Your · Artemis

i'm on my way! or will be in about half an hour. god, compare this to my last flight to England... what an experience. aside from being terrified that my suitcase is overweight (i have a back-up plan, no worries) i am full of joy. i have never been more ready for a holiday. in less than 18 hours, i will be in my York again! can't wrap my mind around it. i think the whole way up, i'll be shaking my head in disbelief. even now it feels surreal.
but ohhhhhh, the excitment!! I AM GOING TO YORK! i am going to York to see the love of my life, to explore my favourite city in the world, and to catch up with my dear, dear Brits. i am the luckiest woman alive.

if all goes according to plan, in less than 48 hours i will be on my way back to England. Christoph and i have survived four months and one week apart. with any luck, this is the longest separation we will have. i haven't set foot in the UK in very nearly seven months. the long, long wait is almost over.
and yet, it isn't sinking in. it's been so long since i've been on a plane. (okay, compare this to last year, when it was at least every 10 weeks!) i don't think i'm any more excited today than i was yesterday, or last week. all this excitement, it's fine to say i'm feeling it, but really... so far it isn't leading up to any tangible reward, you know? i don't think i'll believe i'm actually going until i take my seat on the aircraft. i suspect that as much(!) as it will feel exhilirating and new and wonderful, it will also feel comfortable and familiar, as if i am only returning to where i belong.
there's not much outside the apartment which needs to be done before i leave. i've got American Novel tomorrow. have to go to the bank to withdraw some money to exchange. am hoping to hell my suitcase is not over 20kgs, haha, though i will be bringing some stuff over which i hope to leave with Chris. i still have to do most of the packing, sort out my carry-on, decide which homework to bring, and which shoes. i'm trying not to bring my laptop, and so have to email myself any documents i might think i need. tomorrow night, Danilo, Dave, Adri and i are going out to the Fox & Firkin, as Danilo says i "need to get back into the habit of drinking pints."
strange thing is, i think this is probably as happy as i have ever been in Canada, since leaving York. and probably as happy as i will be here for a long time. when Chris came to visit in September, by god, it was amazing to have him here and show off my country but... i still wasn't in England. the anticipation of leaving for York so soon is lovely - i have never so looked forward to anything in my life. (i fully mean that.) because, let's face it, when i'm preparing to emigrate in the summer, there will be many more anxieities and moments of pure sadness. this two week jaunt to York? just perfect. i'm not leaving Canada for good yet, but i will be visiting many, many people and places i love.

authors' deaths don't go unnoticed by me. i still remember hearing about Kurt Vonnegut's passing away in 2007, being surprised. now that i've finally read Slaughterhouse-Five i really do comprehend the loss. (go read it!) it's always strange, somehow, to hear of the death of a great postmodernist. their period, after all, is still our own, and i never really think of them as every being old enough to die. they're still so current, somehow. does that make sense?
as many of you know, i have hated The Catcher in the Rye since i first read it at 16 years of age. i couldn't identify with Holden at all, wearied of his swearing, didn't like the plot, and didn't like the ending. oh, it was good writing but... when you really despise the main character, and he's the narrator, you tend to despise the whole book anyway. i had to re-read it a few weeks ago for my American Novel class, and was no more enamoured. but then, for our second essay of the year, we had to pick a book by an author already covered in the class, and write a historical analysis. i initially planned on doing Wharton's House of Mirth as i loved The Age of Innocence, but upon discovering it was over 300 pages, decided i didn't have the time. the only other novel i could think of was Franny and Zooey by Salinger. i remember thinking, while reading on the bus, maybe 15 pages in, that i already liked it. i was shocked beyond belief! i don't know why, but something in it struck a chord. i don't think i can sympathise anymore with Franny or Zooey than with Holden, but... something about the way it was written, i really enjoyed it. my essay was due today, so for the past few days i'd been doing all kinds of research on the book and Salinger and modernism. i stayed up until 3am finishing it. 2,046 words in about 6hrs (condensed) work. to top it all off, i am actually pleased with how it turned out!
so imagine my distress when i arrived to class, and learned that sometime in the last hour and a half (when i was commuting) the news broke that Salinger had died. i haven't stopped thinking about it all night. cannot get over it. it's weird enough that we studied him last week sure, but as i said to my classmates, i was the one who'd written an essay on him and his works! what are the odds? sure, he was a very old man, but... something about the timing of it all. god, i even made a note of it on Facebook, admitting that i had inadvertently fallen in love with Franny & Zooey. just when i've begun to appreciate Salinger, he dies? it does shake me to my core. can't explain it.
and yes, i am now very curious too about what might be locked away in his safe. i'm interesting in reading more stories about the Glass family. although i am kind of glad Salinger never sold out, never let Spielberg make his movie, never felt pressured into anything and stood up for his work. yes, art should be shared with the world but... do we really need sequels and film adaptations and whatever else? god no. i hope his son (who, judging from my inquiries, seems far more protective than his sister) keeps the rights and sticks to his father's wishes.

