Things could get poetic here -- you're aptly warned.
February 26, 2010. Happy Birthday to me. Twenty-two years of age and digging life.
From the SeaBus (a dawn breaks in the background behind this very text) this time with Nick and we’re headed to meet some women as part of our journey from Whistler to Vancouver on the Olympic Bus Network.
No way to describe the night before in full, a Youtube upload is pending.
Earlier today Nick wakes me up – a dreamless sleep in Squamish after digging that beautiful brown eyed-girl.
Coffee and bread, hastily, before Dylan drives us to Walmart for the Bobsleigh Men’s 4; we receive a second set of tickets for free from one of the hosts so I inform Eryn and Jenna of this delightful news…
Bobsleigh cannot be captured in little black books. The basic gist is that USA Sled 1 was ahead after the first two runs.
Back to the SeaBus. Girls are blowing up the iPhone from Couchsurf, we’re getting excited to meet the Intrigue (“think about what I’m wearing,” one’s voicemail implores). Turns out to be Lindsay, Becca, Zenith. We’re headed en route to Coal Harbour, Vancouver; bootlegged some whiskey … $45 for a 2.6 … and settle into Mario Kart and Always Sunny. It’s BC, another delivery is made, so much is happening so quickly, Becca then leaves for Toronto, happiness is taken.
To describe the Olympics?
“It’s all been a blur.”
Prepare for poetry as everyone in the room calls home and “explains their love” to their brother.
“I’m sorry my love, but I’ve broken from writing for myself.
I agree with what you think, no matter your views, I saw it instantaneously, love, probably at second sight.”
“The octopus has entered.
There is tension in the stomach.
Less is more with you; I get knots in my stomach trying ESP.
We say something, flowers in spring?”
Matt Baer, what are you doing right now? (Editors note: not poetry).
“It’s your birthday. We’re not going to let you hook up with ugly girls. What is your anti-type?”
“No fake breasts and no men.”
Type?
“Norwegians. Competitive. Brunette. Brown-eyed.”
Ok.
Poetry from Lindsay.
“So I normally don’t like to be under a microscope,
but since you’re so shiny
I will accept it.
Maybe – one day.”
(Editor's note two: Look at my handwriting when the time comes. It is Perfect). I call Joseph, briefly, for perhaps three seconds of airtime. I love him and all of my family for supporting me and loving all aspirations …
"Define enlightenment," I ask.
“Right now,” Nick says.
“Stomach in knots, (I'm speaking with Zenith)
all undone.
No more worries.”
“I don’t feel anything, I’ll take it all back.
Everything is in tune.
There is glitter on the table. So I had no direction.”
I wrote that you lost the game, my love.
"A smile is all it takes, as “it’s Will’s birthday" justifies all,
“All writing is precise” I respond back, non-sequitur-like.
All is god [sic] as Dylan has arrived.
“I don’t have an identity,” she says to me ...
I’ve taken to the lav, looking at myself in the mirror at 22.
Am I in delay mode? All I know: talking to myself without speaking, gentle glares into the mirror, is exceptional.
“Sleep is coming down. Don’t keep glittering,
for I cannot say what I wish aloud to you.
Along the lines of, “I like Canada but I am not a Canadian,”
All in perfect harmony and rhythm as we sing mind songs to one another.”
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