thisCassandra

Packing Gratitude: Helping Rob/Bob (my ex)

I've been helping out a bit with Rob/Bob (my ex)'s preparation to move to Montreal for a year. His original date of move was the 19th, now changed to the 25th, and the renters were scheduled to move in the 17th.

Wednesday evening I went there, took him out for dinner and then helped him go through things and threw some stuff away for him. I know that a lot of stuff had already been removed, but the apartment didn't look any less stuffed.

While I was going through stuff on a bookshelf, he went and toked up, then came back and stood watching me. He then said, "What are you throwing away?" I just looked up and sneered (laughing). Then he said, "Why don't you go through the books?" To which I said (laughing), "Are you stoned? Fuck off. Go do something else."

Saturday, late afternoon, I went back to pick up a table and help some more. There was less stuff in there, but still there was lots, and much of it large and unwieldy furniture. I was packing up some dishes, and Rob/Bob (my ex) and his friend Matt were dealing with some of the racks and cables, the storage locker place closed (6 pm, and it was closed on Sunday), which meant that he had nowhere to take the rest of the stuff before the rentors were going to move in.

Rob/Bob (my ex) called me at work yesterday afternoon to let me know that he'd found part of the food museum that had been lost, so I went to pick it up.

I found him, the rentor and a friend of the rentor still packing up his stuff. I stood waiting for him, and the friend of the rentor said, "If you're not doing anything, why don't you help Bobbi and pack something?", which reminded me of all the packing, over all the years, that I have done for him when he left things until the last possible moment, and how irritating I used to find that aspect of his nature, and I said (nice), "I have helped. I've done plenty of packing in this apartment, and I think I'm about done."

One year, I can't recall which, Rob/Bob (my ex) had a six week residency at Oboro, an artist-run centre in Montreal, and was flying out at 4pm one Saturday. He had lots of equipment and stuff that he needed to use to do the project he wanted to do, but he didn't start packing until after noon on the Saturday: he prefered to work at the Front and neglect his own life and needs. I helped him pack some clothing to take, and he packed some of the equipment he would need, but not all of it. I had plans to go out there to see Stephen, my friend who was dying of AIDS, and ended up taking the equipment he'd not taken with him. I recall that Rob/Bob (my ex) wasn't particularly apologetic when he asked me to do it, nor particularly grateful after I'd done it. Truly he was a shithead, and if I were asked, I would not take that stuff out to him again.

After I packed the clothes, I went down to get the car to drop him at the airport, and I was so upset that, when backing the car out of the space, I turned out too soon and hit the car parked next to ours, which upset me even more. I drove him to the airport, though I probably shouldn't have, but on the way I told him that I would never again drive him to the airport, and that I would never again be at home when he was preparing to leave town because I found his irresponsibility too upsetting.

I was so irritated by his irresponsibility that I knew that I had to leave. Life with him had degenerated into my feeling like I had to do things for him, but would never be appreciated by him. I knew that our relationship, as we knew it, was over, but I didn't leave, not right away. I stayed around and waited for him to leave. I tried to make him leave. I got angrier and angrier and, I believe, he did too. Once we were arguing and he had the nerve to say to me "You don't support me as an artist," to which I replied (angry, not nice), "How dare you say that?" His complaint that I didn't support him as an artist was very likely the last straw. It honed my anger (already plenty sharp) and strengthened my resolve to leave. I couldn't take care of him anymore. I certainly couldn't be of help to him while receiving so little appreciation or acknowledgement of my help to him.

It has been more than ten years since then, and I still get upset when I think about it. I left six and a half years ago, and it was difficult. It was difficult to leave and it was difficult to get used to being on my own. Considering how angry I was (and still can be, apparently) staying would have been even more difficult for me.

I don't help Rob/Bob (my ex) much these days, but I do a little. A little is enough. A little reminds me of how much I used to do. A little makes me feel grateful: I am never so thankful to be on my own as I am when I remember what life could be like with Rob/Bob (my ex).

Helping Someone Out

I went to Rob/Bob (my ex)'s place to help him pack a few boxes of dishes. He's going to Montreal for a year and sub-letting his place, and he has taken several loads up to his storage locker, but there's still a ton of stuff to move (at least - literally). The sub-lettors are moving in tomorrow, so he needs to get it all out before morning.

I helped him until the energy ran out. Then I took the orange half-hex table (complement to the blue half-hex table that I gave to Amy as a house warming gift) and came home.

For him, at this point, the best case scenario would be a major earthquake.

