thought to do some gaming, but realized that I would prefer to just lay down and be still for a bit. Contemplate. Let things surface. Perhaps sleep if it happened, but not make a point of it.

When I lay down on my back and put my arms down at my sides, I thought of morgue drawers, and the idea of being put into a CAT scan, in a metal tubular place with no easy way to get out, and a stricture against moving.

I think, if I ever need to have such a scan done to me, I will need to plead with the doctors to give me something to relax me, to draw me down out of or prevent the rising of a panic attack.

And next I remembered a dream. I think it must have been a dream I had last night, but amidst headache and waking I forgot it completely, until I laid back down. A dream of exploring big metal pipes, like a tunnel to a secret place in Morrowind or something. But they were full of water. I was in a place where I could find one small pocket from which to breathe, but it was only a few inches from the surface of the water to the ceiling. Enough room for my mouth and nose to be above water, or my eyes, but not both at once. And I think when I realized I would not be able to take a deep enough breath and then kick off with enough speed to endure the swim back out, for there was nothing really in the gradual curve of the pipe to kick off of, I shook my head violently, hoping to move my body enough to wake me and so dispel the dream, as has become a habit of mine in some claustrophobic dreams, and the cloying grip of sleep paralysis when it has me.

I think perhaps it worked... But then I came aware of my headache, and waking was gradual, and the dream was lost. Lying still in my room feeling terror claw at me gently, I wished to forget it again, and realized I feared sleep, although I was tired. So I rose again, and began typing, and typed this.

I feel helpless and shaky; as I usually do, when it comes to claustrophobic dreams. I am not enough of a lucid dreamer at this point to control what dreams I have, and when I remember how frightening they can be, it becomes a very frightening thing to surrender to the possibility of nightmare.

Dear Diary: Time To Make A Plan

I came in to the campus just to write a Financial Accounting test today. And I sat it, and finished it, taking about 98 minutes out of what would have been an available 120 I think, although that may have been stretched out from 90.

I walked away from the testing hall with a bit of niggling frustration over trying to remember whether it was IAS 37, 38 or 39 which dealt with events after the reporting period. I've never been good at remembering arbitrary numbers and codes like that. I let it fade gently from my mind, and my thoughts settle on something else.

I need to stop not having a plan.

This morning I told my dear Stars that over the past few days, I've come to the conclusion that it's important I come around to admitting that coming to Ireland was a mistake. "And so I've said it," I told them. And so I have. It was a mistake to come here. It may have been a mistake I needed to make, in the situation I was in, needed to make and then learn from. But it was a mistake. Which is the English human shorthand way to say, I suppose...

I need to stop trying to justify this and figure out how to recover. Write it off, sell it for what scrap I can get for it.

What now?

It's strange how much difference that makes to my perspective, when none of my options have really changed.

Well... If I'm not assuming I have to stay, I need to have a plan to go. Plane tickets, dates, an address of someone who'll let me stay with them for a while when I arrive back in Canada, either for rent or otherwise. All of it flexible, ideally, so that if I do manage to get a paid internship here with a company that'll put me through my next year and offer me a place with them, I can pivot to that.
Huh. Using the word pivot that way on a personal blog makes me sound like a corporate dickhead. Well, not pivot, then. Switch to it. Adjust to land there.

So. Refundable plane tickets. Those exist, I'm pretty sure. How much time do I want to give myself? Couple months? If I don't have an internship set up by mid-June, I don't think I'm likely to get one, so let's say late June maybe. April, exams are in May, June. Alright. I can work with that.

Today while I was walking to the campus, I listened to some episodes of the ACCA student podcast, including one episode on Clever Job Hunting which I listened to more carefully than the others. One of the things it says is about networking - that it's important to build relationships up before bringing up jobs at all.

Well, there's the kick, isn't it? Don't look desperate, ever, especially when you feel desperate. Don't ask people for awkward things. Smile. Shake hands. Talk small. Make friends.

I've never been good at that. I hate feeling like I'm confined to safe, inoffensive subjects. And I'm quick to get annoyed with people's bad habits. I have to admit, though, I get it. Swooping in and expecting the attention of people who don't know what makes me great looks pretentious, entitled. Because it is. I fly around the world, leaving places and people behind me, looking for a break... And then who's there to help me or vouch for me?

