Too many nightmares in my head, and too many people to play tribute to, too many things to remember of the manic racing of the past few days...
Too much, but the steam from my coffee and the imminent arrival of lunch ought to soften the blow.
Yeah, I'm workin' through lunch, the last two days of trying desperately to get back into the work mentality after having so much time alone in my head, alone to clean and arrange my life, my home, my relationships, my thoughts, my goals...
Chantal says that too many orgasms are bad for productivity. What I don't understand is how I wound up dating a non geek.
So many tributes, where to begin - with Chuckies and the dinner we'd planned that I had been half-anxious over, with how much he's grown and fled the shadow that he'd been hiding under, how he's learned to shine and despite every pang and reservation... You've become so much more beautiful with every time I see you too, goof. (despite the nasty Yassir Arafat joke you played)
A tribute to Flatline because he hasn't received his package yet, the address is all written out and ready to go, but the contents seem to have gone missing from my special box and I need to go out and buy more...
A tribute to Kaffeine for always having been so beautiful, for having remembered me from a long-dead goth club from five years ago when I'd ogled her and the way she paraded past... And for being more tolerant than any other city-bound human has the strength to be.
And a tribute to Steven in the endless stream of wonders that spout from him, and a tribute to Dazahan who somehow makes the most rotten of moods an exciting time, and a tribute to David who has taught me that gentle sex can somehow not be boring...
And a tribute to cf for being a poet in his heart and not just his speech...
A tribute, because I am still glorying in the greatness of the sentiment that is Namaste, because I am finally beginning to feel the pull of creativity, because I started this year off with more laughter and pleasure and softest skin than ever before.
New Year's wishes and resolutions and the whole deal are cheesy, but I'm feeling them so bonejarringly to the core that I need to spew one more globule of holiday cheer before I spin back into the fray again.
And Kaff, remember those pictures we were looking at, of the boys from France that I haven't seen in years but who I miss so terribly?
They called, and wrote, and wished all the worst to all the worst people, and sent hugs on the side.
That means far too much to me, and somehow has the travelling bug chewing up my underwear again.
Gottamovegottamovegottamove... Montreal is still the most beautiful city I've ever seen, and despite the roots growing into my furniture, I'm still cagey about settling here, and I'm still desperate to see more, do more, be freer, before I let the corporate struggle become even more consumptive.
On the one hand, my goals for this year are to learn to use terms like "functional flow of productivity" in conversation with the people who need to hear it, and on the other hand, I am still fighting to be a gypsy, to not hate being a woman, to be capable of love, and most importantly... To be capable of contributing some sort of beauty to this place.
*shrug* My food's here, the ultimate of yuppie foods as Aura called to remind me over the break - and my club sandwich demands that I devour it and get back to "planning my stratagem for the following months".
Fuck you. I'm fighting all the nastiness of yuppihood as hard as I can, and I'm sorry if it offends you that I chose a profession where success was somehow handed to me...
But I'm a far cry from being the bane of society yet, and I plan to keep fighting.
Always fighting.
Fighting the greenies-who've-stopped-listening just as hard as the anti-greenies, and fighting the mundanes just as much as those who've painfully overcompensated.
But still, Namaste.