Helping him a bit has been good for me; I'm inspired to get rid of stuff. Before I have no choice. Also, there's a better understanding of what happens to those who procrastinate; it isn't pretty and I want to avoid the situation of not being prepared when I get to any of the lines that I routinely find in my life.

I have to say that it is weird packing up things that used to belong to me, things that I'd pretty much forgotten, things that may not have been cared for as I would have done. I have to remember that that stuff is where it is because I'd let it go, and I no longer have any responsibility for it.

Rob/Bob (my ex) helped me when I moved out of that place, and I helped him when he moved out. There's some kind of closure there.

I did some colour mixing today: the middle values of the six hues and the warmed and cooled versions of each of the six hues. I love mixing colours. Tomorrow I plan to do more.

I've a ton of reading to do for the Art History course.

Last night Dallas and his friend Josh were riding their bikes down the hill on Main Street when a car turned left onto Main in front of them. Josh ran into it, resulting in a 5 hour long visit to emergency. They didn't have a great night out.

I'll miss hanging out with Rob/Bob (my ex) while he's in Montreal. We've become pretty good friends.

Wants and Haves

When cleaning the garage (looking for something) I found a journal that I was keeping during the summer of 1997. In it was theme of desiring to be alone and not in a sexual relationship. Also there was a list of 1997 wants and haves (pretty specific):

Download wants_y_haves.xls

My 2006 life pretty well meets my 1997 wants. This is a good thing.

I had insomnia last night, fretting about the amount of stuff I've taken on and the tendency to procrastinate. However shall I do all that I want to do? Maybe I need to let some stuff go.

Since coming back from Hornby Island, I've been having occasional episodes of what feels like a change in viscosity. I'll be walking or standing and suddenly feel like I am moving through some medium that is thicker than what I was moving through before. The first episode happened after I had dropped off the car and was walking up Howe Street to drop off some library books ($16 in late fees!); there was a loss of momentum or something, so I assumed hypoglycemia and stopped to eat something (chocolate). 

Maybe it's vertigo. Maybe I should be concerned. Maybe it's an excuse to eat chocolate.

I'm making beef jerky for the first time. It's working out well so far.

Walking In My Mother's Neighbourhood

A question - posed in a comment about Crowtography II that was posted this morning - regarding my recall of crows in the neighbourhood where I grew up led me down memory lane and along the streets around my mother's house...

My family moved into the house that my mother still lives in forty years ago, and I grew up there. I have no memory of crows in that neighbourhood until one day last May when I was walking with my mother to a cafe that she likes to go to for wonton. We were walking quietly along the north side of the street when Whap - what was that? It felt like I'd been beaned on the back of the head with a bean bag thrown hard. I looked up and saw a crow fly into a tree. There was another crow there too, fluttering around.

"Did you see that?" I asked my mother.

"What?" she said - she's not too observant, never really has been.

"That crow just flew into the back of my head."

"I didn't see anything."

We continued to walk, she, for once, walking faster than I was - I was moving a bit cautiously -  when Whap! I felt it again and I saw the crow fly up into the next tree.

"It did it again!" I said, even more excited.

She still didn't believe me and continued walking, and I followed and then, Whap! There it was again.

This time she saw the crow and she said, "Maybe it doesn't like the colour of your hat."

I didn’t care if it was responding to me or to the hat. Anything hits me on the head three times and I refuse to go further. My mother continued to walk and I stood where I was. The crow went after her, falling out of the sky full speed. I shouted to her to stop and she did and she ducked a little and the crow missed her head. Which is good because it would have knocked her down.

We watched the two crows up in the tree and we looked down the sidewalk and we considered our options and decided to walk on the other side of the street. We crossed the street and the crows followed us and sat in a tree there, but did not attack. They must have had a nest on the north side of the street, or maybe they were just checking out the real estate over there..

So there we were on the south side of the street, pretty much exactly where I'd had the run-in with the dog two months earlier. I had been walking toward the bus-stop and was two houses past the house with the big fishpond in the front yard. Two houses ahead of where I was a big cranky looking dog came out from between the houses into the front yard, looked around and gave me a look.

I froze. Here I was completely alone on a street with a completely unknown, completely unescorted dog who has just given me a look. This was not just any dog, it was one of those Alsation and Doberman crosses that turn out looking like Dobermans except they are brown and brown and heavier and have thick wiry coats, a serious guard dog. Things were not looking so good. What the fuck was I going to do? I didn’t have a clue.

All possible outcomes ran through my head, including the obvious "Oh my god, oh my god, I’m going to become a statistic, I’m going to be mauled to death by a dog on my mother’s street. What can I do? What can I do?" and on it went as I stood watching the dog and waiting for what was to come.