Anyway. Book a ticket to leave in June, then. Get through the rest of my classes and exams. Shift emphasis away from menial work for the summer - it seems even mushroom harvesting positions are looking for people who intend to stay longer than a year. Keep throwing out applications as I can bear to for internships, try to learn about companies that might be a gateway for me, here or in Canada. Maybe look into the US a bit, but since I've no claim there and no degree so far, don't expend too much effort on it.

Wrap up the story of the tabletop campaign. Does everything just go to hell because the death of Isabet Carol was only the first sign of things going very, very wrong, and the PCs didn't actually investigate enough to stop it? Sounds plausible, and may offer them enough closure to satisfy. It would be nice to have a tabletop story actually end in a way that feels like an ending for once.

Continue the conversation with Fanshawe and maybe other colleges in Canada, look at continued study... Maybe. I'm tired of going to school, though. Look for work in Canada, yes. If it's something that can get me starting to do work that aligns with my strengths and studies, great. If something that aligns with EA, even better.

Alright. Go and set it up, then, Serp.

Dear Memory: The Song in my Dream

Good morning, Eoin. At least, morning here. It is a quarter to seven in my local time. In my dream, I sang part of the melody of a song familiar to me, by Enya, and it stayed with me as I woke, with the strange, eerie weight of some dreams that drives people sometimes to interpret them.

Such was the weight and the strange calm, and my appreciation for thinking again of someone whose music I have loved and not listened to in quite some while, and the strange dream-sense of importance, and also as well some of my desire not to forget the melody, that I sang out the verse-melody again as I remembered it. But I have never known the words. They are not in English. I did a bit of Googling to see if I could find it. Enya > Watermark (for I know that's one of only a couple of albums I know). On the track list I saw it, one track titled in Irish. Undeniably Irish; I know some of the patterns now, and I remember the word "geal" from that one song by Maria Dunn. Na Laetha Geal M'òige, which according to translators means "The bright days of my youth" and is a song that mourns time lost, and whatever vague things; opportunity, experience, that were lost with it.

So here comes again this sense of both devotion and frustration. As soon as I saw it was writ in Irish, the song had meanings linked to you, although I won't consign you to a thing lost in the past just yet. If anything, I shall take this as a precautionary tale not to live with regrets, to seek out those things that delight me and live my life fully as I can.

However, even so, my dreams evoke yet more little poignant reminders of how much I miss you, as well, I suppose, as my desire for physical affection, and the conflictedness of trying to figure out whether I would, at this time, be comfortable falling into some physical intimacy with someone who were not you. Since that seemed to be expressed in my recurring dreams about getting close with and kissing an acquaintance or stranger. I think I had those dreams three times in one week, which is remarkably recurring for me.

Having seemed to have clawed back out of my slump for now, I fetched out the application forms yesterday for the six Irish colleges I have been considering, and intend to make it my task over the next short while to start filling them out. I stopped by the business office yesterday to ask where I could find the closest thing my college has got to a program syllabus, since that's been requested alongside my application if I were to return to Athlone. If I were to return to Athlone, indeed. And something inside me thrums and shudders like a guitar string that's just been plucked at a little harshly.

Dear Memory: Trying to Slow Down

I wrote myself a checklist for today which consisted of very little big or taxing, and included leisure as an entry. It has been exams, and I have been dizzy with love and busy with study and unable to get much sleep, as I stay up late and my roommates always wake me with their conversations in the morning.

So I have had a quiet day deliberately for once. I set away my laundry, I enjoyed my tea, I ate leftovers and a shawarma on my way back home from a walk. The snow glitters like tiny flashing stars everywhere. Across the ground and in the air, the world around me shining with pinpoint mirrors, facets on a tiny flake of ice. Craft glitter could never match this, for all that it might be designed as though to try.

I Googled up some podcasts to do with finance and bookkeeping and Irish experience or systems in particular, and listened to one first episode of a couple on my walk. In one of them, the voice of the speaker sounded so similar to my dear friend Coda that I giggled to myself about it. In the other, the accents brought me nodding recognition and a reminder of the lecturer who taught my marketing class in Athlone.

The man at the pizza shop (who made me a shawarma) was good-natured and complimentary, happily chatting to me about all the diverse ingredients that make up the flavour, and shared the basic ingredients in the garlic sauce when I confessed I didn't know how to make it.

