I got out of the cafe today and it was still light out. I guess we've survived another winter. Maybe this time I finally grew a Canadian hide, or maybe it's just that I'm back in the land of the living (no longer on the edge of a cemetery), but the dark and cold didn't kill me this year.
Last weekend, I got back from Montreal and walked down Whyte Ave, breathing air blown over land instead of water, glad to be waiting at cross lights (no one in Montreal waits) with people in Value Village jeans. It's good to be here in Edmonton, on this top floor. I've been really working. As always, I'm impatient with school, and sometimes the logistics of making a living seem overwhelming, but it doesn't matter. I started reading Hemingway; that explains it all, doesn't it? This winter I've written new poetry, fiction, and nonfiction pieces, printed a new zine, submitted to a slew of magazines and contests, and even applied for my first ever project grant. I'm writing my honours thesis on Emily Dickinson this semester. While that doesn't always feel like a particularly creative endeavor, it's rewarding to be writing a long paper based on my own theory and research.
I have so many plans and so much good work to do. Lucky lucky.
I turn 24 next week. It's a welcome thing.