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Corny, corny, corny. I loved them all. I really did. I can’t choose. So I’ll just go with our most recent one. The Ekphrasis. Oh, how she really showed me how much of a story-teller I am. The way I’d just look at an image, a piece of artwork, and invented and sympathized with a character, a setting, a story. I see it everywhere. I invented a story about two chairs having a conversation where one is happy to have bums sit on him, while the other dreams of moving. Even in my observations or materials like the personal universe deck, I thought of a story to link the items together. Even the way I remembered my own life and looked back at my sixth grade self, I told my story like I was a character in a book. Like the sharpening stone that I stole from my grandfather one time. I gave a whole ass story, just for one memory… Or the way I related my partner’s sweaters to our love that’s like an old married couple. I genuinely just thought of Pixar’s Up. That life, that growing old and how it fits into young love… I didn’t even notice how much my imagination defaults to invention and story.

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I always notice sound. I can’t help it. It actually stresses me out quite often. I notice who makes the sound, and I notice how silence is never silent. But to train my attention to continue to observe a subject… I want to listen. Not just to hear. What does this silence mean? What doesn’t it mean? What does that little tapping, scratching, breathing, ringing, banging, singing, etc. mean? What doesn’t it mean? What’s beyond the sound or the silence?

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sorry, I couldn't help myself. this is not in the format that was probably expected. but i still answered all the questions. maybe the "you" just happens to be two.

chairs
I smell smoke, do you smell smoke?

I smell liquor, I’m not sure what you mean.

We can’t smell, can we?

The old rust in my back screw—it messes with my smeller, so I don’t know.

Do you think that one will ever join in?

That old thing? He creaks, we squeak.

He could catch fire.

He could.

I can hear darkness.

You can see darkness.

You can see darkness?!

No, no. Of course not. I mean that it’s quiet, but whirring.

And crackling.

Oh yes, and crackling.

Is it really dark?

No it’s actually yellow. Quiet is yellow.

I always thought quiet was orange.

Do you see that?

See what?

That little piece of ash floating around. I think she might land on my seat.

I don’t think so. They all eventually land in that pile there.

Like sprinkles.

Yeah, kinda like sprinkles. Maybe sand at the beach too.

Or soil in a pot.

Why in a pot?

Why not?

Do you think they’ll come back? My seat’s getting cold.

I don’t think so.

They only left to get more firewood.

The third one didn’t show up, I think they just gave up on waiting.

Oh.

Yeah.

At least we got to be a little warm. He didn’t get much butt action.

He doesn’t miss much.

What did you dream about last night?

Huh?

What did you dream about last night?

Oh… I didn’t think we could dream.

I dreamt of butts.

Butts?

Yes, they’re so warm.

Hm. I didn’t dream at all.

Really? That’s too bad.

Actually—

Yes?

I dreamt of wheels.

Wheels?

Yes, the kinds that are on another wheel.

I see…

The kinds that make you spin… and move.

Spin and move… Are you sure they won’t come back?

Positive. They’re gone past that hill. Towards the light.

Where’s that?

Probably somewhere they can spin… and move.

Haha, very funny.

I’m serious.

Hi serious, I’m Dad.

…

So what now?

I guess we sit and wait.

Wait for what?

For the fire to go out.

It’s cold.

Well, don’t get too close to the fire, you’ll go from one extreme to another.

I know.

Secretly…

Yes?

I have always wanted…

Yes?

No, never mind, it’s stupid.

What is it?

I have always wanted…

A bum?

No. Legs.

We do have legs.

No. Ones that move.

And spin?

No.

Oh.

Yes.

I just want a butt.

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What I heard at the tea shop:

Loose leaf rooibos poured into tins that sounds like sand falling

High pitched scream of the latte machine steaming milk

Thudding, thumping from all the jumps and cartwheels upstairs from the circus school

What I missed initially:
The way my co-worker's voice goes higher when speaking with customers, how kindness and sympathy seep through service in this way.

What I heard in my bedroom:

The construction of townhouses right outside my window

Rustling of my clothes against my skin, the fabrics against fabrics, softness to another softness

What I missed initially:
My heartbeat in both ears

What I heard at Nitobe Garden:

The echo and breath of moss

Trickling water—raindrops plopping upon the pond

Scrunch of the pebbles beneath my feet

What I missed initially:
The soft whisper of contemplative conversation of others who stroll, same as me

I know that I am sensitive to noises and have sensory issues sometimes. So I thought to myself through this process: "I am sensitive to the noises, but am I sensitive to the noise?"
Everything that I noticed after the initial impressions were people. With what kind of sympathetic ear can I give myself or others? What noise do people produce in these spaces? In general, I went to relatively quiet spaces for this practice of attention, which is very telling to who I am. I don't like loud spaces. I also don't like spaces with too many people, or people at all for that matter. And yet what I deeply listened for eventually, was them. It surprised me how I am so in tune with people even in spaces I go to recharge and be alone, like Nitobe.

