F. Miller face oil - After reading about it on Rebecca Ramsdale's blog, and in a desperate attempt to fix my very angry skin, I purchased this at Easy Tiger and fell in love. Rebecca explains that Fran of F. Miller mixed the oils in an attempt to combat the harsh Canadian winter and its effect on her eczema and psoriasis. I don't have eczema or psoriasis. I do have a bit of rosacea and lupus that mostly manifests on my skin. This oil (and a slew of samples from the kind man at Sephora Yorkville) has helped to calm the extreme redness on my face as well as bring back some of the moisture that winter has completely stripped away. The effect feels instantaneous. I feel so much better.
Hanya Yanagihara - Here is an amazing author. I read her second novel A Little Life first and I have to say I liked that better. It was a beautiful book that described living and the many consequences and tribulations that can come with living, and admittedly, a difficult life. In March, I read her debut novel The People in the Trees. If A Little Life was about the consequences and tribulations that can come with living, I think The People in the Trees describes the consequences and tribulations that comes with existing in our globalized world. It is the dark that comes with exposure to the unknown, and how we often scramble to react instead of simple observation. The People in the Trees is not an easy novel to swallow. I can't say I recommend it because it is very, very difficult at parts. It is about a selfish man, and finding justification for his selfish behaviour. It is an interesting read, something that encourages growth and self-reflection. Maybe we can end on calling it a challenge.
GIRLS - It's the final season. The show hasn't changed that much from the beginning. The characters are all the same or very similar kinds of selfish. I loved this show in the beginning though, and I still do into its last season. It is a bit of a guilty pleasure. Hannah is back with the same narcissism and insecurity while she deals with everything, even more things. It's a little reassuring to have someone act that way, even if it is someone on TV.
The Course of Love by Alain de Botton - I was reading a review on this book that says this is the book you should read before marriage. It is a book that is good for helping us understand all of our personal relationships better. It walks the reader through the very beginning of a couple's meeting to their courting, dating, marriage, insecurities and woes of marriage, having children, having an affair, and realizing what a prolonged relationship really means. There is also a third voice - almost like a narrator, that describes each critical step or misstep at each point. It is a beautiful book. A nice short read for when you maybe want to get some perspective on how to function in a prolonged relationship. For me, one question about marriage has always been: How do you make love stay? How do you make love continue to grow at the same pace? This goes there.
Tuesday, April 4, 2017
Monday, April 3, 2017
Sunday, March 26, 2017
The Course of Love by Alain De Botton
I found a book I am in love with, perfectly describing everything I want out of a relationship, everything I am, and everything I want out of love, every way I want to fall in love.
-- There is, in the early period of love, a measure of sheer relief at being able, at last, to reveal so much of what needed to be kept hidden for the sake of propriety. We can admit to not being as respectable or as sober, as even-keeled or as ‘normal’, as society believes. We can be childish, imaginative, wild, hopeful, cynical, fragile and multiple – all of this our lover can understand and accept us for.
They are back in the playful spirit of childhood. They bounce on the bed. They swap piggyback rides. They gossip. After attending a party, they inevitably end up finding fault with all the other guests, their loyalty to each other deepened by their ever-increasing disloyalty towards everyone else.
-- There is, in the early period of love, a measure of sheer relief at being able, at last, to reveal so much of what needed to be kept hidden for the sake of propriety. We can admit to not being as respectable or as sober, as even-keeled or as ‘normal’, as society believes. We can be childish, imaginative, wild, hopeful, cynical, fragile and multiple – all of this our lover can understand and accept us for.
They are back in the playful spirit of childhood. They bounce on the bed. They swap piggyback rides. They gossip. After attending a party, they inevitably end up finding fault with all the other guests, their loyalty to each other deepened by their ever-increasing disloyalty towards everyone else.
A Confessional
I read, “Unless it’s mad, passionate, extraordinary love, it’s a waste of your time. There are too many mediocre things in life; love shouldn’t be one of them.” I watch the finale of How I Met Your Mother again. In the third to last episode, Ted, the show’s protagonist says, “Because love is the best thing we do.” I cry for an hour and a half and I am still sitting in bed with a stuffed red nose.
Because love is the best thing we do. Because love should not be another mediocre part of our lives.
I am half sitting, half laying in bed. I am naked and I have a cup of my favourite peach chamomile tea with honey. I am trying not to cry again. I am not sure why I feel so emotional tonight, but I might cry again.
I went on a date today and it didn’t go so well. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t well. It wasn’t good or passionate or even intriguing. It was so boring and dull. Across from me sat someone who was nice, who was smart and sensible, not unattractive. I will never see him again. I didn’t think he was funny. I didn’t think he was interesting, or fun, or wild. I always thought to myself I needed my men to be reckless. He inspired nothing. There was nothing wrong or different about him, or the situation. He was well and good, but he inspired nothing. It was mediocrity.
