ruya
“What kept me sane was knowing that things would change, and it was a question of keeping myself together until they did.”
Dear Anias,
Wet boots. Burnt milk. Quinoa crumbs in the carpet. The last scoop of hazelnut butter. Orange dye on my hands. Running alongside the canal with my computer tucked under one arm and late foam still in my mouth. A woman in a blue dress. A trio at a wooden desk drinking champagne. Six children chase a ball by the duck pond where the swans sit in the shade.
If you were to take a polaroid of my day, I couldn't fit it all into one frame.
What would I choose to keep inside that portrait?
I am wearing my bootcut jeans with the tapered waist and a tight black and orange top that knots above the navel. The sleeves are billowy and the bodice is very tight. Little buttons present themselves from rib to sternum. I lent this top to a friend in Berlin and she said it was too tight- the buttons wouldn't let her breathe. I told her not to do them up, to use the sash and forget the plastic switches. She didn't want her breasts to be exposed. We'd been drinking wine and pulling tarot cards in our underwear. We wanted to go dancing, but it was Wednesday and we didn't know anyone. She didn't like her underwear so she took a pair of mine. A polka dot set in navy and black. I'd never worn it. I never got it back.
In the portrait of my day, I'd be carrying my black leather satchel with my notebook and rainbow pens tucked in the pocket. I never go anywhere without something to write with. I'm never struck with an idea, though the possibility is always there. Lurking in the backlog like that ugly thing in Mulholland Drive. The man by the garbage. That movie hasn't let me go, not for twenty years.
In the photo, I'd be standing by the cafe where I go to work for a few hours each afternoon. It's best when it's cloudy. It's always busy; the long wooden tables are reserved online, and my only spot is the bench by the window. It's contained and quaint, but when it's too bright, the glare on my computer screen makes it hard to see. Difficult to work. I can't reserve a proper table because I do not eat anything and I'd feel a bit bad taking up an entire table with my lattes and sparkling water.
I sometimes order a baked treat to go. I bring my own bag; I'm not wasteful.
I still don't know what to do about my issue with grocery stores. Clara thinks I should buy my own vegetable bags. She's right, of course, though. What can I do about milk? Or almond butter? Or eggs? Everything comes in its own container and what do we do with the paper and plastic afterward? Not everyone recycles. There are no bins by my apartment.
It is more common to dump everything in the trash. In my travels, I've seen the inconsistent and dislocated systems associated with waste.
Do you ever think about where the water goes when you flush the toilet? I hadn't until I lived with a couple that refused to flush until nightfall. They both worked for the City of Burnaby and were paid by tax dollars. She worked with irrigation systems and he was an urban planner. Considering how passionate they were about the environment, we recycled everything. Including the little twist ties on the bread bags, not that we purchased loaves from the store and had any of those plastic bands available. Though if we had, there was a spot for them in a separate recycling container at the side of the house.
I was in my early twenties and took a room in a seven-bedroom house in East Vancouver. The rotation of dwellers was swift given the sensitive and acute nature of the eco-friendly couple. I rode my bike everywhere, so I was considered prudent, though I balked at flushing the toilet once per day. I'd have my morning coffee and wait until they'd both left for work by train and then take care of my business. Elise caught me one day and was furious. She waved the spatula overhead as she baked her eggs, collected weekly from the farmers market, and told me if it happened again I'd have to find a new place to live.
They held the lease on the home, so it was up to them when and how they evicted people. My room was $450 a month and I had the top floor. It was technically an attic and I hung my clothes from the rafters, but it was quiet and cool in the summer, so I stayed for two years.
I slept on a single mattress on the floor and had a small space heater for the colder months. I dreamt vividly; I was full of desire. My body burned like a torch up high and during rainstorms, my heart thundered just as heartily.
I dreamt of my sister often in this house. I think it's because she helped me move and broke my mirror when we took it out of her boyfriend's truck. I moved into the attic in the fall, and as we knelt on the sidewalk to pick up the pieces, we had to separate the glass from the leaves.
Amanda has short curly blond hair, whereas mine is long, dark, and straight. There's a photograph of her on my phone that I really like. Sometimes I pull it up and look at it when feeling lacklustre or a bit lonely. She's standing in a garden of white roses in a long grey skirt. If she were a texture, it would be whipped egg whites and sugar. Meringue.
I took the small pieces of glass and Amanda set what was left of the mirror at the side of the house by the bins. There was a bucket for glass and as I fluttered my palms to rid my fingers of the dust, I saw tiny cuts lining each palm.
You're hurt. Amanda had said.
I'm not. I'd said.
Amanda and I were together in my dream. In high school. We ran away from everyone; we walked into the throng of kids marching toward the assembly. I grabbed her hand and we pulled each other along, sliding past elbows and hips. Pressing up against the brown lockers. The metal felt cold against my forearms and my sister's palm was sweaty. The bell kept ringing and ringing. Afraid of being seen, we pushed our hair in front of our eyes and peered out from the mess. We slipped through the side door, the one with the creaky handle, and ran into the courtyard. It was raining. There were flowers along the edges of the field. Great red bundles with black eyes. Amanda was behind me. I couldn't see her but felt her breath on my neck. We were that close. There was a little woods past the field where you could push under the fir trees and sit at the roots. We went there, and I climbed the tree to stay out of the mud. Amanda leaned up against the wide trunk and lit a cigarette. Amanda never tried to look cool. She wasn't posing. She just enjoys smoking.
After my sister left that day of the move, I found a tiny hairline flake of glass in the crease between my finger and thumb. I pulled it out with tweezers by the light at the skylight over my bed.
Seeds were always blowing in by that window. There was a crack somewhere and I couldn't find it.
In the portrait of my day, I would hold up my left hand. You wouldn't be able to see the scar from that flake of the mirror. The wound healed and all that remained was a hard white line. It is very small. Sometimes I rub it with the edge of my thumb when nervous.
My eyes are always concealed in photographs. At first glance, it would appear like I was waving. Or perhaps I'm moving my arm to draw the hair from my face. I do this intentionally, even when I'm not thinking about it. I like when there's wind in a photo. It captures the movement, this fluidity, of living.
The scar is there though you wouldn't be able to see it, and isn't that the point?
You would have to know what you were looking for.
Photo source.
