I still don't feel "bad".
But I do feel a sense of loss.
Back to writing again, this time with a pen and paper. Journals stacking up in storage.
All my life is in storage.
2 months till we start building the house.
As time passes, you're supposed to get better at things, right?
Nope. Not me.
As time passes I'm getting more and more awkward.
First a super classy non-conversation with a man that resulted in crickets chirping and me finally conceding "it's never going to happen with this one"... mind you, I'm hard headed it's taken more than 3 strikes to reach this point.
Then today a near panic attack in forced conversations... because suddenly that's a thing???
*rolling my eyes at myself*
This too shall pass.
This week's topic was a nod to American Thanksgiving.
I am thankful to have a home, a space to call my own. Somewhere to throw my laundry in the corner, a place to leave dishes in the sink.
Thankful for the ability to provide a space for friends to crash for a night, so long as I haven't started hoarding items in the spare bedroom.
I'm thankful that after a decade of landlords cranking or shutting off my heat, I can chose to keep the heat down low to "encourage" my dog to sleep on my feet and keep warm.
I'm thankful for the safety that my small town provides, that when someone broke a window on my property, one neighbour swept up the pieces with me and another repaired it while I was at work.
I'm thankful for the war going on between my neighbours each winter- who will wake up earliest after it's snowed and shovel our elderly neighbour's sidewalk first?
I'm thankful that when my home has been "broken into" (and it's happened a few times) it's been by people who have left me gifts- one who built me a shelving unit for the laundry room, and last night- one who left me a pizza.
I don't know how I'm so lucky, but I'm so very thankful for my little space on this earth.
I can't remember people's names,
I can't remember my seven times tables,
I can't remember where I put the scissors, and I can barely piece together what I did yesterday, but I have clear moments etched in my brain with a sound track provided by the radio.
Sitting in the cold truck before school waiting for my sister, "sometimes the snow comes down in June, sometimes the sun goes round the moon".
I watch my breath fog the truck window.
Sitting in the front window display peeling wallpaper off the wall at my mother's paint shop. She prepares the sunflower border to hang in it's place. "Jimmy Rogers on the victrola up high, mama's dancing with the baby on her shoulder, sun is setting like molasses in the sky". Pieces of wallpaper backing stick under my nails as I scrape it from the wall.
Blanket over my head, reading lamp tucked under the sheet, I'm up past 1am reading again. I turn the dial to discover 640 AND 680 playing "I would walk 500 miles" at the same time.
My friend Tina and I spend 4 hours one afternoon trying to call into a radio station to dedicate a song to my neighbour. Because obviously that little Rockstar boy is waiting to hear Mr.Big's "to be with you".
We eat a lot of chips.
My nose is resting on the top shelf of my bookcase. I'm leaning poised to push the button on my tape deck at the exact second the dj is going to stop talking. I sush my sister while she plays with her hamster. I don't know how to turn off the internal mic on my ghetto blaster so we have to be quiet or I'm going to have to wait till tomorrow's top 6 at 6.
"Oh my god Becky, look at her butt. It looks like one of those rap star's girlfriend's".
I pop the tabs on the top of the cassette when I'm finished so I don't accidentally tape over it.
Today one of my favourite finds at the Blue Box or at a yard sale is the home made mix tape. I have bags of them now. I keep a bag behind the seat of my car and let myself take one out each week. I love the quirky mixes, taped from the top 20 count downs, ones with the end of a dj's intro cutting into the song.
Tapes that don't quite fit that whole last version of Paula Abdul's "one step forward, two steps back".
Each song comes on and I'm transported to a moment in my past.
Days and days of memories from each little song.
Sometimes I talk in terms of things being "post-production" (show,festival,event).
I've been on spin cycle since my last blog posting. So much so, that I haven't taken the time to write about that which has eaten my days.hours.minutes.
That note about some "big news"? It's the biggest of my life.
When the board of SVFF started to break up, the last remaining members approached me and asked me if I was interested in the role of Artistic Director for the next festival. This was at the Jonathan Byrd show that I put on at the Mill, a show I was already immensely proud of putting together. (I'd never done something on that scale and I was so pleased with how it turned out)... then I had to sit on the information for a month.
The board turned over and the last of that old board left. The new board approached me and asked me to write a proposal. .. where did I see the festival going? What did I intend to do with it?
I wrote a proposal. .. and next thing I knew I was handed a festival.
Just like that.
It has been the most ass backwards crazy ride ever.
I could go on for pages about the roadblocks left for me, the lack of information, the attacks on my work ethic, the sabotage of the position, and more... but it's not worth it. I choose to be above that crap.
I put my absolute everything into this year's festival.
And I'm so proud of what I accomplished.
Of what we accomplished.
It was beautiful.
And I'm a wreck.
In a sad twist to the hobbit house love, I have an insane neighbour. .. she's always been a sad angry soul, but she's starting to impead my ability to enjoy my own home.
Today's verbal attack was pretty mean. In the end she insulted my home, my gardens, the library, my intelligence and followed it up with calling me "a cheeky neighbour". I smiled, gritted my teeth, rolled my eyes and said "I'm sorry you're so miserable".
I'm trying to decide if I should write her a note that asks her not to communicate with me anymore unless it is in writing or recorded.
But that's me being cheeky.