This wasn't too difficult of an experience to immerse myself in since I am naturally observant and sensitive to my environment. If anything it was more of a challenge because to really feel and think deeply can overwhelm me. I tend to do the opposite by trying to not observe and not be sensitive because of this, but in this case I had to embrace my natural skill.

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Here's a poem that has stuck with me this year so far.
"Carrion Comfort" by Gerald Manley Hopkins

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44392/carrion-comfort

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contemplation: sappy poetic love stuff that will make you want to take a nap on the highway :)

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contemplation: sappy poetic love stuff that will make you want to take a nap on the highway :)

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This is my partner's closet. His aunt and uncle say that he dresses like an old man. He's just six days younger than me, and I always joke that I'm such a cougar for those six days—dating a younger man and all. He and I have been together for 2,058 days. That's about 5 and a half years. We were 14 when he told me he liked me and that I liked him too. People say we're like an old married couple. Because truthfully, maybe I'm biased and sickeningly in love with him, but our young love is old. Like some of the sweaters and coats in his closet. Sure, they look frayed, thrifted, peeling, or stained, but they are the most comfortable, soft, warm pieces of clothing that you'll simply never part with.

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I ran out of index cards and only had 25 left. Worked out nicely by just cutting them in fours. It was actually quite difficult to think of the senses the most. Something about just "salty", "sweet", "umami", "spicy" seemed too boring...or maybe too obvious. But I figured through this practice of attention, it's about connecting simple things into deeper things.

It was terrifyingly easy to connect such simple and ordinary things together. Maybe they were lucky combinations, or maybe sometimes life is all connected, and poetry is the vessel that allows that to be showcased. Some combinations that stood out to me are the following:

“slippers, sundress, cries”

“chocolate-sick, heat-pack, hold”

“be, choir, ginger-sweet”

“rocks, shoulder, heartbeat”

“fear, chapped lips, dried bouquet”

“run, blood-sour, veins”

To start thinking of words was harder than actually connecting them, which in itself is actually a really enlightening and beautiful process. I feel like often when I'm writing or doing homework or really anything productive, the hardest thing to do is to start.

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desert land, i never want to return to

There are tiny ants crawling on the flowers

A bright screen in front of me

Dewdrops on leaves and petals

High pitched frequencies from the router and the lights

A realistic painting

An oncoming eye infection irritates me

The flowers lay upon a wooden table

My room is far too dry, maybe I need a diffuser

The colours are lined with cracks from aging

My foot’s asleep, it tingles

The painting makes me think of Claude Monet’s Sunflowers,

Somehow I didn’t decide to pick this artwork, a piece

that is on my wall as I write

about another painting from my phone

from a museum in LA, somewhere I thought I’d love

but would never go back,

never to live, only

to complain about

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This is a photo of a photo of me on my friend’s old tablet which is so old she couldn’t send me the original photo. I believe this is one of the first selfies I took at around 11 or 12 years old. When she first sent this to me I honestly could not even remember taking this photo. But I remember that hair. I remember how I’d part it at the corner of my forehead and how I’d brush it every day somewhat aggressively along my scalp because I clearly had sensory issues and just loved the feeling of head scratches. I remember how that shirt felt. It was soft the way it would be if it’s a little worn out because it was my cousin’s first. I remember that very specific smile because of how insecure I was of how my teeth looked. I tried out for a few commercials and small acting gigs but never got casted because of my teeth. I may not remember taking this photo, but I know for a fact that I took several others before sending it to my friend. It was difficult to hold an iPad mini and take a selfie after all. My friend sent this picture of a picture to me years later out of the blue, randomly. I assume she was cleaning out some things. She’s an old childhood friend, we don’t talk much anymore.

Lyric Moment: Although I have since seen, talked to, and spent time with this friend, I feel as though this moment was actually the last moment of our childhood friendship. To send me a picture of a picture seems so meta, that the original picture can no longer be sent and that our memories remain in the past as we move forward.

Objects from THEN

Barbie mini teapot – it had a little hollow part at the bottom so I used to stick my thumb inside and play with it that way instead of just holding it.

Ceramic figurine of a golden retriever mama and her pups – I had a weird obsession with golden retrievers because I was jealous that when my mom had one,  Joy, in her early 20s that I never got to meet her.

Mini glass heart shaped jewelry box with coloured pencil shaving – I liked the consistency and texture the pieces, kinda like sand, kinda like shredded wheats.

My first guitar – Rocky Road, an acoustic guitar with a way too big of a neck for my fingers to wrap around

First device that was just mine – an iPad mini 2, which I gave my parents a whole pitch about why I needed it and how I would take care of it (proceeded to buy a heavy duty protective case)

This one journal that had a beautiful fabric cover of a teal-blue floral stitching that I never actually wrote in, just played with it and displayed it because of how beautiful the cover was.

My older cousin’s old blackberry slider cell phone that she gave to me just to fiddle with when she upgraded to an iPhone. It was a lot of fun to type on the mini keyboard. The sound and feel of the clicks scratched that itch in my brain.

