Breaker
05-14-09, 04:30 PM
Some stuff I took from my journals and revamped... the rest will be coming soon in parts two, three, and maybe four.
Cigarette smoke trailed from the butt trapped between my index and middle fingers. I stood facing the evergreen studded mountains, one shoulder leaned against the stucco wall of my house, admiring the snow that smothered the treetops like a ceremonial robe. Compared to the razor sharp bite in the coastal winds of Dieppe, the air in Prince George seemed tepid, temperate even. I lifted the cigarette to my lips and inhaled long and slow. A new city, new province, new climate, new people. A fresh slate of endless whiteness to write my life upon. You are washed clean of your sins, your successes, your triumphs and failures. You are washed clean of the past and given a new electric present. I held the smoke in my lungs long enough that it made me dizzy then exhaled. In the instant where the grey tendrils crept through the sunlight and blurred my vision, I was an infant again. I saw the mountain as nothing but a mountain, plain, natural, and beautiful.
For that moment, there was no comparison in my head, cynically realizing that although the air was warmer here it reeked of the nearby pulp mill. My mind was not dominated by the constant give and take of life. For a few seconds, I failed to think of Katie, the girl I said goodbye to maybe forever in New-Brunswick. A playful breeze tugged at my cap, and it was just a wind, not a heartnumbing reminder of the way Katie had tugged my heart one way and my mind the other. A dog barked and a child laughed on the other side of the wooden slat fence, and they were just sounds filled with their own glory. Not mocking symbols formed to tell me just how naive I had been.
I french inhaled the last of the smoke, recirculating it through my lungs, then expelled it straight up towards the blue sky as if trying to add to its measly bed of whimsical clouds. With that breath I released all the old thoughts, all the negative imagery that tied me down to the mistakes of my past. And along with them I sent the memories of all my accomplishments, the ego-boosting praise of my fellow workers and leaders. The start anew was to leave behind not just the bad, but the good, and everything in between.
I looked at my cigarette, a Peter Jackson menthol. The minty taste had become a tad sickly sweet, not entirely appealing, but I estimated the butt had one good drag left in it. Between my lips the filter went and I drew for a few moments then dropped the used smoke into the can.
The wind changed, slamming into my face rather than breaking on my back. Rather than teasing my cap, it nearly tore it off. Hailstones struck the ground with startling ferocity, a storm appearing from nowhere. I retreated to the covered portion of the driveway but stayed outside, enjoyed the simple pleasure of catching the occasional hailstone and melting it in my palm.
As suddenly as it arrived the storm departed. Could hail cause a rainbow? I turned to look and instead saw a large white van pull into the drive.
A part of the new life, the new start. A new group of people to meet and mingle with, perhaps make friends. My stoic brown eyes bypassed the tinted lenses of my glasses and the equally dark windshield. They slid off the driver like water over a dam, then pooled and eddied on the girl riding shotgun. She was already in motion, nearly dismantling the door in her rush to get it open. I could tell she was Québecoise by the way she leapt to the ground, a cigarette in one hand, a lighter sparking in the other.
I found the rainbow I sought in her hair. Streaks of blue and purple, pink and green streamed behind her shoulders. Her feet touched the ground at the same time as her cigarette cherried. Her smile put folded dimples in skin paler than the snow, softer than the clouds. As if she bathed in cream each morning and slept on a bed of marshmallows. She wore steel toed boots and long prison-striped tights with a patched skirt over top. Her scarf almost matched her hair, its unravelling grey undertone complementing her dirty blonde roots, its highlights blended with her own.
As her energetic demeanor held me transfixed, I saw her as nothing but a girl. Her pulsating vitality, her beauty incarnate, it reminded me of nothing and led me to nothing except otherwordly an appreciation and longing desire to put my arms around her. I saw nothing but a beautiful, mysterious girl.
On a new day, a new page, I met la belle fille.
Cigarette smoke trailed from the butt trapped between my index and middle fingers. I stood facing the evergreen studded mountains, one shoulder leaned against the stucco wall of my house, admiring the snow that smothered the treetops like a ceremonial robe. Compared to the razor sharp bite in the coastal winds of Dieppe, the air in Prince George seemed tepid, temperate even. I lifted the cigarette to my lips and inhaled long and slow. A new city, new province, new climate, new people. A fresh slate of endless whiteness to write my life upon. You are washed clean of your sins, your successes, your triumphs and failures. You are washed clean of the past and given a new electric present. I held the smoke in my lungs long enough that it made me dizzy then exhaled. In the instant where the grey tendrils crept through the sunlight and blurred my vision, I was an infant again. I saw the mountain as nothing but a mountain, plain, natural, and beautiful.
For that moment, there was no comparison in my head, cynically realizing that although the air was warmer here it reeked of the nearby pulp mill. My mind was not dominated by the constant give and take of life. For a few seconds, I failed to think of Katie, the girl I said goodbye to maybe forever in New-Brunswick. A playful breeze tugged at my cap, and it was just a wind, not a heartnumbing reminder of the way Katie had tugged my heart one way and my mind the other. A dog barked and a child laughed on the other side of the wooden slat fence, and they were just sounds filled with their own glory. Not mocking symbols formed to tell me just how naive I had been.
I french inhaled the last of the smoke, recirculating it through my lungs, then expelled it straight up towards the blue sky as if trying to add to its measly bed of whimsical clouds. With that breath I released all the old thoughts, all the negative imagery that tied me down to the mistakes of my past. And along with them I sent the memories of all my accomplishments, the ego-boosting praise of my fellow workers and leaders. The start anew was to leave behind not just the bad, but the good, and everything in between.
I looked at my cigarette, a Peter Jackson menthol. The minty taste had become a tad sickly sweet, not entirely appealing, but I estimated the butt had one good drag left in it. Between my lips the filter went and I drew for a few moments then dropped the used smoke into the can.
The wind changed, slamming into my face rather than breaking on my back. Rather than teasing my cap, it nearly tore it off. Hailstones struck the ground with startling ferocity, a storm appearing from nowhere. I retreated to the covered portion of the driveway but stayed outside, enjoyed the simple pleasure of catching the occasional hailstone and melting it in my palm.
As suddenly as it arrived the storm departed. Could hail cause a rainbow? I turned to look and instead saw a large white van pull into the drive.
A part of the new life, the new start. A new group of people to meet and mingle with, perhaps make friends. My stoic brown eyes bypassed the tinted lenses of my glasses and the equally dark windshield. They slid off the driver like water over a dam, then pooled and eddied on the girl riding shotgun. She was already in motion, nearly dismantling the door in her rush to get it open. I could tell she was Québecoise by the way she leapt to the ground, a cigarette in one hand, a lighter sparking in the other.
I found the rainbow I sought in her hair. Streaks of blue and purple, pink and green streamed behind her shoulders. Her feet touched the ground at the same time as her cigarette cherried. Her smile put folded dimples in skin paler than the snow, softer than the clouds. As if she bathed in cream each morning and slept on a bed of marshmallows. She wore steel toed boots and long prison-striped tights with a patched skirt over top. Her scarf almost matched her hair, its unravelling grey undertone complementing her dirty blonde roots, its highlights blended with her own.
As her energetic demeanor held me transfixed, I saw her as nothing but a girl. Her pulsating vitality, her beauty incarnate, it reminded me of nothing and led me to nothing except otherwordly an appreciation and longing desire to put my arms around her. I saw nothing but a beautiful, mysterious girl.
On a new day, a new page, I met la belle fille.