Half way along the long stretch of Oxford St. which is bordered in great sports fields and open to the wind, I paused and stared in some wonder at the sky. Lights... Lights on the distant side of the field stretched straight up in gorgeous vertical beams, visible high into the sky, diffuse with gentle auras. Some lights more reddish, others more bluish, and a couple thicker and brighter and yellow. I suppose, the light must have reflected off the sparse falling snow, to show those magnificent beams like pillars or signal lights up into the sky. It was worth stopping to stare at for a while, and I could not help but wish I had you with me to see it and awe at it alongside.

My phone had died of podcast. Its battery is rubbish these days and I hadn't fully charged it before leaving anyway. Otherwise, I would have taken a picture. As it is, I describe it here and encourage anyone who might read this and who lives in a place where it snows to look for the beautiful sight on a night when it is only just snowing in tiny flakes, so you can see into the distance.

I certainly must have overexposed myself to those Elbow songs in the past couple of days. Now I can hardly get them to stop interrupting my thoughts, and I am a little irritated of the feeling, even though they are good songs.

I am trying, for the moment, to calm myself down and return some focus on the present and near future, as much as it is habitual and forever tempting to continue daydreaming of meeting you again. I do not want to overdo it and lose sight of the broader existence and variety, and the options in my life. I hope to continue to find ways to enjoy my time here in more than just waiting for it to be over. I see myself in a broad variety of lights, as a student, a traveler, a romantic, a strong creature going on adventures, a restless youth barely able to pull myself together for an hour or two to study and touch ground between flights of fancy and self-indulgence.

Yesterday I went over to the college for a while just to get out of the house, and wandered into the library. There I found on a rack of books to be returned to the shelves a volume called Celtic Mythology, and I picked it up and sat down and read a while, a description of what disperate and scattered records shed any light at all on the religions and folklore of old Irish and broader Gaul or Gael culture. Records in Greece, observations written by their foes, suggestions in the content and the labels of some various works of art; statues, a cauldron somewhere... I read a brief English summary of the stages in the Book of Invasions.

Although I felt restless and tired and was frequently tempted to return home, my mind was also hungry for this context of some of the scant few things I heard others say while I was visiting, and one bit in particular, a mention of one surviving boat of a migration, which carried fifty women and three men, prompted me to blink to myself in some astonishment. I had heard that story before. Only briefly mentioned in this book, but I had heard a much elaborated version in a book I had read while still living at my mother's house what must have been over ten years ago.

It put me in a keen interest to someday take some time to visit other sites around Ireland, any place which still has symbols or record of these old stories, or special relevance in them, and see what it might inspire me to wonder. I thought, perhaps I could become a scholar of these great old stories someday, perhaps write conjectures on them... That, though, is another big and bold idea. It must be enough for now to be fascinated and pleasantly distracted by them, and keep going about my business of learning business, putting forth however much effort performing well at that must demand of me.

And it must be enough, for now, to bring my writing to a close and wish you and myself a good and restful night.

Dear Memory: Je Pleut

Weather alert: ... It's raining.

For a few days there, it was really cold and windy, and had been snowing a great deal. Yesterday, I think, I walked to the next major intersection and completely wore myself out, because I was sinking up to my mid-calves in snowbank along the way. It's much warmer now, and we have a great deal of melt and thaw and misting rain. It is more like an Irish winter. But there is still lots of snow left.

I... really wish I could talk to you, Eoin. You were in my dream last night, back in Killaloe. The one I grew up in. I dreamed that you had followed me there. I miss you.

I think it's been a little while since I let myself just miss you. It's kind of good to say it again. It's good to imagine talking to you.

I've been doing pretty well. I finished my last quizzes in Intermediate Accounting today, with a 100% and a 83% on my last two. It's... good enough, all things considered. I was mostly doing my accounting work in tax class today, in between paying attention and trial and erroring a bit through reconciliations between net income for accounting and for tax purposes.

I've been singing to myself, from time to time, when my roommates don't seem to be in the house. They come and go a lot, and often together. I have been singing the song I wrote for you, before the silence. I've also been singing "It's Over Isn't It" from Steven Universe. Because it's a really sweet song and I've been rewatching the show. A couple months ago, I couldn't bear to face Garnet. I guess I'm over that now.

Toward the end of the month, there's going to be a week at the school when representatives of other colleges and universities come to advertise their programs, and then a week of recruiting and advertising for summer jobs and career opportunities. I expect to be attending both of them. Especially because... There are some Irish institutions that will be represented there.

