Sunday, August 24, 2003
Where the heart is
Yes, even shiftless bloggers need time away now and again. To my fans who clamoured -- all two of you -- thanks for your devotion. Neither is actually a blood relation. I must be moving up in the world. Of course, none of my blood relations clamoured, so...
In any event. Just like that, I'm somewhere else again. One minute, it seemed, I was having breakfast in Halifax with Kravitz, having narrowly missed seeing Timmy and his entourage at the North End Diner (and it seemed a shame. It would have been a fitting way to leave town, I thought. Alas, I was too long in the shower and so missed a "chance" meeting), the next I was getting off the plane in Winnipeg to discover my bags had not made the transition. Who can blame them? I wanted to stay behind, too.
With a heavy heart, I laid myself down on the spare futon in The Big Tuna's livingroom. Strange to be in Winnipeg again, I thought. And then I thought, but it's only for a little while. As if I'd be going home, like the other producers from away, at the end of the week. I called the Troublemaker, but he was still out carousing, though it was so late where he was. A deep sigh, life goes on, I guess, and then I stretched out and stared at the ceiling in the dark. No sleep to be had.
Then suddenly I was at work. And so it went. Work all day, stare at the ceiling all night. Eventually that turned in to work all morning, doze through meetings all afternoon despite my best attempts to stay awake, stare at the ceiling all night. Finally, I got a whopping throat infection and my afternoon sleepiness was excused -- in my own mind, at least. And still I thought, just get through this week, then you can go home.
A ridiculous idea, to be sure. I'm here for the long haul, of course I am. But home was so much harder to leave this time. Even though last time, I thought I was leaving the love of my life, and this time I'm not sure who I'm leaving. The Troublemaker, yes, but who he'll turn out to be I've little idea. Last time, I thought I'd be away only four months. This time, I'm certain it'll be ten at least before I'm home again for good. Last time I left the house a shambles, the room unrented, the hallway full of my boxed up possessions. This time the house is in reasonable shape, Sparkly will be an excellent foil for Kravitz and my possessions are neatly stored in the basement and in various crannies in Winnipeg. Still, still, my heart ached all week.
Till finally Iris gave me a present. For your birthday, she said, though that's not for another week -- two weeks, at the time. We drove out along Main Street, to the forgotten North End. Is that it, I asked? The sign says Used Books, Psychics. That must be it, she said. We parked, we went in, my heart, my poor overfull heart thumping.
I know it's ridiculous to make decisions based on what one's psychic says. Or to even call Trevor "one's psychic" as if I were a queen or Nancy Reagan. But all he did was tell me what I already knew. The work is all, right now. The opportunities too great to walk away from. The distance will not prove disastrous, the schism is one of necessity, not indicative that any feelings have changed. And if they do, they do. The world doesn't stop turning. That last is my own, not Trevor's.
I came out more determined than resigned. A huge relief. I'll commit to this place, to this work. See it through the next two seasons -- fall and winter, that is, not two radio seasons -- then see where I am, what I want, what feels right.
So that's that, then. If you need me, I'll be on Ethelbert Street.
Yes, even shiftless bloggers need time away now and again. To my fans who clamoured -- all two of you -- thanks for your devotion. Neither is actually a blood relation. I must be moving up in the world. Of course, none of my blood relations clamoured, so...
In any event. Just like that, I'm somewhere else again. One minute, it seemed, I was having breakfast in Halifax with Kravitz, having narrowly missed seeing Timmy and his entourage at the North End Diner (and it seemed a shame. It would have been a fitting way to leave town, I thought. Alas, I was too long in the shower and so missed a "chance" meeting), the next I was getting off the plane in Winnipeg to discover my bags had not made the transition. Who can blame them? I wanted to stay behind, too.
With a heavy heart, I laid myself down on the spare futon in The Big Tuna's livingroom. Strange to be in Winnipeg again, I thought. And then I thought, but it's only for a little while. As if I'd be going home, like the other producers from away, at the end of the week. I called the Troublemaker, but he was still out carousing, though it was so late where he was. A deep sigh, life goes on, I guess, and then I stretched out and stared at the ceiling in the dark. No sleep to be had.
Then suddenly I was at work. And so it went. Work all day, stare at the ceiling all night. Eventually that turned in to work all morning, doze through meetings all afternoon despite my best attempts to stay awake, stare at the ceiling all night. Finally, I got a whopping throat infection and my afternoon sleepiness was excused -- in my own mind, at least. And still I thought, just get through this week, then you can go home.
A ridiculous idea, to be sure. I'm here for the long haul, of course I am. But home was so much harder to leave this time. Even though last time, I thought I was leaving the love of my life, and this time I'm not sure who I'm leaving. The Troublemaker, yes, but who he'll turn out to be I've little idea. Last time, I thought I'd be away only four months. This time, I'm certain it'll be ten at least before I'm home again for good. Last time I left the house a shambles, the room unrented, the hallway full of my boxed up possessions. This time the house is in reasonable shape, Sparkly will be an excellent foil for Kravitz and my possessions are neatly stored in the basement and in various crannies in Winnipeg. Still, still, my heart ached all week.
Till finally Iris gave me a present. For your birthday, she said, though that's not for another week -- two weeks, at the time. We drove out along Main Street, to the forgotten North End. Is that it, I asked? The sign says Used Books, Psychics. That must be it, she said. We parked, we went in, my heart, my poor overfull heart thumping.
I know it's ridiculous to make decisions based on what one's psychic says. Or to even call Trevor "one's psychic" as if I were a queen or Nancy Reagan. But all he did was tell me what I already knew. The work is all, right now. The opportunities too great to walk away from. The distance will not prove disastrous, the schism is one of necessity, not indicative that any feelings have changed. And if they do, they do. The world doesn't stop turning. That last is my own, not Trevor's.
I came out more determined than resigned. A huge relief. I'll commit to this place, to this work. See it through the next two seasons -- fall and winter, that is, not two radio seasons -- then see where I am, what I want, what feels right.
So that's that, then. If you need me, I'll be on Ethelbert Street.
