#355: PRESENTS AND NOTES TO SELF

The Fiery One is terribly sweet. I don't know what the occasion is, but there must be one, because he gave me two presents yesterday. TWO. Have I missed some kind of anniversary? Our wedding anniversary is in June, and the anniversary of when we finally got together after over seven years of friendship passed last month. His birthday is in July, and mine is in December. Our rabbit, Gordon, died a year ago. Was yesterday Pet Death Anniversary Day, and I just plum forgot?

I knew that I might be getting one of the presents when I opened the mailbox after work, because there was a puffy envelope inside with a return address that I recognized. That's right, Amblus, your company's name, Keen, was recognizable all the way up here in Saskatchewan. I did not take it out of the mailbox, though, because I have fully realized my terrible lack of self control and knew that I would be figuring out how to secretly open and reseal that envelope and practicing my of-course-I'm-surprised face before the Fiery One arrived home.

When he came home, I handed him the mailbox key, and he presented me with a carefully folded rectangle of colourful tissue. I unwrapped a gorgeous Image hosted by Photobucket.comnecklace that he had special ordered to include citrines. Citrine is one of my favourite stones, but it's not often that I find it anywhere. The necklace fits perfectly around my neck and the two stones dangle just above my cleavage. Thanks, Amblus! I was completely devoid of cleavage enhancing adornments before this.

The Fiery One pulled out the second present as though it were some kind of afterthought, but I was thrilled. I have been eyeing a particular book for many months in this raging good bookstore we go to semi-regularly. It's not that it was very expensive; I am just terribly indecisive about book-buying. So, I went to bed last night with two citrines nestled warmly in my bosom and my very own copy of The Shape of a Pocket by John Berger.

When life gets tough and seasonal depression/anxiety starts dragging my ass all over town, just hit me up with presents. It's like mood-stabilizing pharmaceuticals without the dry mouth and sexual dysfunction.



I came across some interesting notes that I wrote to myself over the last few months at work. My desk had become this slide of paper, so I was sifting through it all, trying to make some sense out of my To Do list. I didn't even realize that I have been making little notes to myself. I found them hidden away in the margins of directive e-mails I had printed off, on sticky notes stuck to the bottom of a financial report, taped to my desk under a stack of files. I am a wise one when I am not paying attention. Here is a short list of sentences I scrawled at some point or another during my workdays:
  • The point of change is to preserve that which does not change;
  • what does not change is our purpose for being; and
  • if you can't fix it, feature it.
  • It is like I am some kind of psychic conduit, channelling the spiritual genius of some entity who is so not the conscious me that walks and talks. If I can find a way to reproduce the no-mind state I obviously must achieve at times during my workday, I just might be writing bestselling spiritual self-help books before you know it.



    Remind me to tell you why I have been mindlessly repeating the phrase "midget Downs Syndrome vampire child zombies" for the last two days.



    This is the Night Mail crossing the border,
    Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
    Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
    The shop at the corner and the girl next door.
    Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
    The gradient's against her, but she's on time.
    Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
    Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
    Snorting noisily as she passes
    Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
    - excerpt from "Night Mail" by WH Auden

    Elan Morgan7 Comments