Bow and arrows that my grandfather gave to me and taught me how to shoot. It was an extremely stiff bow, definitely too old to have played with. Often my fingers would have burns.

A sharpening stone that I stole from my grandfather and got in trouble for, to which I apologized crying upon returning it. But he let me keep it anyway. It wasn’t at all special in any way, it had jagged ends, but I liked the way the surface felt. (Oof, two grandpa related objects in a row… I’m getting really sad now.)

This one tiny spray bottle that came with a toy of some kind, however it came empty. I think it was supposed to have some sort of solution to make the little doll’s hair turn a different colour but we got ripped off. So I filled it with water and used it during the summer to spray my face and thought I was a genius for that. Also would re-enact those ‘cool guy’ scenes in the mirror that sprayed that minty breath spray into their mouths before talking to girls. Yes. I have now realized that the path to homosexuality was set at a very young age.

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This is a photo my friend took of my while I was collecting stones from the gravel path in Nitobe Garden at UBC on January 13th, a day before my 20th birthday. She loves me dearly, and found that my infatuation and focus on these pebbles was cute. I didn’t even know she took this and a few others until she posted it on her Instagram story for my birthday. I played with my small collection in my hands inside my pockets like dice, or like skittles. I picked really smooth and colourful ones. Nitobe definitely has a specific colour palette for their gravel path. Lots of teal-greys and greyer blacks, maroons, sunset yellows and quartz’ here and there. Some purplish. The air is clear and moist, almost like a refreshing spa…? It smells a little like petrichor but cleaner. It was really quiet, almost like the mossy and grassy hills soaked up all the sound. This photo actually intrigues me a lot because my favourite colour is green, yet something about the pictures of Nitobe Garden don’t fit me as a person. Oddly, I feel a lot of dissonance even though seemingly everything about this place and this photo go together. I myself and others tend to associate me with green things, plant things, Nitobe Garden should have ‘Abbie vibes’ written all over it, but I look at this and can’t see it.

Lyric Moment: The last few years have been very difficult because I lost people close to me and lost myself as well. There is tension between things that seem like me, like Nitobe Garden, and who I actually am. It feels right, but I’ve lost a lot for it to feel present. Maybe that just means I’m changing.

Objects from NOW

Sack of pebbles and stones I collect every time I go to a lake or beach – chosen based on smoothness and colour (typically finding around 7 or 8 to find ones that are all colours of the rainbow)

Dried flower bouquet given to me by the boy I’ve been with for six years, because dried flowers last longer – they smell like grandparents and mothballs

My iPhone – a newer model, one that I finally got after refusing to upgrade from an iPad mini 2 to an iPhone 6s, to this current one.

My copy of “The Year of Magical Thinking” by Joan Didion that I annotated like a diary/letter to Joan as I processed my own grief with Joan’s grief. I annotated with blue and yellow tabs and a green pen – blue means the heart, yellow means the mind

This one specific ball-point pen that I like – couldn’t find refills until recently when a classmate showed me a stationery shop near UBC campus. SAVED.

This one wooden ring that my partner made me in his woodworking class that I keep on my keychain which always helps me find my keys at the bottom of my bag. I search for the ring every time.

Anti-blue light glasses – don’t know if they actually work, but my eyes don’t feel as stressed when looking at screens all the time.

A piece of paper that my dad cut, folded, and taped meticulously yet unconventionally because he doesn’t know how to wrap gifts and quite frankly had never wrapped a gift before. This was for a box of artist pens he got for my 19th birthday.

The rings I collect and wear to feel like royalty that I usually purchased or was gifted from small businesses in the area.

(Kind of an overlapping object with both ages) This one specific journal that is really wrecked apart because of how I glued and taped pages together when I was younger because I cringed at my journal entries. And then more recently I ripped them open to read them and to heal my inner child. This journal is now my ‘memories’ and ‘nostalgia’ journal.

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clearly lavender does not induce sleep.
This is my pillow and sheets under purple LED lights just before 2 am. My bunched-up sheets tend to flow like moving sand when I can’t sleep. Sometimes it smells like someone who spent the night before which makes me more aware of my own heartbeat in my ears and the hairs that rub against my pillow. And then since my ears overstimulate, the pitch of the lights join in too. I get agitated, so I purchase noise-cancelling earbuds online, then go to sleep.

jan. 15, 2023

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recollection: the reflection that's so meta

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recollection: the reflection that's so meta

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I stayed over at my friend’s place while finishing up this recollection practice. I’ve known her for only a little over a year or so, but it is so comforting and safe for me to write these memories and thoughts in her presence. Writing these practices of attention with each other, to walk together through this experience, only makes me appreciate and love her more. We were sitting in her bed surrounded by softness, typing away at our last pieces of this recollection practice. I like the tapping. I like the plush. It is helpful to write memories in the comfort of new friends, and the now.