Saturday, September 26, 2009

It was the best of times, and the worst of times

I always used to make fun of people who said that. Or people who would say "High school will be your best memories" or "You'll look back at university, and those will be the best years of your life." I thought it was ridiculous. The best times of your life are when you're living at home with your parents, thinking sneaking a drink or a joint was amazing? The best time of your life is moving away from everything you know, and being young, drunk and dumb? That's ridiculous.

Well yeah. It kind of is. And... it's kind of wonderful. Two of my dearest friends from University are getting married. They will make the 3rd & 4th of my roommates to get married- as a bonus to me, to they're getting married to each other. I'm going back out east for their wedding at the end of October, and the memories are flooding back. It's not the drinking, or the parties, or the classes, it's the memory of sitting with my friends, under the stars, on the bridge, staying up all night and stumbling in at noon after falling asleep under the stars, on the bridge. The best times were sitting in your room, listening to music, and dreaming of tomorrow- the tomorrow that surprisingly came true for both of us.

I remember the party, where the kid did four hits of acid, and we were young, dumb and scared, so we threw him out. We bought him a cab, and we didn't know his brother had just been hit by a train.

I remember freezing, cause we thought if we acted like scared wild animals, you couldn't see us.

I remember walking over to the bar in our pajamas, and having it feel more like home then home did.

I remember having classes where the professors not only knew my name, but where I lived, and cared about how I was doing.

I remember going for drives, just to see if we could get lost.

I remember the 24 hour diner, and the pizza with the sweet sauce.

I remember walking through the waterfowl park, while the ducks slept, but the fishers hunted

I remember losing you. All of you. Every one.

I remember how sometimes that town felt so wrong, and I still wonder what happened that still echos so painfully at night when there's no other noise to drown it out.

I remember when I wasn't surrounded by concrete and steel, but wood and grass.

I loved falling asleep under the stars, on the bridge.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Living as a home

It occurred to me that where you live, has a great impact on how you live. I haven't lived in one place for more then 6 years now, and that has defiantly altered my perspective on what my idea of home is: to me, it isn't where I live that is home, it is where the people I love are.

I lived in Toronto till I was 2, then moved to Stratford. when my parents divorced when I was 3, so mom and I moved again when I was 4. In grade 5, I moved in with my dad while mom moved jobs, and I moved back to Toronto when I was in grade 6. Mid way through grade 7, I moved back to Stratford, and in Grade 9, I moved back in with mom to Waterloo. In grade 11, I moved to Spain for a while. Then, I went off to MTA, where I lived in a different place each year, then moved backhere to Toronto.


I think what struck me, is how much STUFF makes it home. My computer, my pillow, my pictures, my books. That seems horribly materialistic, but when you're living in a place and not a home I think this is what makes the difference. Stuff is memories, comfort, familiarity and truly something that matters. It doesn't have to have a cost, just a memory that reminds you of a place that felt more like home.

All I know, is I love my appt, and don't want to move anytime soon, but I know I will. We just painted (one wall is a chalkboard!) and moved furniture around, and got a new workspace, bought a new bed (king size!) and will soon be inviting friends over to draw on the wall- instant art that means something.

Monday, September 7, 2009

Food as more then just food.

I was raised surrounded by food. My mother's side is Jewish and food was a central part of life. My Dad's mother was an amazing baker. My Nanny was Italian, and taught me to hold a cleaver as soon as she thought was reasonable- I was about 4. My mom was the first ED of a fairly famous Chef school (one that currently has it's own tv show) and I grew up having cusine - not food, cusine- as a huge part of my life. There was one restaurant that arguable defined my childhood. The owner and chef are two men who I have always admired, respected and looked up to- though this didn't stop me from demanding to be made pasta instead of fois gras. The owner introduced me to amazing food, wine and what true service should be.

I start school this Wednesday, and my mom seeing how frazzled I was suggested a trip to where I grew up for a theatre & food overnight. We saw the wonderfully done "A Funny thing happened on the way to the forum" and then ate dinner at Rundles. Which was as always, amazing.


Tuesday, September 1, 2009

September.

I start school in exactly a week.

Also, I painted a wall in my condo chalkboard.