anyway, went to Messini tonight, for the first time since Chris's visit. put myself to shame! have never gone that long without visits when i've been in the country. gyros still as tasty as ever. went out for drinks, as per usual, in 521 afterwards. Adri's new man, Jeff, came with us. second year, English major, Scarborough native, etc. guy. nice enough, i suppose! yeah, it was us and Danilo too. a generally good evening. although, good god it's freezing! this -22 windchill stuff is nonsense!
very pleased that Secret Diary of a Call Girl is back! yay Billie Piper. i've got the "Billie and the Real Belle" interview to watch as well. going to be a good night. while i finished my essay at 3, i slept in till 10:30 so i've still got a good amount of energy. then, getting my hair cut tomorrow! just a general trim, nothing fancy. i've got my grad photo session booked for Monday, eek. Dad also phoned and told me he'd found my British mobile(!) and so i've got to go to his work to get it before then too. after Filming Lit tomorrow (The Autobiography of Malcolm X) i'm meeting Lauren the Canadian for lunch! we are going to massively geek out about England some more. she's arriving in York two days after i am, eeeeeeeeek. NINE nights from now, my darlings. nine sleeps and i will be in York, in Christoph's arms. i technically leave on the 5th, but it's really the 6th i cannot wait for. without a doubt, i think it will be the best day of my post-York life thus far. landing in England, the train ride up to the grim north, meeting Chris at the station, walking through my city to the house, having reunion sex (oh yes), having a chicken saag for tea, and seeing my beloved British boys! i'm pretty sure there will be a constant flow of happy tears down my face.

i can pinpoint the moment when i became an adult.
your fragile child's heart has hardened, and you must come to terms with the fact that you are alone. i will remember these last weeks of January 2010 for the rest of my life. the long moment when i realised what it truly means to become independent and to think for yourself. you're in it for yourself, no one else is capable of leading you to your own happiness. when you finally learn that you cannot for the life of you depend on your family to help. when the only thing you can do is follow what YOU think is right, damn the consequences. there is nothing more you can say or do, except ignore the negativity and move on with what you believe to be best. just realise that this is the moment you take complete control of your own life. everyone who you thought was there for you, who you thought understood you has in fact proved that they have no idea who you are anymore, or what your values and choices mean to you. there comes a time when you are, quite honestly, finished with putting up with other people's problems. it is difficult not be disappointed, bitter or resentful. yet this is, however challenging, simply the way it has to be. you are done with hoping there can be another way. you cannot rely on anyone, even those who are supposed to support and help you through everything. it becomes clear that they have precious little respect for you and the decisions you make for your own life. these are the people who are supposed to believe in you, for christ's sake, not belittle and insult you. to that they are trying to help, to prevent damage, to teach and to prove a point, and then with every other sentence continue to cripple you...
as if it isn't enough that i'm overloaded with schoolwork and graduation pressures and housing matters and changing social circumstances and financial issues, i'm also facing emigration crises. this year, right now, i'm in the middle of one of the most terrifying (albeit exciting) struggles of my life, and it's precisely now when i could use guidance the most. and yet? i've learned that i cannot even depend on these people who claim to want the best for me.
enough. i'm moving on. if they are so keen on alienating me, then i will go forward on my own. there are plenty of people who do still believe in me, who won't attempt to undermine me at every turn. it is they who i will listen to from now on, and i will always remember how they were the ones who stood by me through it all.

