Yes, Boss

 The assignment was to write about the director of the website, Mr. Morrison. A little vein on his part, I thought. Then I thought, what the hell am I supposed to write about a person I know absolutely nothing about nor have had an ounce of contact with other than being handed assignments on a bi-weekly basis? 

This is what I came up with...

“I still don’t think I follow.” Her hands cradled her phone, her fingers hovering idle, as she replied with a mild and torpid interest, her eyes still fixed on the screen.

“What’s not to follow? It’s hardly that far fetched.” His couch paralleled hers and they slumped between patterned cushions that seemed to consume them, the glow of the television mimicking the sun as it sat, baking yet another lazy summer afternoon.

“It just seems too flawed and unpredictable. What if it told you to jump off a bridge?”

“I already explained that. They'd be engineered to manage us accordingly and without personal agenda. We'd be giving them complete control because they're mechanical, and incapable of demanding anything irrelevant to productivity.”

“So you wouldn't jump?”

He sighed, and looked up from his phone. The TV screen framed a man, naked and squatting in a forest, his lower half a censored blur, as he fumbled with a poorly constructed fishing spear.

“It would never ask.” He typed the words How to make a spear into google search while he continued, “They'd be programmed strictly with our general positive needs in mind.

Humans need order. We thrive off rules and conduct. This is why we have presidents and CEO's and assistant managers-- because even managers need management. But we are also flawed. We possess both a distinct desire and resentment for authority, which is, what I believe, to be the cause of most problems in the workplace.”

He scrolled through the results and stopped on Making a survival spear.

“Employees rely too heavily on the decisions and validation from their employers and have expectations that their leaders will guide them without fail or error with an approach exclusive to their needs. It becomes personal, and therefore results in inevitable disappointment. If you were to remove any personal or emotional connection to the distribution of tasks, the level of productivity would become completely fact based and consistent. Think of all the jobs out there that were once impossible to execute without humans, but have now been replaced solely by machines. Don't you think it's only a matter of time before leadership roles begin to acquire the same fate?”

With this, she looked up from her phone. The naked man on TV had now found himself wading in a river, his butt cheeks rippling slightly with the current. Perplexed, she shifted her focus across the room.

“Now you think one day our president is going to be a robot?”

“Well, yes. More or less.” He had allowed his screen to shut on the survival spear tutorial, and his attention was now split between whether the naked man would manage to feed himself and the conversation at hand, sensing he’d peaked an interest.

“But it would obviously begin on a much smaller scale.” He continued,  

“We already live in an almost completely electronically motivated society. How many current jobs can you think of where ninety percent, if not all of communication and execution is programmed and processed without an ounce of actual, organic interaction with another human being? I'm talking about a world where every executive decision would be made by computers. Facts and figures would be processed, risk and reward would be evaluated, and the extent of input versus output would be weighed and calculated without the interruption of personal gain or emotional persuasion. Everyone would be assigned a computer, or a "guide", and everyone would do exactly as the guide instructs. It's command would never be questioned because it would be proven the best course of action through thorough and indisputable data analysis.” He smiled, pleased with his description.

She paused. While he spoke, she had googled Robot president and was now looking at an overwhelming display of headlines predicting mechanical presidents by 2020. She placed her phone on her lap, face down, and thought.

“But what if one computer gains total control and tries to take over the world by using their humans as pawns? Or more plausibly, some dickhead learns to override the system and achieves power over all the computers, and therefore mankind?”

The idea of what she had just said sparked familiarity, and she quickly googled the plot of the film iRobot.

Remembering some scifi film from the early 2000’s, reminiscent of her statement, he laughed.

“Wouldn't happen. As I said before, all computers would be regulated; their human's productivity or lack thereof monitored to remain equal, thus preventing any feelings of superiority or inferiority. One does not vow to take over the world unless he or she believes they are more powerful than those around them. And how can one decide that they are more important than another without the concept of success; an idea conjured solely by comparison. If everyone works at the same level and efficiency, it would be impossible to dictate a system of seniority. We'd all be content to simply work at a productive rate and admire our individual success as it occurs.”

He had a point. Her phone lit up to a text message reading, Are you watching it? I told you hot people never get picked for naked shows. She touched “ignore”.

“Alright, so we’ve entrusted the delegation of our workforce entirely in the hands of machines. How exactly would it work?”

