Sunday May 10/2015
My city is in bloom. And strangely, I find, so am I. My friend, Louise, always tells me I haven't yet so much as even scratched the surface of who I am, or who I am to become. But I feel like I'm inching there, bit by bit. Facing in the right direction, or somewhat close to, at least. It's a start, "Sometimes a start is all we ever get" (that's a quote from a book. A good book. Read more books), and I can feel it more with every flower that sprouts from the branches of newly reawakened trees. The road leading to my house is a constant reminder that with the dead of winter always comes the hope of spring, promising the heat of summer; all the hard work leading to effortless contentment. A possible metaphor for my most recent life?
If I continue to literally stop to smell the roses, and pick the daisies pushing their way through the cement, I will end up writing about how I was fired a second time for inexcusable tardiness. But it can't be helped, and I can't be bothered to chose work over lilacs. Leave it to me to selfishly love a flower who's entire life span revolves around my birthday. I've always loved lilacs, ever since I was little and chubby. The smell would begin to fill the air in late April, they would blossom at the start of May, and by my birthday be at their fullest and most vibrant. And always, like clockwork, the tiny flowers would begin to fade and fall almost immediately after Chelsea turned another year older. My childhood home was bordered with lilac trees. My Dad would always have stems of them in the house. I never saw them wilt, either. Back ups were in constant supply, and for weeks the house never went a moment without the flooding smell of my birthday flowers. I remember coming home from school, my Father cutting grass, topless in his sporty short shorts, calf high socks and green stained sneakers, and I'd stand watching him from the back of the yard, bathing in the sweet smell of freshly cut grass, gasoline, and ripe lilacs thinking, this is what love is supposed to smell like. I'd be completely wrapped up in the idea that I'd get to feel this way every year for the rest of my life, no matter where I was, so long as the lilacs found me. And now I'm grown up and chubby and their perfume still makes me feel the very same way. Twenty years later, and the flowers have found me here, in London; content as I have ever been, as happy as the days of freshly cut grass and vases of overflowing purple bouquets, maybe even more.
…This was almost three months ago. Three months ago I sat in the quaint, yet slightly sketchy park behind my house (one which I can almost guarantee is home to many a drug transaction) and began to write another addition to my now sparse collection of blog entries. While pleased with my pleasant, floral inspired first paragraph, I must have deleted at least ten attempts at anything further. So much I had to write about, so many happenings to choose from. I tried writing about my 26th birthday. About how funny the change a year can make. Last year I was overwhelmed with how many people came out to party with me after only having lived in London for a few months. This year I couldn't feel more blessed and loved being surrounded by a mere 7 people over an intimate dinner, serenaded by opera singers and a string quartet. I considered writing about Valencia, and Paris. But what everything seemed to boil down to was just the people. I would try to put into words my time in both places, or the way I felt during my birthday week (It's me. I get a week) but all that seemed to resonate were the people I got to share each experience with. My friends. What a word. Friends. Used so loosely all too often. Yet not mentioned enough among those worthy of it. If I've learned anything over the past few months, it's that I finally understand the true meaning of the word. I have found friends. Real ones. Ones that put on a dress shirt, and set aside their mass resentment, to attend your posh, operatic birthday dinner. Or watch you, without judgement, consume an entire pot of french cheese fondu while sucking on a milk bottle full of red wine, and say nothing when you're later bent over sideways cursing your decision to do so. Friends that refuse to let you go house viewing alone knowing full well your lack of logical decision making, and tendency to be distracted and sold by bright red doors and the promise of a large fridge. Or the one that when you're out on the town, hides half your chocolate bar in their purse without you knowing because they know that hours from then, when you're drunk and suddenly starving, those two Reece cups will be the greatest thing to have ever come out of a woman's hand bag, thus leaving you absolutely elated. And finally, the mother that can better be described as your best friend, every morning without fail, managing to steal a variety of delicious treats from the hotel buffet to leave for you to wake up while you're visiting her in Spain. Friends. Sadly, to me, an even greater description are those that will always be there for you, that will check in, keep in touch, even when you've left the country.
Six months. The end is looming. So many have said how much time that still is. But it's not. Not when it's you who stands with an expiration date stamped to your forehead. Not when you're the one who's created exactly the kind of life you've always imagined you'd have and know there's little, if anything you can do to sustain it. Six months is not a lot of time. It's not enough. I am constantly swept up in a whirlwind of emotions. So often I find myself sitting in the smallest moments and feeling so completely happy, while tears well up in my eyes; in awe of how beautiful my life is, terrified of losing it.
