I've been back and forth between Toronto and Missisauga this week because of Ryerson University's random scheduling this year to include a Reading Week five actual weeks into class. YOLO, one can only assume on the account of whatever asinine leprechuan is dictating how I piece together my life around barely related coursework and pompous, arrogant professor-doctor-authorities.
I digress. I feel like turning this into a personal blog. Because, why the fuck not?
Thanks to a friend for some inspiration on the matter, however. I don't feel like repressing my emotions today, at least not digitally. The internet shall embrace my feelings. I demand it.
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Disjointed Memory from High School #1
Sandra offers me some Honey Nut Cheerios, key word being "nut" and I take up the offer because it's food and I didn't have lunch that day. Shove some in my mouth, I'm a happy camper. Then I realize the nature of the word nut and how my body may not actually agree with the fact that I'm eating something I'm supposedly deathly allergic to.
Kevin just laughs at me, Sandra freaks out. Ms. McInnis goes into Teacher Protocol Crisis Mode, but I tell everyone to chill out, nothing's happening. And nothing did happen. But it was funny for a few minutes. Yearbook class was always consistently funny.
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Disjointed Memory from High School #2
She walks with me down the pathway from the mall towards her house. We stop by the sometimes-seedy Wendy's/Tim Horton's combo complex by the stoplight.
She calls me a dick. She hadn't done that before. I was being a dick.
That's all I clearly remember. I remember standing there, not knowing what to do. What I do recall was a sinking in my chest, a foreign feeling that crept up into my brain and seemed to invade it with anxiety and discomfort that drove me into a quiet chaos that stayed with me the whole while I stood there.
She was angry. When my best friend's angry with me, that means something I did was wrong.
So I fixed myself.
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Disjointed Memory from High School #3
I trek up the west hallway stairs -- I'm not even sure if they were West, I just refered to them as which classes were always there, so probably "Math Hallway". I see Lauren with her friend - I'm going up there to ask what mark she got on the artist statement I decided to write for her out of a little crush I had in tenth grade. She got really good on it, and my own artist statement was considerably worse. The irony still hasn't escaped me after five years. Tenth grade was rough.
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Vague Memory from High School #1
I get spots of it. Pizza Pizza. The trees with bare branches and my Chucks were new-ish at that time. No holes. But there's holes in this. I remember a kiss, feeling bliss. Like I understood the world. I didn't. Didn't matter though -- at that age the world is as big as the moment you're living. Then and there. Nowhere else.
I was a shitty kid.
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Vivid Memory from High School #1
Ms. McInnis and the eleventh grader are snapping pictures every few seconds while I take a step or raise a limb or open a locker and freeze for the photo. We're going to put it together through stop-motion. And I'm going to make up for the self-dissappointment of not contirbuting enough during Grade 12 Yearbook, a class that sticks with me to this day.
We take at least an hour. There's hundreds of photos but I'm excited to sift through all of them. Ms. McInnis saw the lyrics I wrote, the silly scribble that I did as a joke, an afterthought, and she managed to pull my talent out of that. I'm eternally grateful.
We shoot it after school, and it's fun. The most fun I've ever had doing something school-related. It lifts my chest instead of sinking it. Makes everything okay. Everything that sucked, for four years, is okay. I have something here. Keep it.
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Vivid Memory from High School #2
"I'm gonna write you a break-up letter in this."
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Disjointed Memory from High School #4
It's my last year in Model UN. Wenhan's become the leader of the club. It's tripled in size since Grade 10. Seeing her lead something is funny. Seeing her do it well makes me proud as hell.
Vivek and I push forward an amendment to wipe Chile off the map with an bomb strike, or an artifical earthquake, can't remember which. Jason is pleased -- the bleedover from last year's Bhutan escapade gives him some smiles, which is good. We should all smile more, it's our last year.
We go legitimately argue on the podium. I'm no longer bothered by staying after school for things.
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Significant Memories from High School #1-15
1) I mash paper in a giant tub with my hands.
2) Ms. McInnis guides me through the pen tool in Adobe Illustrator.
3) I get confused by Final Cut's interface. Mr. Fraser laughs at us.
4) I record lyrics in the back room of the CommTech classroom with Kevin.
5) We skip class to go get burgers.
6) I get into a limo with all of my friends.
7) I enter through the doors of John Fraser Secondary School, and it's bigger than I could have ever imagined.
8) I show my portfolio to Ms. McInnis. She helps me better it.
9) "Hey, Reesha, do you know what this means?"
10) "Is that a hickey? My name's Vivek."
11) "I'm Ashley, kind of new here."
12) "Can I join your group?"
13) "Oh yeah, she's so glad she transfered to RTA. You should think about it."
14) Four of us on the beach at night. All I hear is waves. I'm drifting apart from all of you.
...
15) "Anthony Suen is now studying Radio & Television Arts at Ryerson University."
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The Unforgettable Memories from High School #1-4
It takes all my courage to type out those stories. I text her a time to meet outside school. I drag her away from the rest of them, and we start walking home. She's always lived in the same direction, and I never walked home with her. Because I was a coward, and it was the only thing I thought defined me.
The small talk is excrutiating. I get to it before I lose it. Take the pages out, they're bent at the sides, it bothers me, but I hand them to her. I explain my case. Ignore the craziness of my actions. She turns the corner, says goodbye out of respect. I stand there.
I just stand there.
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We lie in her backyard, staring at each other. It's cold, but we keep each other warm. The blades of grass tickle our skin. I just keep looking at her eyes.
She starts crying, talking through tears. About losing me, losing it. Afraid of lasting.
Tears start welling up for me too. It surprises me. I console her, I do my best. I'm still the same kid.
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We stand outside the Guidance office, big backpacks on, large jackets, middle of autumn. We laugh at lame jokes, make fun of each other. I remember the feeling of not needing to be anywhere else. I remember the weight on my shoulders being slight, soft. Lessened because of the strength of companions. Simplicity. Normalcy. Routine. Friendship.
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Tim Horton's at 1 in the morning. We sit there, playing staring games. Talking about nothing. Not high school anymore, not the same kid. For that moment, I get the same feeling though. Everything's alright.
I play the fool and let it trick me into believing so.
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Present
I sit in the den, my desktop transfered to my interim basement apartment for twelve months. Laptop connected to the ethernet port, addicted to stable internet. I write this blog post with a transparency I've never wanted to commit to before. A mixture of feelings swells inside my brain and body -- coming back here gives me comfort, going back there gives me convenience. The time for opening up is long gone. I have worked on myself and now it's time to play gatekeeper for who's let in and who's left at the door.
The cycle of people continues to make its way in and out. Those who've anchor themselves have become my anchors. They're irreplacable. Some transients I wish had stayed. Clocks don't work backwards. Right now I wish they did. So I could witness that release of weight off my shoulders again.
I've worked on myself exclusively. I've studied everything about me. I'm an expert now. I damn well know the kind of person I am and want to become.
So these disjointed, cloudy and clear images have done their job properly.
Never look back on it? Never dwell on it?
No, always look back. Every day. See what you were and you see what you can become. Keep those cards close, and always long for something different, always dream for repeats and reoccurances. Chance encounters and reonciliations. Pain away at wishful thinking and nostaglic recollection. Because it hurts to remember the scenes you love. You appreciate what you miss and what you didn't miss equally. It's there. And it feels like it's outside you, it's away from you, but it is you.
This is you. Force yourself to stare at it. Never look away, and just keep walking.
And when I stop, when I put down everything I've looked at, I want to know where I've ended up.
Inevitably, it will be the right place. I hold onto that.
You are the culmination of the people you meet and make memories with. Go see for yourself.
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