I'm making it steadily through my term. I'm doing fine... as far as academic success is concerned. And honestly, I think I'm doing better than I was before in terms of stability too. I've been talking a lot to an old friend of mine I had fallen into an awkward silence with. If we ever do get back into conversation, remind me to tell you about Pyat sometime. I guess that line is inherently more to me than you... but permit me my illusion for a bit.

Reflecting on some things, and at one point being reminded of how I was bullied back in school... I noticed something. Something important. I think something has changed. When I was talking about it, I realized I wanted not to be so angry anymore. I think... I actually believe now, that I don't need to be resentful in order to be myself. In a way that I didn't before. And I think it has a lot to do with you.

I think back again to that scene in the parking lot, and your forgiveness. There's something tremendously powerful in the sight of others. There's a reality that a second perspective lends to things. All the difference between "Am I crazy" and "or is this really here?" is answered by someone else being able to see it too.

No-one else ever seemed to see the difference between myself and the way I've been hurt before, the way you did. And I've been to some counselling. You know, back when I was in Ireland, and continuing to the present. I know it's something that counselors have been trying to condition me to believe for years. And... It's different. It's stirring. To hear myself say it. I could still be just as insightful and amazing if I didn't go hot and cold whenever I remember how isolated I've been.

It's a strange feeling, noticing that difference. It feels... weighty. Not happy or sad, just important, mostly. And kind of... Well, awe-inspiring. I wonder if I will continue to feel that way reliably.

I miss you. I miss you so badly it hurts, and I wish I could tell you how much I want to see you again. I will make it happen, if I can. I just hope you will want to see me again too. It's such a simple thing to say. But the emotions behind it are immense.

One at a time, some fast and some slow, the days march on and on. On Saturday I went to the hospital Emergency area, anxious because the left side of my face was inexplicably numb and tingly. There were some tests. Nothing alarming was found. I came back home. Yesterday I had an exam. Tomorrow I will have two more. I get through it, missing you, looking forward to seeing you again, looking forward to your answer.

The most sensible and effective strategy in general seems to be to act and plan assuming that my plan to return to Ireland succeeds just as I want. That way, my actions will be aligned with my goal, and the future I choose will be reinforced along the way. I'm going to try to enjoy as much of this winter as I can. It might be the last Canadian winter I see for a while, if I have my way. Throughout the coming year, I'm going to have to get rid of a bunch of this junk. I have altogether too much stuff, and it's in the way of unpacking it all and settling in more neatly. There is comparatively so little that I really need, that I really use. I kind of look forward to getting rid of it, although it will take some doing, both physically and emotionally.

Anyway. I... I love you, Eoin. I miss you. So much. And I guess that's about it for me, for now. See you later.

Dear Memory: Merry Christmas

Good morning, my dear memory, Eoin...

Whether it is mania or high spirits, I have been more or less able to maintain a streak of it this long, and I feel happy and fortunate for it, although my sleep schedule bends one way and then the other and I do wonder how much longer I can keep it up. Recently, I wake at about 4:30 in the morning, and particularly recently, I have been inclined to set to some form of productivity or another very soon after. Gradual progress is being made toward moving preparations, and on completing each of my school assignments before they come due.

Well... There was one I let slide, but it is in an easy class. I will need to cover the material on my own time anyway, I think, since I did not go to the class that gave instruction for it. I have not gone to classes Monday or Tuesday lately, because those classes are in courses that I excel at easily and my sleep schedule frequently gets all turned around on the weekend.

You are often on my mind, and sometimes I am not sure what to do with the thoughts of you. No longer driven to despair about them, for I have my plan. At the same time, I feel as though I must exhaust the variety of fancies and hopes and get tired of repeating them over and over.

Often when you come to mind, it is just the memory of your face, your hair, the soft deep sound of your voice and its mild accent. Sometimes, the way I remember you saying "shore" (as I always heard from your "sure") as you often did, open to suggestion and rarely fussy in any way. I have remembered the meal you often made of pasta with tomato sauce full of bell pepper, remembering and revisiting my happiness with your unpretentious, resourceful competence at cooking.

My fancy wanders to other happy wants. To go swimming, or skating, or to eventually learn to fly in a squirrel suit, and more.

Winter has softened for a bit, and some of the snow has melted to show patches of green. The large banks are filthy with all the accumulated dirt left behind from what has melted, to sit on top of what has not. The weather is still cool, but less cold and these past two days I have gone to school comfortably with just my t-shirt and a jacket.