The beginning of this month found me in Brighton, one of the most breathtaking places I've ever been to. Known as the "London by the sea", it was it's simplicity that made me fall in love. The fresh air, the quaint small town feel, the ocean. Oh, the ocean. That smell, man. The crashing of the waves, the hovering seagulls, the taste of salt on your lips. I don't know if it's because it reminded me of Vancouver, but this place was everything I needed and more. I had managed to gather three of my absolute favourite people with me to attend the Love Supreme Jazz festival-- a gift I had given to one of them on an incredibly selfish agenda revolving around the fact that Van Morrison would be headlining. We decided to make a weekend of it, experience Brighton, then immerse ourselves in the magic of jazz, and the sweet serenade of my lover, my soulmate, Van the Man. The weekend was just, yes. So much yes. So much everything. So much fun, so much love, (so much recreational influence), so much of everything good. It was one of those trips that you know you'll talk about with your grandchildren when you're senile and saggy and want to relive the best parts of your life. I remember finding myself in a park outside a random bar, needing fresh air and a moment to compose myself. I somehow managed to find my Joni playlist, and her and I just laid there, beneath the stars (stars! They still exist, the magical things). Within minutes, I was joined by Louise (Mama Bear always keeping an eye on me), our heads next to each other, cradled by the sweet smelling grass. I looked at her. I looked at the sky. I listened to Joni. And this was it. This was what love smells like, sounds like, looks like. This is lilacs in May, grass stained fathers, and believing the guarantee that all these things will follow you. These things will follow me. This moment will stay with me.
A good friend recently said to me,
"Chelsea, this is not your home. This is your experience."
At the time, my tear ducts despised that statement, as did my stomach as it instantly tied itself into the tightest of knots. But I knew he was right. And maybe that's not a bad thing. Perhaps it's an amazing thing. As much as I fear the imminent end to my fairytale, I know that it comes down to this: I can do my best to find some crazy, elaborate way to stay in this marvellous country, and if it happens, well fuck. I'm a god damn horse shoe. And if it doesn't, well, I'm a ten times better Chelsea with every day that I got to call this place my experience. And with me, along with memories, and a mild alcohol dependency, I will have my friends.
The real ones.
And that is what's worth writing about.
My city is in bloom. And strangely, I find, so am I. My friend, Louise, always tells me I haven't yet so much as even scratched the surface of who I am, or who I am to become. But I feel like I'm inching there, bit by bit. Facing in the right direction, or somewhat close to, at least. It's a start, "Sometimes a start is all we ever get" (that's a quote from a book. A good book. Read more books), and I can feel it more with every flower that sprouts from the branches of newly reawakened trees. The road leading to my house is a constant reminder that with the dead of winter always comes the hope of spring, promising the heat of summer; all the hard work leading to effortless contentment. A possible metaphor for my most recent life?
If I continue to literally stop to smell the roses, and pick the daisies pushing their way through the cement, I will end up writing about how I was fired a second time for inexcusable tardiness. But it can't be helped, and I can't be bothered to chose work over lilacs. Leave it to me to selfishly love a flower who's entire life span revolves around my birthday. I've always loved lilacs, ever since I was little and chubby. The smell would begin to fill the air in late April, they would blossom at the start of May, and by my birthday be at their fullest and most vibrant. And always, like clockwork, the tiny flowers would begin to fade and fall almost immediately after Chelsea turned another year older. My childhood home was bordered with lilac trees. My Dad would always have stems of them in the house. I never saw them wilt, either. Back ups were in constant supply, and for weeks the house never went a moment without the flooding smell of my birthday flowers. I remember coming home from school, my Father cutting grass, topless in his sporty short shorts, calf high socks and green stained sneakers, and I'd stand watching him from the back of the yard, bathing in the sweet smell of freshly cut grass, gasoline, and ripe lilacs thinking, this is what love is supposed to smell like. I'd be completely wrapped up in the idea that I'd get to feel this way every year for the rest of my life, no matter where I was, so long as the lilacs found me. And now I'm grown up and chubby and their perfume still makes me feel the very same way. Twenty years later, and the flowers have found me here, in London; content as I have ever been, as happy as the days of freshly cut grass and vases of overflowing purple bouquets, maybe even more.