“Simple. Your guide would assign a work load. You’d present your work to be processed and distributed accordingly without acknowledgement or praise. Your correspondence is limited and to the point. There exists no other relationship between you and your guide other than the mutual objective to complete each task. They'd be individualized to your needs, with a vague form of relatable identity by way of name.”

She turned her head to look at him. He was watching the naked man allow a fish to swim swiftly past. His phone lay on his belly and he was biting his middle fingernail.

“What would yours be called, then?”

He stopped biting. His eyes squinted, and shifted to the left. He looked at the rug between them and then at her, and finally rested his eyes again on the naked man, and shrugged.

“Mr. Morrison.”

Tomorrow Never Knows

There once was a girl who moved to a place far, far away. What she was moving for, she did not know. And even now, perhaps she still doesn't. Maybe it was to fall in love; that much she did. She fell in love with a city, vibrant, and intoxicating. A city that stood as a foundation for a life that would take her in directions she'd least expect, places where she would fit seamlessly and soon call home. A home filled with family, dysfunctional, deranged, and unshakeably irreplaceable. She fell in love with a man, a beautiful man. A man who's flaws intrigued her, who's looks could melt her, who's heart, though tightly wrapped and carefully guarded, held hers in a way she had never known. He was wonderful, and she loved him. But no matter how much, time found that it just wasn't enough. And so in letting him go, she came to turn a page devoted solely to herself. And unbeknownst to her, this was where she would fall in love the most. Her pages would be the ones read in abundance. Her corners folded over, and returned to time and time again. The pages would curl and lay rippled from being opened and exposed. She would see in herself, something new. Something honest, but delicate. Something eager to grow, to be tended to, and adored. She would stop caring about things that did not matter, and start caring about herself. She would look in the mirror and smile. Chuckle at her rolls, admire her double chin, shrug off her mistakes, and bask in her beauty. And naturally, once she discovered her worth, she would stumble upon a man who saw a far greater value within her. A value that matched his own. And she would find in him a match for life. She would write a world of words about him. She would immerse herself in the thought of their future. She would kiss his face, and in his embrace, she would feel a warmth that made all other things cease to exist. Together they would become passionate, thought provoking, adventurous, childish, honest, utterly intolerable, and perfectly imperfect. They would make mistakes, they would fall and they would grow. They would want to tear each other to shreds, yet know just how to carefully glue the pieces back together. Together, they would feel like nothing could come between them, that they were inseparable. Until the day they weren't.




I don't know how this story ends, nor do I know where or when the next will begin. I struggle to define how I feel, or where I stand. I know far less than what I don't and it scares me. All I can do is focus on what is, and allow for time to decipher the rest. So here is what I know. I know that I will be sad, that I will feel out of place, and foreign in my own country. I will see things that don't make sense, and long for things I no longer see. I know that from now on, when I introduce myself to strangers, I will expect my name to produce a puzzled reaction, followed by a comment regarding football, and when this doesn't happen I will be disappointed, regardless of how much it annoyed me in the past. I will continue to be confused with which direction to look when crossing the street, and I will miss so badly the bustle of traffic and the opportunity to complain over tubes and transit. I will say things like take away, or half seven, or crisps, or taking the piss, and be looked on like an alien. I will bite the urge to want a pint at eleven in the morning and constantly remind myself what is socially acceptable alcoholic behaviour in this part of the world. I will giggle to myself when people turn down my offer for a drink when they have an early morning, and be shocked when a week has passed and I have yet to feel hung over. I will feel alone. I will walk streets I've walked for most of my life, and not pass a soul I care to see, all the while yearning for the days when I couldn't turn a corner without bumping into someone who would inevitably put a smile on my face. I will be relieved that cider is not a popular beverage in these parts, and curse it all the same. I will take better care of myself. I will be healthier. I will make it, without fail, to yoga and I will drink more water than wine. I will see a positive change in me that I will both appreciate and resent. I will feel comfort in the home to which I've returned, yet feel so completely torn from the home I love. I will feel a certain guilt wash over me with every time I feel happy. Any time I look to the mountains and feel peace, or remember things that I prefer here over what I left. I will want so badly to stay miserable. To hate what cards I have been dealt, and vow to loath each moment I'm forced to be here and not there until the day I can return. But I won't. In time I will find happiness. I will look to the mountains and feel peace without pangs of guilt. I will start saying chips, stop saying you alright? as a form of greeting, forget all endearing english slang, lose my mildly influenced accent and eventually return to just being Canadian. But I will never stop my attempts to inject the phrase willy nilly into daily conversation. There will be days where I will come to terms with being single; there may even be days where I am ok with it. But they will be far, far outnumbered by those that are whole heartedly consumed with thoughts of pale skin, and brown, wavy hair. Eyes the colour that rest between sand and sea. Days that dream of blood moons, and rolling fields spattered with floating sheep. Nights that are wrapped between two, blanketed with words about nothing and songs about everything. Beds will feel big, and my heart will feel small. But that's ok. Because, in this moment where life has placed me, there is only room for one. And that pillow that rests untouched beside me knows any amount of time is worth waiting for to once again frame a face that has always fit so perfectly next to mine. And hopefully one day always will.