I have a pupil at the college for tutoring, in the system that the college sets up to enable it. I will meet him later today, although all the details are of course confidential. This will be the first time I have actually gotten to meet a student to tutor them for pay, despite being on the register of available tutors for two years. I am happy about the occasion, although setting up the meeting through conflicting schedules has been a chore.

I begin to fear that I might run out of things to write here to you... Perhaps it is just that no particular subject has brought me here, but I thought I ought to write soon, since it's been a week and if I leave it off too long, I might forget right up until some awful pain of heartbreak reminds me. It is better to take a moment to acknowledge you, my love, though awfully far away and entirely beyond my reach by our mutual agreement, before the force of needing to do so rips it painfully out of me.

Anyway, it is clear what I should say just now. Christmas comes... I will feel myself probably to be solemnly and sadly alone for some parts the holiday. I will certainly reach out to my friends for happiness as I can. But you... You should be either with dear friends of your own or with your close family, perhaps back in Athboy and meeting your brother and the friends of your childhood. With a tear in my eye, I imagine you there, remember the house where I got to meet them. Or perhaps you might still be abroad in China, meeting with your beloved sister! I know you had plans to go meet her this winter. Above all, dear memory, I wish you and all your loved ones the very best holiday you could have, wherever you are. And for myself, I might hope that sometime this Christmas, you would spare a thought to wish me well in kind.

Merry Christmas, dear Memory, Merry Christmas and a fresh and wonderful new year. It may not be in the coming year that I set foot again in your country, but I will be taking slow steps toward it, one after the other, in the midst of every other obligation of school and home and friends. This is what I offer to you this Christmas, the only thing I can really offer you now. I hope that when at last you know of my efforts, you will be happy I made them. I hope that this Christmas, before you are likely to know any more of them than a distant and uncertain possibility, you are happy as well.

Dear Memory: Stirred on the Breeze

Good morning, dear memory.

This last few day, I have been, instead of the oppressive fatigue, instilled with a greater brightness and whimsy. I am more easily caught up in emotions both grand and fearful. I sit in my classes attentively and answer brightly, but I worry more that I am annoying those around me by speaking too often or giggling too much.

In the same wave, you come to mind more often and more strongly. I yearn for you gently, and push the feeling away gently if I am set to a task, or turn into it for a moment, wistfully, if I am not. But I am not sure what to do there.

The land has been gorgeously white. I have walked so much in the shallow sidewalk snow that some muscles in my legs ache, for the walking is more difficult on this purchase. I often imagined bringing you with me. I would love so much to show you what winter, real winter, Canadian winter, is like. Walking on the shallow sidewalk snow is a bit like walking on beach sand. It churns away slightly under the foot, rather than giving a solid surface off of which to push. I do think the shallow snow trodden into a path by bootprints is a bit more difficult than beach sand though, because it is also inclined to be slippery and inconsistent. Some areas are loose, and some are dense, and it is not always evident which are which, so that the churning under your foot might take an unexpected direction, or turn into a slide sideways instead.

The snow is deep and white and gorgeous, fresh from its recent falling. It formed banks up to meet the hoods of cars in the used car lot I pass to and from school. Icicles hang in sheets from roofs and signs. Here, let me show you some pictures I took:

The last few days, I have also been suffering frequent irritating headaches, and keeping them at bay with painkillers. I misplaced my bank debit card Wednesday, and intend to go in to my bank branch today after classes to replace it.

I have been getting back to my studies steadily, an hour here, an hour there. So long as I gently push thoughts of you away into the future when they come to me, and push aside other intrusive thoughts like momentary conceptualizations of eye horror with patience and endurance (those do come to me sometimes when the work is dull and invites reluctance) I can focus well enough to perform well.

Today, I had put Heroes of Might & Magic soundtracks on as my background music, seeking something fresh. The strains of one song, I think it was the one called "Searching for a Dream," (although I think this one ultimately carries the feeling better) sang a reminder of you and of Ireland into my heart that was particularly stirring. I faced the dilemma for a moment. I was busy working, and was not to be distracted, but I did not want to neglect or entirely ignore the beauty of remembering you in a poignant moment, feeling as though a dry leaf fluttered in the breeze, looking toward a future I hope dearly to see.

I wrote "write love letter" on my list of things to do that day, as a promise to myself not to forget, not to neglect that beauty, nor the part of me that insists on acknowledging how it moves me.

