I work at 6 tonight, which means I should be ready to leave at 5:20.  Which means I'll be racing out my house at 5:27, swearing under my breath as I hear what sounds like the elevator stopping at every floor before mine and even passing it.  Returning to me in what will seem to be 20 minutes later only for me to finally reach ground floor, or as we say in Quebec, rez de chaussee, to have to repeat the ordeal as I've probably forgotten either my metro pass, phone, float or shirt (uniform, as I of course didn't leave naked).  The thoughts as I run through the Palais de Congres to reach my metro, with heels smacking resounding clickities, the way heels do in large echo-y halls, drawing the looks of, well-everyone, will be: Why the hell do I not plan to leave earlier?   The answer I'll replay in my head is: This job is not worth a 45 minute commute.  

I HATE COMMUTING.  I have a deep-seated issue with the idea that I have to take from my precious time the journey it takes to get somewhere I don't want to be.  I chose jobs specifically for how close they were to my home.  Hell, I was self-employed, working from my house to eliminate that whole concept.  Well, when I decided to make Montreal my start-over place, I just took the first job I applied to.  This job at first was nothing to me, a starting point to build from, to distract from, to give me some sense of productivity in my broken mess that I was.

October passed with mixed emotions marking a year spent as a Montrealais, as well as a year spent with Benedicts (my job).  Other than Terri's Grill, the restaurant I started working at when I was 15 in Veteran, 9 months is the longest time I'd invest into anything not of my own.  Benedict's however,became an anchor and community.  I tried hard to resist that.  I tried hard to not make relationships, to not care, to not respect the people which make up it's world.  I could make easily double the wage in tips working a few steps from me, in the Old Port.  Hell, I could work in the restaurant below my building, the only commute being the obnoxious elevator ride down-I would never have to go outside.  Knowing this, I lie to myself about my French not being good enough, or I tell myself I'll just make it through another season, or start school first, or, or, or...The actuality is, they are family.  They are my friends, they are my village of Veteran which knew me and loved me and watched me grow up and helped me and hurt me even, but were always there for me.  I'll keep insisting that leaving at 5:20 is sufficient time to get there, I'll keep running foolishly to my metro to still arrive late with a mouthful of sorries and excuses that the metro broke down, as no job is worth a 45 min commute.

I put an offer on a house today. I looked at three and chose the one on university street, a one bedroom apartment in a divided 1875 mansion. My ceilings would be 13 feet high and I'd be next door to campus. Funny, I take more time choosing a pasta sauce. I know what I want when it comes to property, I know what to look for and it's likely the only area in my life I can confidently say that.

I love houses. I love owning them, I love fixing them, I love loving them. I grew up in a 1900 farm-house come dump, the same farmhouse my father grew up in. I loved that dump. I even loved the late 1970's reno which stripped it of its charm, leaving in its place green shag and loud wall-papers of burnt reds and yellows. It was in that house I invented beds with heat vents and became comforted with the sound of stormy winds whistling through unsealed windows. It was there I learned the all-purpose uses of foam insulations,(It truly is "great stuff")O the nights I spent picking at those poorly-foamed in windows,reading the stars and waiting for sleep to come, and then the days followed being yelled at for doing it. ...I have no idea where I am going with this.

This sale is heavy weighted for me. It means much more than a financial investment or a home. This is me pushing myself again. Standing, and making things move...in my life...for me. I bought houses when no one said I could, and when no one said I should. I humiliated myself in front of bankers and realtors, men humored by my smallness and youngness and girlness, some angered at thinking they were wasting their time, and then angered again when they realized I couldn't be manipulated to their advantage, towards their listings. It was such a vulnerable place for me. A place of need, a place of me needing others to help me get something I wanted. I hate needing people. I hate being inadequate on my own, of having to surrender myself to another, not knowing where my place ends and theirs begins, not being able to pay back a service, being indebted to another. It's a huge flaw of mine and part of my fucked-up-ness. This is me facing that again, pushing for something not knowing if I can get, asking the help of others, bankers and realtors, to help me and work for me not knowing if their work will be rewarded. The only certainty is the certainty that nothing will come if I don't ask, if I don't set my mind, my stubbornness to something, exhausting every possibility. This is me forcing a change, desiring something and chasing after. This is me testing myself, seeing if I am strong again-seeing if I am me again.

Pumpkin spiced latte, dimly lit corner, and looking sexy in new tan heeled boots guilt-bought by mom during her recent visit. Laptop, check. Water, check. Little cakes, check. Everything in place for me to deal with the mountain of neglected reading, (some of my readings are posted online, hence the laptop). I'm so distracted. And the swirly feeling in my head and shakiness of my hands are telling me that my decaf is not exactly decaf (that's going to be an awesome add to the cocktail of cold medicines I'll be taking tonight).