The dog watched me then walked towards me. About twenty feet away from me it started to gallop a bit. My thoughts continued as they had been going since I saw the dog, "What can I do? What can I do?" I had no weapons with me, no Louisville sluggers, no tranquilizer guns, no big slabs of meat that I could use to distract the dog, so it looked to me like I was going to be the big slab of meat that would distract the dog.

I did not think to call for help, because I’d called for help on that street before and nobody came. I was twenty years old, I was walking home from the bus stop at 2 am, and a guy with a knife and bad intentions came out of the lane. He and his knife and his bad intentions jumped me and roughed me up a bit. He knocked me to the ground and kept me there while I struggled and fought and screamed for help. He held his knife to my throat and told me that if I screamed again he would kill me, "Feel that?" he asked. I screamed again. He didn't kill me. He tried to take off my clothing, got to the layer next-to-but-not bare skin, stood up, kicked me in the stomach and ran away. He left me bewildered; I'd been expecting the worst, but I had somehow managed to get out of this very bad situation with bruises and shallow knife cuts and broken glasses.

I believe that his intention was rape, but he did not actually rape me, I don’t know why he did not, but I am grateful. There is no rational reason for his running away - I am small and not very strong, I could not have maintained a struggle for very long, in fact I might already have given up the fight by the time he ran away.

I have thought, sometimes, that what protected me that night was a pendant that my friend Deb had given me, a pewter pentagram that was a cast of the tetragrammaton - the four letters of the name of god - which I was wearing between the outer layer and the inner layer of my clothing. It seemed to me that he ran away after he exposed the tetragrammaton - which some, not I, consider to be a black, black symbol - that his running was a response to the tetragrammaton, but I’ll never know.

I don’t wear that pendant anymore, and even if I did, I doubt that it would work on a dog that was galloping towards me with bad intentions. Anyway, I watched the dog approach and waited for what was coming, and the dog got close then swerved around and ran past me. At this point I understood that the dog was not going to attack me, and I relaxed a bit, and just then I felt the nip to my left calf. I jumped and shouted "Hey!" and turned around in time to see the dog pull away then wheel around and run away into the yard with the big fish pond. The coward.

Again, I got out of a very bad situation with minor injuries. Again, I’ll never know why, but I’ll always be grateful.

I hate walking in my mother's neighbourhood.

A Note to Follow Sew

Had dinner last night with Rob/Bob (my ex) and Jackie, a friend of his, and Malahar (sp?) a friend of hers. We had fun talking about the gender issues of hooking up computer and video equipment and how the idea of the male/female coupling thing might embarass some people or might confound some others.

One of the women who used to work with me could not if her life depended on it hook up a telephone jack to a telephone extension cable; she would try to fit the box to the box. She is quite devout, but I am unsure whether she is one of the embarrassed or the confounded by the male/female coupling thing. I do know that it distresses her so much that she is not able to consider fitting the little end into the little hole. Weird.

Speaking of video equipment and gender issues, I picked up my new TV at the Future Shop: what a smarmy place it is.

Thinking of resuming work on the log cabin hand sewn quilt after talking with Anne B and Pat B at the Manor Co-op Seasonal Celebration. There's a lot of sewing yet to do on that piece. At least several tens of thousands of stitches.

New song I like a lot: Death or Glory (The Clash). Best line "He who fucks nuns will later join the church". I love the anger.

After dinner Rob/Bob invited us all to his place for tea. It's odd to be there, where I lived for so long (6 1/2 years). Even though I look around there and see that it is full of stuff that I used to own, I can almost not see it as having ever been my place. It is so dark and lacking comfort.

Your Presence Is Requested...

I attended the annual Manor Coop Seasonal Celebration last evening, and I must say that I found it more enjoyable (and myself more comfortable) than I did when I lived there. Interesting.

On the way home at 10pm I took the long way, the 99 to Broadway Station then the Downtown bus which drops me off right across Hastings Street (rather than a bus down Main then walking four blocks through the desolate Chinatown streets to home). On the bus I ran into Helene, one of the models from my drawing class (she of the great hair), who was on her way from a Christmas party to a birthday party, trying to have an early night because she had to work all day today from 10 am until midnight.

Anyway earlier in the day the idea of her (and her hair) had wandered into my mind, and I had thought of trying to get in touch with her, and there she was on the bus. We chatted and I thought of asking her out for a coffee, but I did not. I felt a bit shy and self-conscious, as I often do, which probably comes across as disinterest.

Why do I not follow through when the universe tosses a ball at me? Even when I find myself interested in playing the game, I take the ball and fumble...