I've been thinking a bit about my last day in York.

Waking up early after a restless sleep, the world just waking up too, even the lake was quiet. Dragging myself in and out of the shower, my eyes still puffy from the night before. I had never dreaded a day so much. Rolling my suitcases out of my room, looking down "my" corridor for the last time, how undisturbed it was. Walking into the kitchen to see some of my favourite people in the world so sad at such an early time in the morning, Anthony still rubbing sleep from his eyes. My Dutchie, oh my Dutchie. All of them, giving them one last hug. Jack, Lee, Vicki, all of them... absolutely horrendous. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was leave. I couldn't even try to hold back the tears and choking. Going down the stairs and out towards B Block, looking up one last time at my beloved building for the last time. Seeing the girls' hands waving out the window and hearing their sobbing goodbyes. Crossing that bridge was near impossible. I don't know what I would have done if Chris weren't there to prop me up, I felt like i would just collapse, grab onto anything within reach to make it impossible to leave. Walking past all the geese towards the Wentworth parking lot, pacing back and forth waiting for the cab to come. The driver didn't even ask what was wrong with me, he just spoke to Chris. In the car, holding his hand so tight as the car wove its way through the streets of York to the station. I didn't even want to blink, wanted to see it all, drink it in one last time. I felt very nauseous. As if I was physically ill at the thought of leaving the city and the people who had come to occupy a huge part of my heart. What happened next is a bit of a blur. Paying the driver, lugging my stuff to the platform. I remember an obnoxious American family, and feeling so, so ill. I couldn't stop crying, even though I felt faint. I thought that when the train I'd have to be dragged on it, but it went alright, as if a dream, some perverse nightmare. The journey was miserable. We didn't talk much, I felt very sick and couldn't come to terms with what was happening. Pulling into Manchester, getting on the shuttle. I must've looked so strange to people, with my dishevelled hair and bloodshot eyes. My weeping had turned to a dry kind of sob now, gasping intakes of breath as soon as I remembered again what I was doing. Arriving at the airport, checking my luggage, paying overweight fees, then being terribly pissed off that there was nowhere proper to sit down. We sat on floor of the glass tunnel, backs against the windows. We had an hour, maybe a bit more. We managed to talk, about September and all the things we would do, about me seeing my family again, about Shanne, about nonsense really. Anything to avoid reality. I couldn't even bear to think about how horrible it would be for him - returning to Goodricke alone - but I envied him for it all the same. I still had a mighty journey ahead of me, and him? He could be consoled by Dutchie and the lads. I would have given anything for that. Finally, I'd delayed as long as I could, we had to face facts and it was time for me to go through security. I remember not wanting to let go for the life of me. Always wanting one more kiss, one more. One more "I love you." Not caring who could see. Painfully letting go and walking through the barrier, not even really waving. Being an absolute wreck as I was in the security queue. I could tell other peope were looking, but to them it was so obvious what was happening. I couldn't make eye contact with anyone, just grabbed my things and walked through the duty free sections and past the other terminals as quickly as I could, my eyes blurring. I was even saddened to say goodbye to Monsoon and Boots. The thought crossed my mind to get some Bombay Sapphire for Dad, but I couldn't stop. Thankfully, because I'd delayed, boarding had already started. I was able to join the people and get onto the plane relatively quickly. I remember the stewardess looking me and asking, "Leaving someone behind?" and all I could do was whimper, "Not someone. More than one." I was seated near the front, window-view, of course. Next to me was an elderly couple. They looked sympathetic, but didn't say much. I was still crying. (I wept for four hours straight, before falling asleep.) As the plane taxied down the runway, I thought I would die. It honestly felt as tohugh my heart were being ripped out from my chest. I was staring out the window, trying to get my absolute fill of England. Every fibre of my being was screaming at me to stop, to get off the plane, that this was so, so wrong. With all the speed and miles that the plane gained, I felt worse and worse. I can't imagine what I looked like, how many people thought I was overreacting or misunderstood my anguish. After I finally fell asleep and woke up again, I watched Sex and the City on my laptop in an effort to cheer me up. Even the funniest moment didn't work. What happened for the rest of the flight is kind of a blur. Before I knew it, I was flying over the GTA. I don't think I've hated a city more than Toronto at that moment. Disembarking, baggage claims, it all went okay. The border guard asked, "Why were you in York?" "To study at their university." "The University of York?" "Yes." "What, our York wasn't good enough for you?" "Actually, I've studied at both." My suitcases took forever to arrive. I had stopped crying by now. All dried up, though I did feel a bit in shock. Seeing the bilingual signs, the embroidered maple leaves, the adverts for Air Canada... I envisioned coming through the gates, wondering what it would feel like. Little did I know that my family would actually be late and no one would be waiting to greet me. (Not entirely their fault, my flight was a tad early.) By the time they did come, I was just so eager to get home. They hugged and kissed me, all three, but I could hardly muster a smile. The ride home was absolute agony. I hated every flag I saw, every license plate, even the way it felt to be on the right side of the road. I felt like I no longer belonged. I could tell that it was hurting and confusing them, even if they empathised. Even my father looked genuinely sad for me. (I later found out from Mom that they were both really worried.) I didn't say much as they spoke to Valerie about god knows what. This is when I began crying again. And it didn't stop for another long time. Before I knew it we were in Burlington, driving up to the house. So familiar, yet so foreign. I was glad to squeeze my cats, but all I really wanted to do was crawl into bed. Mom had some nice cake ready, but I couldn't eat. (I didn't eat properly for days.) I asked if I could phone Chris to let him know I'd arrived safely. He was at his dad's by then. We were both teary on the phone, and I hated to hang up. I eventually excused myself to go to "my" room in the basement, and there, the first thing I did was to dig through my suitcases. I put up the framed photos of Chris and I, put my teddy pillow on the bed (it's next to me even now) and placed Jasper the duck on the shelf. Then I promptly passed out. And the rest, well... That day was over.

