| Hmm. Not sure if I am back from the dead or not. I'll take it one day at a time I suppose.
I am giving serious thought to a social work programme at Waterloo college. It starts next September. I would need to apply by February. I'm not sure if social work is where I want to go, or even if it is right for me... I think I need more life experience to really know for sure. The programme is a start though, a step towards figuring out what the heck it is I do want.
We are returning to Canada in two weeks after our second term in California. It's lovely here; it really, really is... The Bay Area is a fabulous left wing haven. I just... I'm ready to go home. Part of that is because I have plans for the first time in a while and that is exciting (I am going to take a writing course in January), but mostly it really is that *ache* I feel for home. As beautiful a song as it is, if you listen to "River" by Joni Mitchell as many times in a row as I do, you are probably past homesickness.
I've been through this before, of course, but I think things are a little clearer than they were when I was a teenager (and filled with all the baggage and additional issues that every teen seems to have). I think I am on the brink of establishing a direction for my life, and that's exciting. It also means that I am picturing the future with a little more clarity, and the future I want includes living in Canada. I'm not sure how we will be able to do that, W's job is such that work is far more plentiful out here than up north. He's mentioned that the grad schools for computer graphics are much better down here than up north too, but he's thinking about changing directions too, physics, quantum computing... I really think he would excel in any subject he was interested.
I fear that my seemingly illogical and emotional need to be in Canada could somehow hinder him, make him settle. He's so much better than settling... I really think that he is one of those rare people that could revolutionize whatever field he chooses to focus on. He says the same of me, says that I could do so much good in the world, but his brilliance... I wouldn't truly love him if I tried to hold him back in anyway. It's almost frightening, sometimes, living with him. When I say he is brilliant, I mean it. He's obsessive in the manner of the most brilliant, drifting off mid- sentence to note the softness of shadows on the counter or sitting with his pencil and notepad during a television programme to work on a new algorithm or becoming nearly transfixed with the caustics on his hands while washing the dishes. He says he is often startled by my type of intellect, the things i know or can figure out, how I pick up on subtext. Perhaps because our type of intelligences are so different it is hard for either of us to see our own. Instead I marvel at his ability with numbers and he marvels at my skill with words.
Words.
My new short story. I can't end it. I always have this problem, but this time it is especially difficult. The way I write, I will be going about my life and will suddenly become completely consumed with the need to pour out words. I will sit and write or type almost frantically, until the phrases that left fully formed into my mind have substance outside my imagination. It's a consumingly physical need, I shake, I cry, I have a hard time catching my breath from the need to write. And then, I am left with a half finished story. I am not saying that my writing is genius, that my stories are epic... But damnit, it would be nice to finish one, especially after dealing with easy sickness of those first few minutes.
This time, I know how to end it. Usually I don't. I know where it's going; I know what has to happen for it to be truthful (ugh, what a loaded word for a word of fiction). I know what has to happen to the narrator, what she has to do, I just can't bring myself to write it, to do what I have to do. I can no longer capture her voice, the style and mood that I so easily wrote in before. I can't bring myself to giver her what she wants, what she can't escape. It's a dark ending, the sort of thing you wouldn't share with your high school English teacher for fear of being sent to the guidance counselor for a "friendly chat".
I don't mean that it is angsty or overwrought, just that... The ending is the way it has to end. It's as if I am reading her cards, and she knows as well as I do what the future holds, she's known her whole life, but I can't bear to tell her that she's right. I can't bare the idea that she doesn't have a choice, that she made choices that made this unavoidable, that the people around her have forced it to happen too, and she has nothing she can do but play her part. It's too "Yay Predestination!" for such a hardcore atheist like me to be comfortable with. Problem is, I feel compelled to keep it that way. It wouldn't be remotely the same story if she had a real choice at the end, or if she chose differently.
Maybe I'll work on it now. Or maybe I'll eat lunch. Anyway, hello to anyone that actually reads this. You rock.  |