I dearly hope that this is alright. To feel, and embrace that I feel, for you, my dear memory... I hope that this does no harm. I might worry that it is something that might someday offer pangs of guilt to you, if you were to consider turning me away. But I feel somehow that in this particular context, in this frame of mind, it is right to remember you with a wistful tear on my cheek and an uncertain but hopeful half-smile on my lips, looking to a past I cherish and a future I hope for. Hope for, but intend not to demand. Surely, that must be alright.

So here has been my love letter. It seems likely my blog will be crowded with them in the coming months, but I think that is alright. It is usually quite barren here, after all, and I am happier to populate it with whimsical love letters to a memory than not to populate it all.

Besides that, when I speak here, as though whispering to a plush toy perhaps, I spare the energies of friends who might be fatigued of my endless obsession with you, or my difficulty in maintaining or regaining an acceptable balance of self through the fits of intensity and patches of slump that I am prone to.

And again, some distant day, perhaps I will share them with you, sitting on the edge of your bed and turning often to look upon you, admiring the beauty I saw in you in that self's past, and which I still see, but may be brought out in a special way in the light of these memories.

My Season

I wrap my heart in a net and throw it out to a vast sea.

I walk, with an uneven gait, favouring one leg over the other. Snow flies out before the toes of my boots in little powder waves. Powder water, cold and dry. I scoop up the top of a bank experimentally, clench it together. It falls apart as I open my hand. Yes. Very dry. Cold, dry water.

I smile viciously, savouring the darkness of the sky, the constant texture of the falling snow through it. The struggle of snow, shifting softly under my boot with each step of an uneven gait, favouring one leg over the other. It parts or compresses readily, and my boot comes down further. It resists, a packed clump more solid, and I slow to drag my body over the momentary obstruction. Sloughing powder snow away with my boots, I feel slightly like a sea turtle, dragging itself across wet sand. I feel a little like something like a horse and something like a bird. A chocobo, maybe? I smile viciously at the sky. I feel at home.

The snow is deep, at least a foot of simple fall and stacked up much higher where it has been pushed to the side to leave mere inches slowly accumulating under the unceasing fall, diagonal texture, dry water.

I took pictures of it, at my porch this morning, at the campus before I left. This is the picture of real winter as I know it, wild and troublesome and inconvenient. This is my season. It is cold, but the wind is not harsh, and it is not too cold. If you step out into it, and you expect it to be cold, then it is... but like water at the beach, if you expect it to be cold, and step into it anyway, you can quickly become used to it.
Or at least, I can.

Hunger reaches up across my chest like a wooden brace that I press against by walking forward. I feel the pressure and smile viciously. It is a part of the season. Dark night, falling snow, walking made more effortful by shifting pressures and uncertain hold. I pick my feet up and sprint for a short ways, grinning. There is ice in my hair. I am listening to Welcome to Night Vale. It is a particularly good episode, and the ending credits cease just as I am turning down the driveway of my house. A walkway has been carved out, and shoveled bare recently. I suppose I should feel grateful. But what's true is that I will be glad to leave this place. There are many places I have left, and been glad to leave, in my life. But then again, there are a precious few that I have left, but have pointedly not been glad to leave.

It took me about 50 minutes to walk home. I considered taking the bus, as I walked out of the campus doors. It was close at hand, just filling up with students as I reached it. It was packed and crowded inside, with still more students hoping to board it. I have a strong preference not to be crowded. I made my way through the crowd and past it with little hesitation. I walked home, smiling, sometimes laughing at my podcast. I smiled viciously at the sky and let my mind wander, let my self imagine the shape and perspective of different creatures as they came to me.

I enjoyed my day, those parts of it in which I was doing something, clawing life out of fatigue. I paused at the door of my house, and shook my backpack, and brushed small piles of snow off of my headphones and jacket. I stepped inside, to toasty warmth. It seemed too warm. It smelled of warmth in a way that I cannot identify with any other smell. The remaining bits of snow immediately began to melt as I came down to my room. My pantlegs are damp. My socks are damp. My ankles are itchy. I pick little shells of ice off of my hair, and set down my backpack, and take off my jacket, and hang it up to dry.