The last couple of weeks, I’ve been revisiting older pieces of writing. Vivid writing about old memories, so vivid that the memories soothed by time now come back forcefully. I am thinking about the boy I so innocently liked in my first year. I am thinking about the way we hung out and talked about music and movies and politics. I am thinking about the hours and hours and hours we spent together but never kissed. I am thinking about the way our friends and acquittances always wondered about whether or not we were dating. I am thinking of sweet Dalton and sweet me. I am thinking about Richard, the last guy I really dated - almost two years ago. I am thinking about laying in his bed, over the bar crowds and the screaming party. I am thinking about the way he used to talk to me, the way he used to look at me. I am thinking about the way he once traced my body. I am thinking about the way I thought about how nothing was quite right, but I didn’t want to give up on the comfort of having someone, of being with someone. The hope of someone. And then I think about Phil. I think about Phil and the fucking nightmare of a mess he left me.
My heart is heavy. I am 23 and it feels like I’ve been dragged through the mud too many times. I am 23 and my body deteriorates far more quickly than my age suggests. I am 23 and my heart is shattered, too jagged and confused to know anymore. I am 23 and I’ve never been in a serious relationship. I am 23 and I am still so hopeful but I don’t know how to get the pitter-patter feeling anymore. I don’t know how to feel excited about someone anymore. I am 23 and wondering how to resuscitate myself.
Tonight in between crying and here, I try to find an older couple who used to photograph themselves. They’re gone. Recently, I have a conversation with someone whose photography I have long admired. So much has changed. So many people have left. So many relationships have changed. So many circumstances have changed. Life has changed. The world around us has changed.
I am struggling. I am doing better. I have a bit of a sense of direction again. I am going back to school in the fall, for a path that is a bit clearer than it has been in years. I have a few good friends who are supportive and encouraging and present. I have stopped fucking in an effort to forget or replace. But what has began to feel more solid and smooth, has stripped away the passion I once felt. I have left behind a lot of friends because I didn’t want to explain myself one more time. I have almost stopped dating completely. I don’t feel the same passion or drive towards the arts. I have become complacent and grow more and more tired. I grow less and less inspired by life, and the people and movement around me. I want to resuscitate myself but I do not know how.
I want love. I want good. I want passion and drive and spirit and adventure. I want something that makes me feel alive. I am 23 and I feel like I am wasting away.
Because love is the best thing we do. Because love should not be another mediocre part of our lives.
I am half sitting, half laying in bed. I am naked and I have a cup of my favourite peach chamomile tea with honey. I am trying not to cry again. I am not sure why I feel so emotional tonight, but I might cry again.
I went on a date today and it didn’t go so well. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t well. It wasn’t good or passionate or even intriguing. It was so boring and dull. Across from me sat someone who was nice, who was smart and sensible, not unattractive. I will never see him again. I didn’t think he was funny. I didn’t think he was interesting, or fun, or wild. I always thought to myself I needed my men to be reckless. He inspired nothing. There was nothing wrong or different about him, or the situation. He was well and good, but he inspired nothing. It was mediocrity.
The last couple of weeks, I’ve been revisiting older pieces of writing. Vivid writing about old memories, so vivid that the memories soothed by time now come back forcefully. I am thinking about the boy I so innocently liked in my first year. I am thinking about the way we hung out and talked about music and movies and politics. I am thinking about the hours and hours and hours we spent together but never kissed. I am thinking about the way our friends and acquittances always wondered about whether or not we were dating. I am thinking of sweet Dalton and sweet me. I am thinking about Richard, the last guy I really dated - almost two years ago. I am thinking about laying in his bed, over the bar crowds and the screaming party. I am thinking about the way he used to talk to me, the way he used to look at me. I am thinking about the way he once traced my body. I am thinking about the way I thought about how nothing was quite right, but I didn’t want to give up on the comfort of having someone, of being with someone. The hope of someone. And then I think about Phil. I think about Phil and the fucking nightmare of a mess he left me.
My heart is heavy. I am 23 and it feels like I’ve been dragged through the mud too many times. I am 23 and my body deteriorates far more quickly than my age suggests. I am 23 and my heart is shattered, too jagged and confused to know anymore. I am 23 and I’ve never been in a serious relationship. I am 23 and I am still so hopeful but I don’t know how to get the pitter-patter feeling anymore. I don’t know how to feel excited about someone anymore. I am 23 and wondering how to resuscitate myself.
Tonight in between crying and here, I try to find an older couple who used to photograph themselves. They’re gone. Recently, I have a conversation with someone whose photography I have long admired. So much has changed. So many people have left. So many relationships have changed. So many circumstances have changed. Life has changed. The world around us has changed.
I am struggling. I am doing better. I have a bit of a sense of direction again. I am going back to school in the fall, for a path that is a bit clearer than it has been in years. I have a few good friends who are supportive and encouraging and present. I have stopped fucking in an effort to forget or replace. But what has began to feel more solid and smooth, has stripped away the passion I once felt. I have left behind a lot of friends because I didn’t want to explain myself one more time. I have almost stopped dating completely. I don’t feel the same passion or drive towards the arts. I have become complacent and grow more and more tired. I grow less and less inspired by life, and the people and movement around me. I want to resuscitate myself but I do not know how.
I want love. I want good. I want passion and drive and spirit and adventure. I want something that makes me feel alive. I am 23 and I feel like I am wasting away.
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