I never wrote about that day before, I guess it never occurred to me. Don't know why I felt the need to now. I guess it's because I see my flight next week(!) as a way of undoing all the hurt and damage that was done that other important 5th. Don't kid yourselves, even now I've been reveretd back to a messy, wet state. Chris and I talked, at the airport, how the next time I was in Manchester Airport it would be for a happy occasion, we would be reunited. Now I'm flying into Gatwick. It isn't the same but... it will do. I will never, ever forget what that summer day was like. It will stay with me forever. Nothing could fix it or erase it. But I also know that my flight back over to England, my train ride up to York, my walk to Chris's house, will be the happiest day of my post-York life. I will be bawling my eyes out yet again, but all for happiness. I will wonder how daft I could have been to ever leave to begin with. Sure I love Canada, but right now - my heart belongs to England. Eleven nights left. For so many reasons, I cannot wait.
(This makes me miss York all the more. Now that I'm so close, it's harder than it's ever been. And yet... all of this makes me not too happy, but tremendously sad because, well... I cannot even think about leaving Canada in the summer.)

i felt like brightening up my journal a bit. no worries, of course the Doctor will be back again. there is no way an image of the icky Matt Smith will ever grace this page.
i only really get fangirly on LJ. not many of my friends watch my favourite television shows, so i rarely get a chance to discuss them in real life. i got into Grey's Anatomy late. i knew it would distract me from my work in first year, and had thus completely avoided it up till then, despite my sister's pleas. sure enough, once i did start watching the summer following that year, i was hooked. still am. actually, ha, wait - Dutchie watches this show, it's true. but she's about a season and a half behind. season four wasn't good, season five, ehhh, but season six - let me tell you, it's amazing!
and this is in no small part due to Cristina and Owen. as awful as it might sound to say it, they are truly hardcore. if they were real, they'd be my relationship inspiration. sure, Chris and i have litte in common with either of them but... let me just say that they are without a doubt one of the most believable couples on television these days. all you have to do is watch one episode and you feel it, you know that they are meant for each other. it's unbelivably convincing. their personalities and ideas and relationships with others are so well formed (especially Owen, considering he's only been around for about two seasons) that the writers never write something out of character. i don't know how to explain it, you really have to just watch them. they represent the closest thing to real love on television. personally, i don't like Cristina or identify with her at all, but i do love her with Owen. as for Owen, well... if a man ever kissed me like he does! melt through the floor. absolutely breathtaking. (good to know Kevin McKidd has a Scottish accent too, haha). no, in all, they are incredible together, and i hope the writers keep it that way.
thanks to no_milk_left for the icon.
French, then History of English, then tea with Dave, then seeing Adri's Spanish modernist play with Danilo and Dave, then home and essay work.