I filter the rest of the ice out of my hair with my hairbrush, overcoming stubborn resistance, embracing every detail, preparing to sit and relate this story, which I fully expect to seem wild and rambling. It is meant to seem wild and rambling. It should not worry you, if you read it. It does not worry me. I am happy to allow myself, for a while, to be wild and rambling. The weather outside is a face of true winter and I am home. It is too hot inside. I laugh to myself, and begin typing.

The words and the images as I had thought them while I was walking come readily back to mind with just a little prompting.

I am a little inspired by Welcome to Night Vale. I have been enjoying it. The episode that was ending just as I turned in to the driveway of my house was A Story About Them, set sometime in 2014 of the story's timeline. On this day, I particularly appreciate the weather.

Forgiving Mentors, Relentless Longing

It is the second day of classes resuming, and much of the miserable doubt and worry of the empty time during the faculty strike is lifting surely as our professors reassure us, cut out small pieces of the courses, and focus the first week largely on review. Every gesture shows understanding and mediation for the difficulties of resuming after such a long interruption. My intermediate accounting professor, having read an email I sent him telling him that my morale and confidence had been very low trying to navigate his online course with the textbook alone, thanked me for my refreshingly candid words and invited me to sit in on classes in person. It is all a soothing balm to my troubles.

Sadly, the professors themselves may have had little relief from theirs. The strike's disputes were not resolved, and there is some worry that this might all repeat in another four years, after the new contracts expire again, and they must meet to agree on terms of renewal again.

My spirits are higher, and I look forward to moving into a very nice house directly across from the campus, the nicest I have lived in... Looking back, and looking back further, it may be fair to say that it is the nicest looking and most modernly appointed house I have ever lived in in Canada. My parents' houses were a welcome home to me, but simple. My new room will have an ensuite bathroom, and the kitchen has a central island and two big fridges to accomodate I think five female tenants.

Through all that, though, my thoughts remain restlessly and inexorably drawn back to Eoin and distant Éire. It feels to me as though the memory of him stands always behind my shoulder. When my mind wanders, it wanders to dreams of return, and meeting with him again, with much tear and hope and fear, desperate to know what his answer will be...

It has been three weeks since our last goodbye, and since the law of silence has been set between us. These last few days have tested my will to adhere to that law. I felt that I was doing fair well, for a little while, at looking to my own life alone, although it was a miserably empty stretch of life indeed with neither love nor work nor school to sustain me. I took up to make a game to run for friends, which I have nicknamed the SCDP game, a Super Casual Drop-in Pick-up game of Pathfinder such that I can run it and invite people to play it without a set group or a set schedule. I finally finished writing all the stats for available player characters to the website I'll be using just a day or two before the return to classes, and I have not played it yet. I am not certain I will even get the chance, but the project was something with which I might hope to enjoy the social attentions of friends.

At some point, perhaps a week ago... I lost track of the empty days for a while, so I am not sure... I was re-watching a bunch of video reviews, and one of them ambushed me with the high, haunting and familiar voice of Loreena McKennitt and the sweet melancholy violins of Irish tradition behind her. I knew the song, The Old Ways, I had heard it and loved it and felt magnificently drawn by it from my early youth. It hit me like a hammer blow, and broke open yet again any thought that I could deny my desperate want to go back there, back over the bounding waves to the distant shore of a land I have always loved, in music and legend, and the man I loved who lives there.

Eoin could not promise me any answer. It has been three weeks since I last heard his voice, and now at last doubt begins to creep back, and I begin to worry and wonder. We knew each other scant three months, and it is already past that long ago. Even if I do make my way back to that great isle, and see his face again... If it is a year, if it is several, how could I expect him to look on me as other than a sad and obsessed woman whose storms and ferocity he may have been glad to be rid of?

But. I know with enough confidence to say that I know... whatever may happen in the coming years, at the time three weeks ago when he bid me leave him be, Eoin was yet undecided. If he had in his mind any certain answer, I know with confidence he is too good and honest a man not to have given it. When last he spoke to me, there was love enough in him, and perhaps also longing of his own, that he was not set against seeing me again someday. He was not sure what he would feel. If it had been more honest to tell me he would rather never see me again, for all the pain it may have cost him, I am sure he would have said it anyway.