Little Child

Alone on Christmas. I'm like Kevin McCallister only slightly less cute and all I have to arm myself against intruding loneliness is a can of baked beans and a chocolate orange-- half a chocolate orange. As it turns out, if you spend Christmas Eve drinking all the alcohol Sainsbury's will legally sell you, you are still left waking up solo but with a headache that could be easily confused for a brain aneurism. That being said, spending Christmas in the hospital would make for a much more entertaining blog entry. I've never been without family on Christmas, and I'll be honest, it ain't easy. Leading up to this family filled day, I'd convinced myself that I'm a big, tough girl who moved herself all the way across the world all on her own so a measly little holiday for one should be peanuts. And yet I still woke up on the morning of and cried for my Mommy and Daddy. So what, I cried. I cried and sat alone in a bar drinking more booze and reading a book about a Nigerian girl who moved across the world and wrote a blog with the theory that anyone else's story is a better place to be than in my own-- even if her story is almost identical to mine. The Nigerian girl got her hair braided and I sank deeper into my cider and pooling self pity.
I am making my situation out to be way worse than it actually is. I have a flair for such. I have amazing friends who've spent time with me over the past few days and I am eternally grateful. But there's something about it that just isn't quite the same. Doesn't fill the hole that your Mom in her fluffy slippers and pink house coat coasting zombie-like through the living room, eyes squinting at the distance between her and her first cup of coffee does. Or sharing a caesar with your dad while he explains to you the ins and outs of turkey cooking knowing full well it's gone completely over your head. Or spending Christmas Eve wrapped up on your brother's couch falling asleep in front of a Meryl Streep film feeling completely content, cherishing the fact that the two of you could be together, an ocean away from home. I stuff that last slice of chocolate orange into my mouth and sigh. Alright baked beans, it's just you and me now. Perhaps everyone needs to go through a Christmas alone in order to really appreciate how much their family really means to them. I even nearly cried while skyping my grandmother as she showed me that the patterns on her sweater weren't only polka dots but also stripes! So maybe this is a lesson learned. A lesson in financial responsibility-- start saving my dollars, pounds, euros, rupees, whatever currency I will deal in by this time next year so that I can finally be home for Christmas, and not have to drink alone, but in the comfort and company of my family, every fluffy pink and polka dot clad one of them. So here's to 2016. No matter where it leads me, may it find me at home on Christmas day.

Strawberry Fields Forever

    I wrote this almost a year ago. It's still one of my favourite things to read, and I do so often. Sometimes broken hearts never fully heal. It's comforting to recall a moment of calm. Where love is still avidly present, even if a happy ending isn't.


    He stood, perched by the window, hands planted on the sill, as they usually did. And me, still lying naked in bed, watching, as I usually did. I had always observed him with such fascination, the way he seemed so fixated and yet so far away at the same time. But content. It was rare to ever find him in such a state, and if you did, it was fleeting.
    This morning he was singing-- he was always singing-- but never this song. I sat, my eyes locked on the profile of a face I had memorized ages ago, listening.
Realizations hit you at different speeds, various weights. This one was swift and left me winded, but upright. As if I had seen it coming, and had time to plant my feet, breathe deeply, and swallow. The truth fell on me like the sun, warming it's way through the open window and spreading itself across our wrinkled sheets. Blinding at first, but strangely settling.
And there it was. I wasn't going to spend my life waking up to that face; the sound of his song, his body framed by the light of our bedroom window. And despite it's current rays casting his shadow at my feet, the sun had finally set on us.
But he continued to sing, and I continued to watch his lips move, holding tightly to his words…

Go away from my window,
Leave at your own chosen speed.
I'm not the one you want babe,
I'm not the one you need.

