Alston

I met Alston at Yulblog.  I had just joined the group, which was celebrating its five-year anniversary with a party at the now defunct Zeke’s Gallery.  I sat on a vintage couch that had seen better days and smoked a cigarette, and within moments Alston and I were engaged in a furious argument about smoking bans, which had yet to encroach upon Montreal.

Despite the argument, or perhaps because of it, I liked Alston immediately.  He was smart and sociable and Scorpionically intense, and he was one of only a few people I know who doesn’t take disagreement personally.  He was also kinda hot, as Uberfrau keenly observed, and wickedly funny.  I later realized that Alston brought out the ham in me and was grateful to him for it.

Fun

It was time.  First, an impromptu birthday party, which the weather conspired to make perfect for a wispy summer dress and a terrasse overtaken by friends, even though it was a Tuesday on the cusp of fall.  Then, a full-on barnburner that throbbed through the night and ended with slowdancing and the sudden jolt of day.

Yes, fun, and more of it to come.  I say, voraciously: bring it on.

Released

Well, everything’s okay… sort of.  My father paid off his debt, probably with gambling winnings, which allowed me to remove my name from his bank accounts.  The process took more than six weeks and involved countless phone calls, several wayward faxes, and miles of pacing, but as of today I am no longer financially tethered to a man who doesn’t give a fuck.  It is, to put it blandly, a relief.

Reunion

With another anniversary looming, I thought I might write a post about my continuing estrangement from my father, and, in so doing, provide friends and onlookers with a bit of a “me” update.  In retrospect, and largely unintentionally, this blog stands as an archive of my family’s dissolution, so it seemed to me like a fitting way to mark the occasion.  Fate, though, had other plans.

Served

I didn’t feel like cooking so I stopped off to get a pizza on my way home from work.  As I surveyed my options, I said hello to the red-haired girl behind the counter, who smiled brightly as she waited to take my order.

“Are you having a good day today?” she asked.  I wasn’t sure how to respond to the question, so I answered “I am now that it’s almost over,” which I figured was honest at least.  The red-haired girl took this as an invitation to talk, which hadn’t been my intention but which I understand is part of the social contract one enters into when one orders pizza.

Hot

The first real summer night.  All of the windows are open; the neighbours straggle on their balconies, subdued by the Habs’ loss.  I don’t follow hockey; I just listen to the alley.

It was too hot today to clean my apartment, which is still strewn with the detritus of last semester.  Hydro bills, lecture notes, hospital cards, union flyers; all are pressed into temporally distinct strata.  I steel myself for the finding of Greyhound ticket stubs and co-authored grocery lists, which I was always faintly compulsive about keeping.  I still can’t bring myself to eat kale.

I go to the fridge, which also needs cleaning, and decide on a bottle of beer.  I bring it out onto the balcony and disappear into the stagnant summer dark.

Slow

Okay, so maybe I spoke too soon.  I will concede that reviving a blog while working two jobs, staving off student loans, and trying to finish a dissertation is an unrealistic goal.  Then again, that’s never stopped me before.

Frankly, it’s been good to be busy.  Despite my bohemian pretensions, I am not someone who fares especially well when she has too much time on her hands.  It might be different if I had a wealthy benefactor to keep me in cigarettes and cat litter, but that is a fantasy that it’s probably well past time to retire.

Certainly, the teetering pile of loan documents on my kitchen table indicates that the piper expects payment for all those years of government-sponsored flânerie, plus interest.  When I have finished my dissertation, I will write a brilliant essay about this late capitalist phenomenon; for now, I avoid my kitchen and unknown call display numbers.

Yes, I do believe that this, finally, is adulthood.  How unspeakably dull.

Here

It has been long enough that I suspect I am writing, now, to myself, and perhaps to a few diligent search bots.  This is probably just as well, since I don’t quite know what it is I mean to say.  Still, here I am, on a bitterly cold night after a long week and an achingly sad goodbye.

I started this blog after the death of a relationship so it is no surprise that I would return to it after the passing of another.  It was different this time, which is to say that I was different, but there is still a space where someone I loved used to be.  Should friends come across this post: I’m okay, I hope that he is, and I am available for coffee.

The other spaces in my life, by contrast, are impossibly full, of twice-weekly lectures and bright, nervous students and the familiar parry and thrust of union meetings.  There is other work as well, which I lost faith in for a while but whose value teaching has reminded me of.  I had a feeling it would.

There is more, which will come when it comes but for now there is a waning moon, a glass of scotch, and peace.