English with Audrey

wary - adj.   war·i·er, war·i·est
1. On guard; watchful: taught to be wary of strangers.
2. Characterized by caution: a wary glance at the black clouds.

  leery - adj.   leer·i·er, leer·i·est
Suspicious or distrustful; wary: was leery of aggressive salespeople.

weary - adj.   wea·ri·er, wea·ri·est
1. Physically or mentally fatigued.
2. Expressive of or prompted by fatigue: a weary smile.
3. Having one's interest, forbearance, or indulgence worn out: weary of delays.
4. Causing fatigue; tiresome: a weary wait.

 

g.

Unsent Letter #2

I never could explain why I love to tell you things. It hardly matters what it is - I want to tell you everything. It was like that from the day I met you. Do your remember? We stood outside the shop an hour after closing and I told you about this odd idea I had for a movie script. I have no idea what possessed me. We were strangers. We didn't even know each other's names.

Since then, and when I stop to think about it, I blush to think how many hours I've spent talking to you. I was a chatty kid, you know. I talked to anyone who would listen. I drove my mother crazy, prattling about nothing. Sometimes she would lose her patience. She would tell me I needed to stop - to listen. As I got older I taught myself to be quiet - outwardly, at least. But conversations teem in my head. I tell myself my days, a constant, silent narration that never rests.

When we met, you asked me my name. Real or fake? It was an odd response, a teasing impulse. Fake, you said, laughing. Maybe that's why I could talk to you. I wasn't me. Or I was an other me. Though we told our secrets not long after, you've never called me by anything other than the name I gave that first day. A couple of weeks ago, you asked me if you should start calling me by my 'real' name. No. With you I want to be the girl I invented. With you I want permission to spill out a lifetime of silences. 

We lay in the dark, I wrapped myself around you. You were so tired, making those content sounds you make just before you fall asleep. I was restless but I forced myself to be still. I smelled the city in your hair, touched your skin. It's been years since we met and you are familiar and strange. I had nothing to say - but oh, how I wanted to talk. I wanted to explain it to you, the feeling in my chest, the physical pressure of the words I've swallowed. You laughed at me once; you said I had a story every day. I want to tell you what you've missed, and I panic when I realize I have no idea where to begin. 

It's true, I'm still afraid you'll run.
But sometimes I am most afraid you'll run
before I can tell you everything.

x.g.

It's too long and there are no pictures.

You're all too funny. And yes, if the sh*t hits the fan in any kind of global way, I plan to pick my path through the smoldering rubble in fancy fancy shoes. You may consider it my tribute to the fall of a decadent and impractical civilization.

The other night, quite contrary to my solitary instincts, I accepted my neighbour's invitation to drop by her barbeque. I normally cringe at the idea of showing up at social events where I'm sure I won't know anyone. I'm not a mingler - but perhaps all this romantic upheaval is making me braver. I grabbed a Holsten from the fridge and went down to say hello. As a result (and quite by accident) I met two very interesting people. The first was a guy who had submitted a piece for the magazine. He was living in Calgary at the time, and I was assigned to be his editor.

Editing, for me, is sort of a fascinating adventure. To begin with, I have a fairly strict personal policy of lighthandedness. My ideal is to guide writers, to show them how to improve their work without imposing my own style. I want whatever they do to be the best it can be, but I have no interest in rewriting their work. This is, I have discovered, not the norm. I have worked alongside editors who slash and burn, regarding the material they are given as nothing more than a vehicle for their own ego. I find it infuriating. Besides, I think my way is more interesting. I know how I write - I know what it looks like, how it sounds. I like chance think inside another writer's words.

The writer from Calgary was an editing experiment for me. He had a lot to say, but he couldn't seem to follow a linear structure. While I won't suggest straight lines work for everything, a writer (and an editor) need to consider their audience. No one opens a fashion journal looking for Finnegans Wake. After a couple of failed attempts to try to explain how he might reorganize his work, I realized I'd have to try something different. My solution? Colour coding. I went through is work and found all the disconnected threads, assigning them a colour and highlighting them. All that was left was for him to put things together - yellow with yellow, blue with blue. It worked like a charm.

When we were at the party, I mentioned the magazine. I heard someone say, "I wrote something for them." I asked him who he was and introduced myself. "Hey!" he exclaimed, "you're a great editor!" It was nice to hear.

The second interesting person was a guy from the neighbourhood. He rents at the video store; I know him "from around", but I'd never talked to him before. As it turns out, he works for the Toronto Symphony. I asked him if that meant he got all kinds of free tickets and he said yes. He said that his favourite part of his job was being able to give other people free stuff. I laughed and said he was welcome to keep me in mind. Who the hell knew that, only a week later, he'd call to let me know there were two tickets waiting for me at the box office.

The Wolf and I went to see Ute Lemper sing Kurt Weill and Shostakovich's Symphony No. 11.

It was the perfect sort of evening. I left work early to get dressed up. I arrived early to pick up the tickets (TW wouldn't be able to make it until the last minute) and sat in the foyer watching people arrive. I ended up talking to a very sweet boy who said that when I walked in he was "absolutely sure" I was PJ Harvey and was so excited he thought he would lose his mind. It's not a bad way to start an evening. When the Wolf finally arrived I felt the most amazing rush. He was so handsome in a jacket and tie. We had seats on the floor (tres chichi) - two seats, set apart from all the others. I wondered if our benefactor did that on purpose. 

The music was beautiful and overwhelming. Lemper sang in German (which I adore), and though she looked small with the whole orchestra behind her, she was always in charge. After the intermission, the Shostakovich was almost unbearably intense. The strangest thoughts would float in and out of my head. I watched the conductor lead as though conjuring weather. I wondered if composers heard symphonies complete in their heads, untangling each instrument like picking strands from a ball of yarn, or if they heard a single note and gathered the rest as they went. At one point the music became so ferocious I felt almost sure we would emerge from the concert hall to find the world in smoking ruins around us...

And that would have been ok - because it would seem I'm in love -
and because I was wearing appropriately fancy shoes.
g.

Xanga won't let me upload pictures (server maintenance) so I'll have to add them later.

There will be a special room in hell for editors.

I can't help it. I can't.
There are some errors
that absolutely beg to be shared
and mocked en masse.
I know it makes me sound like a horrible person,
intolerant,
possibly evil -
but I just can't resist.

Today's winner
and in the running for Most Awesome Error Ever:

Fast Paste

I know I'm burning, but it feels so good.

Eight million points for the most creative use
of this linguistic juggernaut in a sentence.

And then stop distracting me -
I'm working.
g.

To make your teeth ache.

The Wolf slept here. I can't remember the last time we really slept in the same place, no rush, no awkwardness. It's been years.

Last night we went out for civilized glasses of wine and rode our bikes through the city-dark like savages, all potential and anticipation. We talked - a lot. God how I've missed talking to him. After a couple of hours I felt internally lit. We stood at the kitchen counter and talked some more - or rather, he stood, and I went through some sort of series of bizarre floor exercises. I was bouncing around like a puppy. I told him it was the drinks, but it was just his voice.   

I woke up at six, like I always do. I tried to be still and he laughed at me because I was "fidgety". Somehow we stayed in bed until nine. I gave him my old army coat so his sport jacket wouldn't get ruined in the rain. When I handed it to him his eyes lit up. "Quadrophenia," he said, in an appropriately reverent tone. Damn straight, I thought. The speed at which he made the connection was impossibly sexy.

Jebus I'm smitten.
I'm disabling comments.
Because what else is there to say?
g.