There is a couple adjacent to me staring each other down. A good-looking couple, the man, his arms crossed, also seemingly distracted when he's not looking through his companion. The woman has started to talk and gesture, breaking their silence. The man's disinterest remains unchanged. His eyes however, begin to roam.

*sigh* Congested sinuses are not making the prospect of diving into the dissection of Freud's Oedipal Complex by differing feminists any less daunting. I am taking three classes this semester. Three classes which could not be more affecting to me. My Philosophy course, Intro to Feminist Theory, and two Religious Studies courses: Jesus of Nazareth and Bible and Western Culture. Each class leaves me emotionally, spiritually and intellectually beaten down.

I suppose I don't have the time or focus to detail why that is, one day perhaps I will but for now I guess I must read.

In lofty pools darkness lays
the unsuspecting feign
hearts of silence its essence soft
Loud shards of glass they prey
Mother's dead, father's hurt, brother lies while sister turns
hollow are the walls that seal them all away

Quiet is the night when lonely is the terror
fire lights the phantom up
its secret in its halo
who is here to unlock this death
this path they call straight and narrow
when all that's seen is
truth hiding behind a veil

Armies fight a family war
moralities upright vengeance
screaming adults with prayers that mar
turning back meant only for cowards
no one can beat this
this battle in the fringes
as a handful of patriots stand
looking only for their salvation

I live in perpetual self hatred over the things that spew from this mouth of mine. My brain, my actions are in disconnect. Self control: non-existent. Forever shuddering over past words, memories of things said and done and written. No take-backs. Can't run fast enough, can't run far enough. Recent past, the whispers shout back at me. Just so fricken tired of being misunderstood.

I suppose being uninspired at 3am with only 6 hours remaining before needing to leave for class is not the best time to recommit to blogging. sigh. I googled "how to become more interesting"-I google everything. One of the ways of becoming more interesting was to blog at least one sentence a night. Does that mean I am now three times more interesting than I was 3 minutes ago? woohoo! You're also supposed to take a picture a day and post it to flicker. That sounds too ambitious for me, so I guess I just peaked.

10 Things I've done in the 3 months of my blogger silence:

1. Applied and got accepted into Mcgill.
2. Became a rock climber for a month.
3. Walked past my place of work-I've been there a year and never once walked past it, there's an incredible Szechuan place one block down.
4. Bought groceries (that's monumental, it's been I don't know how long since I had food in my fridge).
5. Ate an oyster raw.
6. Accepted an invitation to eat dinner in the dark served by blind people.
7. Experienced a moment where my professor referred to her 3 year old son as an it so as not to imprison (it/him) through gender classification.
8. Read my first Kierkegaard piece-rendering me speechless.
9. Booked an eye appointment in french, not because I wanted to, but because I had to.
10.Watched John Oliver live. Some girls love rock stars, some love geeky British political comedians.

I've been told to relax. Several times, by differing people in differing circumstances, but said in the same way. Yet, I don't know how. I've seen too much and not even a pocket amount of what the actual reality is in this world. I just don't know how. How does one relax when so many people suffer and hurt and starve and die in this world. How does one shut their eyes and purse over and over to the pain which is living in the streets outside their door in one of the richest countries in the world, let alone to ones war torn and famished. I've learned to walk by pretending to not see, to wear an appearance of too busy to hear. It's overwhelming. I used to look to a higher power to trust that my sadness and prayers were being heard that faith would deliver the tools needed for the marginalized and impoverished to soar victorious over their addictions, and circumstances. I used to offer a listening ear, and arms to embrace the un-embraceable, I used to give my time to look into eyes and try to share pain and let them know that they were at least not alone in their journey.

Now I do so little. Now I've become cynical and hard and uncaring and unbelieving. There is no solace with my self-put blinders, no calm in my busy-ness to the mission of Paige, no joviality or even peace in the forced absence of thought of others less fortunate than myself. And therefor I cannot relax. I don't know how to not blow things out of apparent proportion, (according to those telling me), I don't know how to not feel that the responsibility of this world weighs in on me or the guilt which comes with my lack of doing, or lack of acknowledgement.

It's a trickle down effect in the world of Paige: world issues and things of justice and human rights. They silently weigh and build and effect and stress even when I'm trying so hard to not be concerned. They hide in every crevice and shadow and whisper to me at the most inappropriate times. I become a wet blanket in times of fun and carefree, I'm the cliche rain on the cliche parade. I'm sorry to those that this has affected. I know that it's unhealthy in theory, I suppose that there are under-lining issues and this is perhaps a mask to something else, even Jesus himself said there would always be the poor as he defended Mary breaking her jar of priceless oil over his feet. Or perhaps, just maybe, I should be affected and moved, and even allow myself to let others to be made uncomfortable too. But, I really don't know; and therefor, I can't yet relax.