At this very moment, exactly 1,000 people have viewed my blog. For the 38 days since Violet Diaries began, I have posted something everyday; a feat I am very proud of. I cannot take credit for Grace in Small Things, nor the idea of taking a photo everyday, but I have made them a part of my life now, and I hope I am able to hold onto them for a very long time. They make me happy.
To everyone who is reading this, thank you. If you are one of the people who read my blog everyday, you have no idea how much that means to me. If this is your first visit, welcome. I hope you like it.
~V
I had a coughing fit so violent tonight that I popped the button right off my pants. Classy.
I had the sadness this morning. When dealing with this sort of unhappiness, and being forced to be in public, I did what I always do. I phoned home. For some reason, it feels much more sane to have tears streaming down your face while having a phone to your ear, than it does to be the random person walking down the street who is crying and occasionally having trouble breathing due to slight hyperventilation. After talking to my dad, who was exactly as I needed him to be at that moment, I phoned my sister. Sisters are great. They make you laugh and it doesn’t matter that you just blubbered something incoherent into the phone, because they know that it translates into ‘I’m just so sad’ and they don’t make fun of you for sounding like you have sand in your mouth. I talked with her while I wandered down the hill towards the ferry that I take to work every morning. By this time there was a lot of laughing mixed in with the tears. I wasn’t quite ready to deal with strangers in an enclosed space where I would be trapped on water, so I walked to my bench by the seawall and sat down. This bench and I go way back. It’s where I sit when I’m sad, usually because a relationship has just ended, and I’m always on the phone with my sister while I sit there. The trek down the hill had brought on a coughing fit that is courtesy of the strep throat I have just recovered from and the sound I make when I cough is not unlike the honking sound that geese make. So there I was, with the crying and the laughing and the honking, and things suddenly didn’t seem so bad. Sure, people made a wide circle around me and avoided making eye contact and I startled someone so much with an unexpected cough that they actually jumped, but damnit, I felt a little better. And you know, after that, things just kept improving.
I like Chinatown. I love the overwhelming smells, and the man who yells out a never-ending list of random things, like ‘movie tickets!’ and ‘do you want some tea?’ to no one in particular. I like the cheap and brightly coloured items that make me clap my hands with delight when I discover something new. There is an old cabinet with chipped green paint that I covet in my favourite store. It has been in the shop for as long as I have been going there. I like to visit it, open its doors and run my hands along the sides. It is one of those things that make me totally and completely happy and I hope that one day, if things work out, I’ll be able to bring it home and open the doors to my heart’s content, run my hands along the sides and love it unconditionally.
I always go to Chinatown with the same person. She is equally enamoured of the trinkets and bright colours and she lets me spend as long as I need picking out the perfect item from the pile of items that are, to the untrained eye, exactly the same. Our little adventures remind us of foreign countries that we long to return to. One day we will get back there, but for now we are content to explore this different world within the walls of our city.
handmade glasses, in front of a soft light.
I no longer feel as if my life will be tragically cut short because of the death plague. There will be no need for a wailing Italian grandmother to throw herself on my grave while tortured animal sounds emanate from her. I am still firmly wedged into the couch cushions feeling as if I’ve been beaten with a stick, but I am no longer writing my last thoughts on post-it notes so that after my death, people will know how brilliant and profound I was. While cheating death is great and all, I am now bored. The only company I have is my fish, and he’s not much of a talker. I’d invite someone over, but they’d have to sit on the other side of the door and talk to me through the mail slot. Maybe this is just the fever talking, but I think that would make for an awkward conversation. There are many things I could be doing, but I fear that if I attempted to do any of them, I’d make it into the elevator and have to take a nap. I’ve always enjoyed falling asleep while in cars, but somehow I think the elevator wouldn’t be quite as nice. The constant stopping and starting and the incessant dinging would get to be a bit much. Until I’m able to go adventuring again, I guess I’ll have to be content to drink my orange juice and watch tv. I was in desperate need of a break anyway, so this forced vacation is kind of nice. And no one can judge me for napping the days away.
I have things to say again, apparently. I stopped writing for awhile because I was mildly terrified of the idea that anyone searching my name (in relation to my artwork or my current job) would find my blog in which I write about being terrorized by pigeons and having an overly-dramatic breakdown when it snows. These topics, while possibly entertaining, are not how I want to present myself in the professional world. So, here we are.
Welcome to my new home. Make yourself comfortable while I fix you a drink.
violetdiaries 