…This was almost three months ago. Three months ago I sat in the quaint, yet slightly sketchy park behind my house (one which I can almost guarantee is home to many a drug transaction) and began to write another addition to my now sparse collection of blog entries. While pleased with my pleasant, floral inspired first paragraph, I must have deleted at least ten attempts at anything further. So much I had to write about, so many happenings to choose from. I tried writing about my 26th birthday. About how funny the change a year can make. Last year I was overwhelmed with how many people came out to party with me after only having lived in London for a few months. This year I couldn't feel more blessed and loved being surrounded by a mere 7 people over an intimate dinner, serenaded by opera singers and a string quartet. I considered writing about Valencia, and Paris. But what everything seemed to boil down to was just the people. I would try to put into words my time in both places, or the way I felt during my birthday week (It's me. I get a week) but all that seemed to resonate were the people I got to share each experience with. My friends. What a word. Friends. Used so loosely all too often. Yet not mentioned enough among those worthy of it. If I've learned anything over the past few months, it's that I finally understand the true meaning of the word. I have found friends. Real ones. Ones that put on a dress shirt, and set aside their mass resentment, to attend your posh, operatic birthday dinner. Or watch you, without judgement, consume an entire pot of french cheese fondu while sucking on a milk bottle full of red wine, and say nothing when you're later bent over sideways cursing your decision to do so. Friends that refuse to let you go house viewing alone knowing full well your lack of logical decision making, and tendency to be distracted and sold by bright red doors and the promise of a large fridge. Or the one that when you're out on the town, hides half your chocolate bar in their purse without you knowing because they know that hours from then, when you're drunk and suddenly starving, those two Reece cups will be the greatest thing to have ever come out of a woman's hand bag, thus leaving you absolutely elated. And finally, the mother that can better be described as your best friend, every morning without fail, managing to steal a variety of delicious treats from the hotel buffet to leave for you to wake up while you're visiting her in Spain. Friends. Sadly, to me, an even greater description are those that will always be there for you, that will check in, keep in touch, even when you've left the country.
Six months. The end is looming. So many have said how much time that still is. But it's not. Not when it's you who stands with an expiration date stamped to your forehead. Not when you're the one who's created exactly the kind of life you've always imagined you'd have and know there's little, if anything you can do to sustain it. Six months is not a lot of time. It's not enough. I am constantly swept up in a whirlwind of emotions. So often I find myself sitting in the smallest moments and feeling so completely happy, while tears well up in my eyes; in awe of how beautiful my life is, terrified of losing it.
The beginning of this month found me in Brighton, one of the most breathtaking places I've ever been to. Known as the "London by the sea", it was it's simplicity that made me fall in love. The fresh air, the quaint small town feel, the ocean. Oh, the ocean. That smell, man. The crashing of the waves, the hovering seagulls, the taste of salt on your lips. I don't know if it's because it reminded me of Vancouver, but this place was everything I needed and more. I had managed to gather three of my absolute favourite people with me to attend the Love Supreme Jazz festival-- a gift I had given to one of them on an incredibly selfish agenda revolving around the fact that Van Morrison would be headlining. We decided to make a weekend of it, experience Brighton, then immerse ourselves in the magic of jazz, and the sweet serenade of my lover, my soulmate, Van the Man. The weekend was just, yes. So much yes. So much everything. So much fun, so much love, (so much recreational influence), so much of everything good. It was one of those trips that you know you'll talk about with your grandchildren when you're senile and saggy and want to relive the best parts of your life. I remember finding myself in a park outside a random bar, needing fresh air and a moment to compose myself. I somehow managed to find my Joni playlist, and her and I just laid there, beneath the stars (stars! They still exist, the magical things). Within minutes, I was joined by Louise (Mama Bear always keeping an eye on me), our heads next to each other, cradled by the sweet smelling grass. I looked at her. I looked at the sky. I listened to Joni. And this was it. This was what love smells like, sounds like, looks like. This is lilacs in May, grass stained fathers, and believing the guarantee that all these things will follow you. These things will follow me. This moment will stay with me.
A good friend recently said to me,
"Chelsea, this is not your home. This is your experience."
At the time, my tear ducts despised that statement, as did my stomach as it instantly tied itself into the tightest of knots. But I knew he was right. And maybe that's not a bad thing. Perhaps it's an amazing thing. As much as I fear the imminent end to my fairytale, I know that it comes down to this: I can do my best to find some crazy, elaborate way to stay in this marvellous country, and if it happens, well fuck. I'm a god damn horse shoe. And if it doesn't, well, I'm a ten times better Chelsea with every day that I got to call this place my experience. And with me, along with memories, and a mild alcohol dependency, I will have my friends.
The real ones.
And that is what's worth writing about.
