I'm having a difficult time facing an empty text editor these days.
The very first thought in my head as soon as my fingers stretch into their ballerina poses over the keys is "so, at work today something crazy-magical happened and I'm choking with awe" -- but I don't want to write about work. Yes, it is a glorious, immense, over-half-of-my-waking hours sort of thing, but this isn't a work diary, it is a life's lessons learned diary. The largest emphasis that I want to lend to the hours that I spend between locked doors with raised, excited voices, is just that. And an occasional reminder of how much I've grown.
Granted, given the hour I leave for work in the morning, and the minuscule time I spend at home meeting up with the illustrious and deliciousous Mr. Pyke before our surcharge of evening activities -- I'm rarely sitting still enough near that slowly fading Gemplus laptop that Geeks brought to France for me last January.
So when I have time to push away the results of this meeting and the demands of that one, the analysis I promised Michael and the tutorial I promised Sharon or Catherine or Connie or Stuart or blah or bleeh or phlegh....
I am still, most often, at my desk, beneath the too-bright lights, enjoying a quiet moment while everyone else has run out to lunch and some loud bitch a few partitions over chatters at immense volume with some girlfriend on the found.
That being said, quiet, austere, professional Catherine stuck her tongue out at me this morning, much to Sharon and Jessica's silenced shock.
The atmosphere here is slowly melting.
But outside of here, there is so much wonder as well. Outside of here there is the sticker I pulled from a vending machine at the Queensway theatre where they'd found the cellphone that I'd dropped when we saw Daredevil on Friday.
THere is pink on the sticker. Something I own, now has pink as an accessory.
Last night in between considerations of my own mortality and the crushing realizations that I'd come closer than I thought back when -- I spent a few idle moments marvelling that I don't hate anymore, that so much of my hate is gone, healed over, not just sucked into my gut but really honestly gone -- that I can handle the sight of pink.
I no longer hate pink. I still despise the word cute, but various shades of candy colours no longer fill me with rage at the stereotypes that high school girls attempted to smother me with.
Granted, it is highly unlikely that I ever paint a room pink, buy pink accessories, furniture, and definitely not clothes -- but if someone hands me a pink glass, my first instinct will not be one of complaint, humourous or not.
Interesting, I like these brief moments where I poke around inside myself and stumble upon a bruise that no longer makes me cringe.
And last night, watching Requiem for a Dream, and The RUles of Attraction at Quentin's, I learned so many things.
I learned that I really like Greg's voice. I learned that Johnny has an honest smile. I learned that Rage has large philosophical issues at the forefront of his mind.
I learned how close I came to ending just like that in Requiem.
I also learned, through the intervention of the sharp-witted Stacy that it wasn't all that close either, that I'd been so taken in by the artistic melodrama of the movie that I'd stopped thinking critically for a moment.
Really all she'd said was "but they're stupid", and with that one act of brutal rebellion broke my own floodgates and reminded me why I survived.
What I didn't forget, though, was just how many people didn't.
And just how not different we really were.
So yes, all those roundabout machinations to announce -- that once again, I'm thanking the perpetual motion sine waves of the universe for the fortune that I have been drenched with.
ANd this morning, Mr. Pyke barely stirred when I kissed him goodbye for the day, and when he mumbled and smiled as I peppered the stubble-less spot by his ear with kisses, there was a peace to his coma that seemed new somehow.
In the most wonderful way.