mmkay, so. basically, i've had one of the most difficult and horrendous weeks of my life. could you tell? i bet you couldn't... and it isn't technically over (that is to say, a "week") until tomorrow. i don't want to go into too much detail, but there have been such extreme highs and lows that i've been bursting into tears or grinning madly every day. usually both. it's exhausting. while there have been several causes for this anxiety, next to none of it is related to Christoph. in fact, most come from my lovely mum, ack. but anyway, as it were, in true fashion, after one a good day/awful night yesterday, i found out some more good news today.
remember not too long ago when i got super excited about living with Hannah and Arthur? WELL. the house of dreams has outdone itself. it was last-minute news, and won't be as simple to put into motion as our previous plans but... i don't care. we'll make it work. for these ones, i will always make it work. my darlings, i am so delighted to say that the one and only Jackiebear will be living with us! it will be a mad mad home, for sure. filled with wonder, merriment, and a good dose of cynicism.
now if you'll excuse me, i'm 8% finished an essay due in tomorrow, and i've been cornered on Facebook by my Dutchie to discuss men! some things never change.

PS* Ellen mightily approves of our plans. she also just referred to men's chest hair as "breast hair". please god, never let her lose her ESL quirks.

aren't you consumed by the urge to explore and travel and learn and live? don't you just want to pick up and move? go far far away. somewhere sunny somewhere rainy. a city that was made for falling in love. with little farmers markets that open so so early and you have to get there as soon as you wake up to make sure you can buy the fresh corn and raspberries, vintage jewellery and find that one perfect teapot you've been dreaming of. a city where there's a special cab driver who will lift your fare, who drives a seafoam green beetle of a car which smells like potpourri. lots of gardens and wide open spaces for you to lie down and get grass stains on your clothes. a sidewalk in front of your house that you feel safe walking barefoot down. big beautiful townhouses painted many colours. Tudor woodwork on the outside of the shops and crooked, crowded, cobblestoned streets. no one walks their dogs on leashes. there are baby strollers and ice cream vendors. you live in a house that's over a hundred years old but all the creaks in the floorboards and cracked paint give it character. there are cookbooks on the shelves and a pantry full of baking ingredients. there's a Nepalese restaurant down the road which sells the most amazing curry you've tasted in your life - with pineapple, of course! there are faded lace curtains peeking out at the world. you open the windows at dinnertime and let your Tom Petty and Lex Land music flow out of the speakers to the streets below as you dance and twirl around the kitchen in your stained apron. a city where artists drop their hearts every day and every corner releases a new delight. a life in which it doesn't matter if you can't sleep cos you can wake your man up and go for a walk around the park with nothing to light your way except the moon, illuminating you in your pyjamas and the stunning dahlias. when friends come to visit you, for the few days they're there you show them enough of your place so they fall instantaneously in love too. you own a car and go for drives along the waterfront and come across a section of the road which leads so tantalisingly close to the sandy beach that you can't help but drive right up to the water's edge. it doesn't matter if you're a professional photographer or not, the snapshots you take with your outdated camera come out as beautifully as you could ever have imagined and you look forward to the day your children flick through them, yellowed and peeling from the pages of an album. on the kitchen table there's a real Delft plate (bought there, of course) with chocolates on it. there's that one special restaurant you only go to once year, to reminisce and order your favourites and get serenaded by the smiling musicians. there's an old blue phone, the kind with the spinning dial which thrills you when it rings. if it's a rainy day it doesn't matter because you've got your man and he's got his guitar and there's a cat curled up on the couch and a window seat for you to read Fitzgerald. there's an old movie theatre, nowhere near the house but still somehow close enough to walk to, winding and wending your way through town; they play black and white classics once a month and you begin to understand why your parents love Katharine Hepburn and Tony Curtis. a home filled with candy and you don't care how much of it your friends ever eat, it's why the love visiting. yellow is a theme