Sometimes I am afraid of disappearing.
Everything that I could say about what’s transpired in Canadian media this week has been said already, by people much more in the know (and much more eloquent) than myself. Go here and here and here for some excellent examples.
What’s left to say? I am sad for these women. I am sad for a society that’s so quick to believe the voice that sounds like chocolate. I am ashamed of myself for thinking it too, at least at first, at least a little, even if that little voice deep down inside of me also knew otherwise: maybe it’s a misunderstanding. He seems so nice. Maybe a little smarmy, sure, but that doesn’t automatically mean he hurts people, does it?
Well, perhaps, yes it does.
Mostly I am just tired, though, and it’s almost winter, and I have revisions to do and now there is shift work all of the time (and money, thank God, thank God) and I’m just…sad, so I’m rambling. I can’t believe that we live in a world where these are still the questions people are asking, where people still believe those with power over those with less.
I went to BC for two weeks in October, though, which was nice.
I was there for the wedding of my closest friend from high school. It was small — maybe fifty people? maybe less? — and just lovely, all the way through. The whole visit was wonderful — I had days in the mountains and along the winding roads of Sooke and walks along Dallas Road in Victoria and some time up in Nanaimo and a few glorious days in Vancouver with very dear friends. I even rented a car for my last few days on the Island and pretended, for a while, that I was a Real Adult. Amazing how driving a car can make me feel that way.
I was sick for most of the trip, which was not ideal, but still it was wonderful. Still I dream of going back there, moving, picking my life up and depositing it on the coast. But when I came back to my little Hamilton apartment there was a sense of coming home that I haven’t had in a long time, a gladness to see my little space again, a happiness in knowing that the IFOA was just about to start and I was only a bus ride away from the action.
The longer you wait to move, someone told me on the coast, the harder it’s going to get.
This is true. So many things are true.
And now we’re nearing the end of a ridiculous week of revelations and disappointment and re-evaluation and I’m thinking about writing and not writing and wanting to say things but also, more importantly, wanting to make sure that other voices get heard. Voices that are more knowledgable, voices that deserve to tell their stories more. Women that deserve to be heard and supported and given a voice. I don’t have any stories to add to the JG issue, aside from a growing unease about Twitter and the way that information breaks across the Internet now like a tsunami breaks across the sand. I don’t want to be responsible for spreading vitriol, however unintentionally. I want to be careful. I feel like we could all do with a little more being careful, these days. With trying to put a little more love in the world.
A few days ago I met with a friend in Toronto who very graciously offered, a few months ago, to read a draft of my new book. She’s read it now, and I have a lot of revisions ahead of me in the next two months or so. You don’t need to rush, she said. Don’t rush. It takes as long as it takes.
And still I hurry, still I want to get it done, still I find it hard to sit and appreciate the fact that time keeps on going, no matter what you do. You put words out and maybe they’re noticed or maybe they’re not and you need to get comfortable with that, on some level.
I want to be worthy of the words that I put out into the world, I think, is what I’m saying. And I also don’t want my words to be the only things that matter. I want a life built out of so much more than that.