seven hundred and thirty days of sunshine

Exactly two years ago right now, we were already lost in conversation.

I don't want to make this any more philosophical than it has to be, Puji-la. The significance of that innocent direct message is, anyway, immeasurable. It didn't ask for a thing. But it begged to be answered. I knew that much. I swear to God I knew that the second I read it.

You came into my life when nothing seemed to be working. And nothing was working out because I had closed myself off to the possibility of things working out. I didn't want them to work out in their present form. In many ways I had turned my back on love. It's not that I didn't believe in it anymore. It's just that like everything else in this life, it had slowly worn me down. Its strings had dragged and ground me to a halt instead of setting me free. So the last thing I was looking for was more.

I ended up watching those elections, alone, because that's the way it had to be. The same way you couldn't have been anywhere other than in that deserted newsroom on the graveyard shift. That conversation was in the cards. That's why the timing worked out. That's why everything worked out.

That night, I fell in love with the idea of you and you of me. Same to same. I fell in love with your company. Your warmth. Your hopes and dreams. And with your words.

Every day since then you have become more and more real to me. These two years have become a beautiful eternity as time continues to slowly fill in the blanks. Some days I even feel I know you better than you know yourself. Other days you surprise me. But mostly you just make me smile. Even though everything still is what it is, I smile. I smile because you smile. 

love in suspended animation

When you're stuck with a brain like mine, being silent isn't bad enough. It's important to figure out what's behind it. It's important to question it. Dissect it. Dismiss. Accept. Overcome.

So why did this blog suddenly go cold? It's been just over a month and a half but it feels like years. Would make a great tagline for life since I've been back. Everything feels so far away here, like I'm halfway between my past and my future. I'm functioning in a present that is painfully slow - like I'm standing on some jam-packed escalator spanning a redundant expanse of airport terminal. Whatever must be will be. But my gate can't come fast enough. Can't get too excited about things that haven't happened yet. Can't get too down about things that are out of my control now. And as much as I'd love to just stand there and enjoy the ride, there ain't much in terms of a view.

I cook, clean, skype, read, manage, shop and occasionally exercise, smoke and offer advice with an ease I haven't felt in forever. I look happy - people tell me all the time. Despite all the reasons not to, I still smile an honest smile.

But then it still doesn't explain my silence, does it?  I wonder sometimes if I'm scared to come across as being too happy on here. I hold on to my words like a paranoid double agent trying to shake off a stubborn tail that exists only in my head. Maybe I don't want to taunt the Universe too much. Or risk some reverse karma. Maybe I'm just too comfortable. Or maybe the colours just aren't as bright without you by my side.

It's me against you, rain

     I wish I had wrote this yesterday.
     I'm back to feeling guilty about not writing every day - even if I have only been writing every day for a whole three days now. I know. (What the fuck does anything have to do with Vietnam?) It really shouldn't feel like the end of the world. Probably not worth the word count. Except I told myself I would write no matter what. Even if nothing happened, something always happened. 
     And plenty happened. I might look back on the day I was sitting in the quiet darkness of the Goa Streets office. The small backup generator at the newsroom's entrance was powering something other than the lights. I retreated to my iPhone notes, writing words that would likely never see the light of day. Words that might never make it to their intended recipient. I finished before the murmur of conversation stopped. A door opened and good news followed Puji out of the darkness. Even though I could barely make out her face, I was looking at the weekly's new managing editor. Not a bad deal for a girl with no prior print experience. I was very happy for her. This was exactly what she needed. But then my own fears came out to play. Now I would have more hours, days and months to fill than previously calculated. Would those hours get filled with music? With writing and for whom? With driving around aimlessly through the Monsoon countryside on a scooter I had yet to buy? Or something else; something I hadn't figured out just yet?
     On the walk back home a light drizzle fell with hopeless abandon. It rained over the visit to the vegetable stand, the roadside chilli burgers and the celebratory bottle of Rose that spent the better part of the night in the freezer, unopened.