in your life, whether it's the bills of ducks or the daisies in your neighbour's flowerbox or the fleamarket photo frame above your bed. there's a bathtub big enough for two and only warm water comes from its faucets. there's a little red mailbox outside your door which, when filled, makes you happier than any electronic "inbox" ever could. picnics in the park are a routine and you and your best girl friend take turns making the salads. even if you're in a rush on your way home from work, you make sure to stop by the delicatessen to buy the gruyere for you and the smoked sausage for him. from your seat by the window you can see people going in and out, walking by, talking on their phones or to their dogs, coochy-cooing over babies and digging for something from their purses. there's a skylight above your bed, and most of the month you can see the moon before falling asleep. there are no highways nearby but you can catch a bus whenever you need. next to your work is a cafe that sells sandwiches with cucumber and apple bubble tea. there's a big red fridge in your kitchen and it's filled with tupperware containers of leftover stir-fry and orange juice and brie and banana yogurt. there's a skilfully carved wooden box sitting on your desk filled with innumerable letters you've received from your loved ones all over the world. the sheer beauty of the architecture in your town moves you to tears and makes you catch your breath, even years later. you can hear the chimes from your workplace and soon enough they become as natural as your heartbeat. there are cafes and pubs open till the wee hours of the morning which is good cos you're never ready to go out before eleven at night anyway. a world where you wake up, roll over, and see him sleeping next to you and suddenly your heart swells like it's going go burst your ribcage. there will be a fresh bouquet of flowers every week. when you stretch up to reach the band-aids in the top of the cabinet, you sneak a peek at your tattoo and the tree reminds you of the other wonderful places you've been. there's a blanket in the linen cupboard that your grandmother knitted you for your "hope chest" so long ago. every time you and he go out into the town you keep your eyes open for patches of wet concrete and the day you find one you scratch your initials into it. there's a nosy Greek lady who lives on your street but you don't mind because she has a heart of gold and bakes baklava to die for. there's always more here to run to than run away from. you can take yoga classes with your best friend and gossip about your coworkers. the sun shines brightly, not necessarily every day but just enough to make you really happy to feel its warmth and have an excuse to wear fabulous sunglasses. there are always mangoes on the shopping list. the kind of world where you only own one pair of trousers cos that's all you need. there are jeans for mucking about in but you can get away with skirts and tights every day of the week. water, lots of water. there will be rivers or a lake or a pond close by. no matter if you leave - on vacation or permanently - this is the place that will be embedded in your soul. and you will leave, you will travel. but first you will spend hours poring over websites and maps and guide books. but when you come back, exhausted, pushing open the front door to the first place that you really called "home", you can't help but smile. in the winter when it's cold you can swaddle your feet in the softest moccasins ever owned. if there were a god, this is exactly the kind of life you would thank him for. but there isn't, and it's just you. you have to get out and find this place, capture and claim it for your own. this is where you become the greatest you'll ever be, where you find your voice and your passion. however hard it was to pick up and move away to begin with, you appreciate that it was an adventure worth having. to find your own place in the world, a city you feel has never been explored before you two got there, a fresh life of freedom...
the kind of life that if it were real you wouldn't even be able to find the time to sit and write about it, you'd be too busy napping in fields of grass or painting your bedroom purple or sharing drinks with friends in a pub.

the site's a little outdated, but the pictures will give you a good idea of what i'm dealing with at Rahier. mmm, so good. i'm pretty sure i die a little death every time i get to bring home some more deliciously amazing and so-bad-for-you (oh yes, they only use the best ingredients) treats, and Dave and Adri do too. last night, along with the usual selection of pastries, (focaccia) bread, and a sandwich for tea, i brought home over $60 worth of chocolate truffles. it may not be the greatest job to give me teaching experience, no, but goodness - does it ever have its perks.