So. What his answer will be, I cannot know until I have heard it from his own lips. I cannot hear it until I go there, for until I am there, he cannot know himself whether he will be willing to bring me close again. As I walk out from my house into the cold, bare young-winter, gazing up at the steely light where the sun shines through the thinnest parts of the grey clouds, returning at long last to my studies with the weight of my work things at my back... As I walk the cold and formal halls of my college, which now seems too large and too impersonal... I know that Eoin is not the only or the first man for whom I have felt this utter determination, the deep and aching sense that I would be willing to do nearly anything to see him smile at me again. I feel rather as though I will set my determination to heading there, but do it all with a sheepish apology to him, and hope he will not feel my devotion cheap because he has not been the only one to inspire it.

I know my will, though mighty, is shifting. I know I may look back on these words with embarrassment and a shake of the head that I was so caught up in love and grief. Still, from here, as of now, I am determined by all the madness of my heart and a relentless longing in my bones to go back to Ireland, to distant Éire, and find out what his answer will be. I know that to do any different while I feel as I do would be to rend apart my nature, to bury my desire and smash my compass, and live as someone I am not. It would not be a story worth telling. Better to go, full of all my courage and wild strength, and profess myself to him as simply and as gently as I can, even if the answer I find is to be turned away as a nuisance, and go back to the rocky path of lonesomeness, to stalk on like a restless ghost and seek on anew for someone who will at long last stand and travel by my side.

So every day, whether I resist it or not, my thoughts wander back again when I am not looking, and I imagine living in love with him again; or I imagine troubles there might be in trying to get in touch after I land; or I imagine cautiously studying his eyes when he first sees me again, asking how things have changed, what shape his life has taken, and trying to learn whether there is room for me in it; Or of being greeted with a kiss and falling into desperate tears, begging to know if he meant by it that I would be given a chance to stay this time. Sometimes I imagine talking to a border guard of my intent to immigrate. Sometimes I imagine talking to a representative of an accounting firm for which I intend to work in Ireland in an interview about my reasons for coming. But it is always something, and it always pulls my view East, across the ocean, with the call of the bounding sea.

Drifting in Snow; The Season of the Scavenger

Eoin weighed particularly heavy on my mind today. I went walking in the first snow of the year that I have seen. It was beautiful, and I was happy to stay out in the cold until some areas of my skin began to feel slightly numb.
I had wanted to send him pictures when the real snows came.
Pictures of winter as it is in Canada.

There was a particular street, where streetlamps positioned between pairs of trees offered a gorgeous image that I felt, if I had the materials, I should like to paint. The bare, arching branches curled over the top of the sidewalk, giving it the beautiful natural-tunnel look of paths between trees, but the light cast the trees against one another in alternating light and shadow; the light in front of every second tree so that its part was cast in beige, and behind the others, so that their trunks and branches were dark silhouettes, and layered like that; light, dark, light, dark, light... Giving the path's length gorgeous texture in contrast.

A friend asked me what was my favourite part of winter.

I don't think I have a favourite part, per se. I prefer cooler temperatures, and so I appreciate that winter is a season in which I am not likely to feel overheated. I often tend to see seasons, much as I see other things, in the things they symbolise. Winter is endings, death and rebirth, rest and repose, the elegance of the lifeless and the dangerous beauty of unforgiving forces of nature, such as ice and snow.
It may also stand for austerity, the time when nothing grows being a natural time of scarcity, but humankind in this country is now divorced from such things.
I suppose I see it as the difficult season, and that appeals to my need to be challenged and face adventure.
In much the same way, spring represents birth and renewal, autumn represents change and shares the motif of endings with winter, and the motif of plenty and harvest with late summer.
Spiritual symbolism. I do it.

Winter speaks to me of wandering, which touches me more and seems to me less obvious.
But it is an ancestral symbol, too. When nothing grows, predators hunt and prowl, wandering farther from their homes to find sustenance.
Humankind are predators, and do so as well.
It is the time when scarcity may force conflict, and unwelcomeness shows its ugliest face; some may be cast out to freeze or starve if they cannot make their own way.
For both of these reasons, perhaps, it feels like the season of the wanderer and the outsider, that one who must always seek and cannot be satisfied for long with what it finds, for even as today's hunger is satisfied, there is always again tomorrow's empty belly to fill as well.
Of course, this time of difficulty is marked with revelry and defiance once we make it through a significant enough chunk to feel we have some measure of victory.
Hardship brings joy at overcoming it.

I certainly identify with the symbols of the wanderer and the scavenger, so in a way I feel that this is my season. The cold is a welcome discomfort to me, a connection to the sense that this cold North land is my home, and a little challenge which makes weathering it more satisfying...
There is nothing quite like coming in out of a harsh cold.