a newsroom for two, please

     I had woken up with a strong urge to read the Atlantic. It had been too long. I wanted back in that loop. I was immediately inspired by Dispatch #2 from Paris, which Ta-Nehisi Coates delivered in a style not unlike my own. Maybe I could write something similar from here. I already was. I had been updating my journal religiously for two months now. Why not publish snippets of it here and, maybe somewhere down the line, there. I ran the idea past Puji and she agreed. She reminded me to contact Harpers as well - the long shot of all long shots - and I promised I would. Something had clicked in my head that morning. I was tired of being a nobody writer. I wanted to have people cling onto my every word. I wanted to go back to Montreal a different person.
     Who wouldn't, right?
     And in a funny way, hanging out with Puji all day, listening to her track down sources and introduce herself repeatedly on the phone, reminded me of my own freelancing days. This was her first assignment for a local paper ever. I hadn't thought seriously about publishing anything for the last seven years. Now, suddenly, it felt like we were running our own little newsroom, working on very different stories with very, very different deadlines. I wrote quietly and she worked loudly. Every five minutes she had another question or something she wanted to run by me. A constant menace to my concentration, she was. I was the kind of person who preferred working uninterrupted. Puji had her own way. Habits from the CNBC newsroom, I assumed. And it wasn't just the way she worked. It was the way she was. Often, when it got too quiet, she would call out Robbie, repeatedly, until I answered. I'd let my name hang out there for a little while. Just to bust her balls back. And when I'd ask her what was up, she'd simply look at me and smile.
     So I was simultaneously immersed in both her story and mine. She asked me what questions to ask so-and-so local official and what I thought about a particular story angle or sentence structure. She would get off the phone with a chest specialist and fill me in. When the school headmistress in Sonsoddo didn't return her call, she let me know. When the CEO of Fomento Green, some mineral resource company operating in one of the more hazardous corners of Goa, got angry with her for making 'false and baseless allegations' and then proceeded to ask her if there were domestic issues at home that might be responsible for such unacceptable questioning, from a woman no less, she let me know. And when she later discovered that this same man was himself a former environmentalist and the cousin of the very same doctor who had levied said baseless allegations, she let me know as well. I probably could have written the story myself but I played the role of editor instead. I was learning enough just watching her work. She was very good with people. She listened attentively and asked poignant questions. She would always repeat whatever the person had just said when jotting down a quote. She researched tirelessly and wanted to pursue every possible angle. She was a natural reporter.
     And even if it was the writing part that she dreaded most - the part I dreaded least - I knew that it too would come more naturally with time. So while she spent the better part of the day researching, I spent it writing and rewriting. And dreaming of better stories to come.

Masha, right on cue

I was in this exact same spot the last time Masha randomly knocked on my door.

She was drunk the first time we met. She sort of stumbled in, looking for the piano. It wasn't in the safe anymore, she explained. I guess she had gotten used to coming by and playing it there. I'm not really sure how she knew it had ended up in my room. Lucky guess, I guess. Then she kind of just barged in. I was sitting on the couch, reading Interpreter of Maladies and trying to decipher Shukumar in a bid to make sense of my own turmoil. She apologized for the random visit and went straight for the piano. She started playing and was quite good for someone who kept on insisting she wasn't. She asked if I could accompany her on the drums. I agreed, even though I really couldn't. It was awkward. But we ended up jamming for half an hour regardless. She ended up coming back at least once more that night - apologizing both on the way in and on the way out. She promised she'd be back in about three months.

Tonight was about three months, give or take. And I was on that same couch. Except this time I had no clues to decipher; no characters to read up on. Just broken text messages. And emptiness. And Masha walked in after poking her head into the small cat flap I had added especially for Angel. She apologized again and walked straight to the piano. She insisted I looked too young to be a building owner. Wasted, she made sure to remind me not to 'rape her' or anything. I laughed and agreed. Luckily I didn't have to play drums this time. I just listened to her play, watching her fingers stretched delicately over the keys. She played a song she felt could pass for a complete song and spoke of lyrics she was too shy to sing.

When she was done we spoke about songs that made her cry and others that made her want to run. We spoke about life and loving too much and the pitfall of complete happiness - at least as far as her own creative process was concerned. There was something to be said about turmoil, I said, only half believing my words. She asked me to tell her the most important thing I had learned in life. I said it was that things are never as sure as they may seem; that learning to accept that was the only way to live.

She agreed, asked me for my name again and thanked me for the talk. Told me she'd probably see me again in about three months.

I wondered how long she might knock next time before realizing I wouldn't be there to open the door.

all the Social without all the awkward

I never thought I'd enjoy using Twitter.

I figured it would be too much like Facebook, where you subconsciously follow the otherwise useless lives of people you barely ever really knew and no longer really care about. To the point where it all becomes so much depressing social static; where the very act of signing in feels like showing up to a lame party, ducking the crowd and heading straight for the booze.

Twitter feels different. It might be early and it probably helps that (much like this blog) I haven't really announced it to the world. I'm not even using my full name.

But what I enjoy even more than the privacy is the fact that I get to follow all these interesting minds. I get to read, see and watch what the people I admire are thinking on a whim at any given point in time. And then contribute to this incredible stream of consciousness. I don't know, but it seems way more intellectually stimulating and socially pressing than scrolling through generic comments and vacation photos. I feel like I have left high school and graduated to Social Media University.

That being said, you can follow me @gracebythegun. And right here, of course.