From Me to You

     Last night was one of the worst sleeps that I can recall in ages. But mid way through the night, through my tossing and turning-- and apparent moaning-- I managed to unwrap the first 4 lines of this poem from my restless mind, have the sense to write them down, then fall uncomfortably back to sleep.
When I woke hours later, while on the tube headed to a nine hour teaching day, I decided to add some conscious additions.

I like this poem. I think it feels honest.

 



So let's sleep on our sides
Skin kissed to skin
Where you stop
I will to begin.

Come to me
I'm far too sleepy

To find you between sheet and pillow
The dusk, our blanket
The moon as our sun.

And we'll sleep on our sides
My warm to yours
By the shape of your curves
My body will pour.

Find me here
It's far too early

To say goodbye, as sun would to sky
The mountain, its curtain
The moon draws it shut.

Please, sleep on your side
Let yours look to mine
And see us as one
Or eyes should they blind.

Closed may they be
May they never see

They'll find you near
And you'll come to me.

And Your Bird Can Sing

I recently returned from a Jazz festival in Ireland; an experience that has made me realize that up until now, I had never noticed just how much of an influence my parent's taste in music has had on mine. So in honour of that, my pride in their varied and extraordinary ear for a solid tune, and simply an expression of how much I love and miss them, I wrote a little something for them. This is that something:


She loved a ballad, and he loved the blues.
His words, they sang:
Wherever I go, I'll go with you.

With you, I'll go, her voice returned.
With every beat, for you I'll yearn.

There ain't no rhythm I'll play,
That you can't follow,
If with every morning
You promise me tomorrow.

Tomorrow's a promise no heart can keep.
But I will always hum
While you tap your feet.

There will always be love songs,
The blues will play forever.
If we don't have tomorrow
Let's sing this last song together.

And promise me this, if nothing other:
So long as there's love--
And love lives forever,
You will be mine,
My darling,
My lover.

If love lives forever, as blues does not die,
My darling, I'll love you.
My lover, you're mine.

  

Watching Rainbows

Less than twenty weeks remain of me inhabiting London as my home. Professing England, my country. And I vow to spend these coming weeks the best I possibly can. Not with fear, or sadness. Without grief, or unshakeable depression. But with hope. Hope that tomorrow can only bring what yesterday couldn't. That whatever lies ahead has the potential to be greater than anything I leave behind. And who knows, what is left behind, may one day find me again, in a far better place, at a far better time. A more permanent time.
London is still mine, for now. And instead of writing about it, I'm going to just live it. Embrace it. Force it to remember me, just as I will always remember it. For I truly believe this place has inspired me more than anything else. So I will let it write for me. Whatever streams through my pen will land on this page, whether created months ago or merely hours. Be it bad, or good. True or trite. Here lies my outlet. For better or worse.

See you on the other side, my friends.




Some months ago:

    Have you ever sat in a moment and felt yourself whispering, remember this? Wishing yourself a life long recollection of a mere five minutes.
Twice, I watched a man make his way toward me. The first, his figure was as dark as the early morning sky by which he seemed to float through on his way to me. His image reminded me of one from a book: A slender, black silhouette, slanted slightly from the weight of a sack, swung haphazardly to one side. The figure sauntered, cooly, but with purpose. And I swear I could feel his smile resonate through miles of darkness.
The second was in the light of day, a sea of green grass and overgrown trees framing him perfectly. He was running to me, his hair flopping dramatically on and off his face in time with his rhythmic canter. Here, his smile was as clear as the blue, cloudless sky, that hovered above. A background in abstract, meant only to intensify the beautiful figure, coming for me.

Remember this, I whispered.

I wrapped his shirt tighter around me, the breeze had cooled off the day, or was it his parting? This time, I watched him walk away. I fixed my gaze, thinking I could capture the way he seemed to bounce, with his feet never leaving the ground, but merely skimming it. I don't know why I tried so hard to remember. If any, this would be the moment I would never forget. My eyes rested on his back as he became smaller and smaller. Further and further away. Until he disappeared completely.


I looked at his empty tea cup next to mine. I took a sip, wiped my cheek, and placed them both closer together, nestled in the dewy grass. I shifted my gaze from the empty glasses to the open field that lay drenched in a setting sun.
    The days may be fading, but we still have time. There is always time for tea.

I will always have time for you.
With you, I am constantly reminded of time, and yet it alludes me completely.
All at once.