Where this whole adventure began.

so to recap...

i feel like i've been everywhere but right here. and this is the last you'll hear of any of this because i promised myself when i started writing this thing that i wasn't going to become that person that wasted all his words writing about how little he was writing.

my Nonna had the perfect quote today (the way she always seems to, you should know). spend all your time focused on every little step you're taking and you simply will never get anywhere. how is this relevant to me in this moment? i really can't say. but it feels relevant. because today was a quick baptism with family i don't get to see as often as i should and yesterday night was just a bike ride to the Jazz Fest with Cromeo in the background, street hot dogs and dorky tourists asking why you're lucky enough to be walking around with a group of pretty girls you hardly even know. and before that there were concrete walls to be built on sticky summer days. and before that perfect strangers convinced that you're always smiling, even when it's just on the inside. and before that a kick ass day at the water slides with Amy. and before that Fiona Apple in all her raw and angry glory. and before that...

not sure i want to go back any further. what's done is done. all seemingly inconsequential steps on some kind of path that is remains very much undefined. so we look ahead. and keep walking.  

plans. they jumped right out the suitcase.

Been spending a little time discovering and rediscovering the neighbourhood. I guess we didn't have a whole lot of time last Spring, what with all the renovations and such.

But I've come back from travelling determined ( as I almost always am) to get a few things down pact. First things first, I need to learn how to long board. Tried it out a couple of times last summer after Davey hooked me up with a sweet ride but never really got the hang of the fluid kicking motion. Last night I felt like I was really RIDING for the first time. Wasn't perfect, but a good start. Perhaps there will be another late-night session tonight after my aunt's 50th wedding anniversary. If all goes according to plan, by the end of Fall I'll be good to start snowboarding and then surfing on my next vacation. I told Amy I'd even consider the dreaded all-inclusive if it provided me seven-day access to a surf school and rough ocean.

Then there's the whole language thing. I really need to start practicing my Italian and somehow manage to simultaneously raise the level of my Spanish from poor to adequate. I already downloaded Rosetta Stone and have decided to start watching the news in both languages. Seems simple enough. But I also live in Little Italy, a small enclave of larger Petit-Patrie - or Little South America, as it should be called. Talk about being in the right place at the right time.

Technically, I should be able to do like all the immigrants and do all my banking in Spanish at the TD Bank, then run over (skate over?) to Cafe Genova for a little free Italian lesson with Maria. If only I wasn't the type to worry about embarrassing myself in public. Perhaps writing down my intentions here will force me to follow through.

On that note, I'm also planning to run some kind of marathon this summer.

More on that as it develops.

i always go to sea as a sailor

I hear it's snowing back home. I will try no to rub this in.

We left El Valle (and Don Pepe and his parrot Ricky; and the howling winds; and all the stray dogs that wake you up in the dead of night and all the roosters that start their shift at 4:30 in the morning) and headed for the beach. Plans had been yesterday after the zoo and before another high brow supper in a lavish secluded Villa with a courtyard pool and Enya on eternal drone. I still wish I would have gone with the hamburger and the not the Tortellini. I blame Amy for clouding my otherwise impeccable meal judgment.

We were up at seven (again) but didn't actually get to Playa del Palmar until noon. I think I have a good idea why the locals always exaggerate traveling time - and it has little to do with distance. Life just moves slow here. No use trying to charge into the passing lane.

But what an absolutely beautiful day to be at the beach.
Not even seven clouds in the whole sky.
Alright, I'm done.

Seriously though, It's funny how productive you can feel while doing absolutely nothing when you're near the ocean. Applying sun tan lotion, reading, running bear foot - real life and death stuff here. I'm kind of happy I brought Moby-Dick after all. It suddenly makes sense. And speaking of a sea misadventure, I got my first jellyfish bite (sting) in forever after not even ten minutes in the water. I cursed the fucker for another five after that and then got over it. The ten of us on this beach are now trying to decide if we've got some kind of epidemic on hand. High tide left tons of them stranded on shore like so many squirmy landmines. The Germans walked the shore but apparently decided against going in.

I kicked sand on one, made my peace and went back in the water.

beyond repair

i have mixed feelings about going back and reading older posts.
the sheer output is impressive. but i also have this uncontrollable urge to go back and edit and rewrite everything. seems like things can always be broken down and simplified.
but enough about me.
wait, this is all about me. all about me writing for you, the invisible audience.
you know the dream where you're standing in front of your class and you're naked?
well, i never had that particular dream.
i have this recurring dream that i haven't studied a single second for perhaps the most important test of my life, only to discover that i have actually been slacking off all semester and that i am already way beyond any sort of last-minute salvation anyway.
and so all that's left to do is to wander the empty hallways.