just because

I can't believe so many years (eight?!) of my life are archived here. I guess I really am a true child of the Internet. Reading the posts I got in the habit of writing here reminds me of the space I used to allow myself to take up.

I indulged myself. And so out came rivers of troubles, and pictures, and typos and short stories and little snippets of poetry (often heavily inspired by older writers I admired!) and my happiness, too. Meticulously recording all of this somehow felt very urgent and very important.

Now, I find it harder to linger on my thoughts properly, let alone write them out so carefully. I don't want to come off as arrogant or self-absorbed. I have trouble writing anything longer than short films or poetry because I don't want to take up too much... space, I guess.

But reading these tidbits from past-Zoés reminds me just how thrilling it is to churn things out... and to do it kind of recklessly. As much as crafting, editing, and checking oneself is super important, I miss sending things out into the world... just because.

sleep on the floor

LISTEN | Lumineers, Sleep on the Floor

My first year of uni is behind me. I'm still creating stuff (poems, collages, mood boards, sound vignettes, journal entries). So those are two good things. One bad thing is that my mattress is being delivered Saturday and I'm moving into my apartment (and out of residence!) on Tuesday. Is it good or bad for your back to sleep in the floor?

A lot of families are helping their kids move out of residence. It's weird to see adults in such a teenager-filled space. Their daughters and sons shift awkwardly in the lobby while their parents negotiate the price of cardboard boxes. They avoid eye contact with the others. They must think that it is a sin to bring their parents into our too-loud, weed-smelling, smooshed-cafeteria-pastries, dirty-corridored bubble. All of it just makes me miss my family more.

I am excited to move into my first apartment after tomorrow. Once we get the keys, I want to race up and down the apartment barefoot with the windows open. I want to show every inch of the place to my family on Skype. I want my sister to inspect my room through the pixelated screen and tell me whether she approves of it. I want to plaster my walls with cut-outs and images that mean a lot to me. With my flatmates, we have decided to buy mismatched furniture from second hand stores. I am looking forward to drinking tea in a creaky armchair. I will lie on the floor sometimes (even after I get my mattress). It will be mine and mine and mine (and also Amelle's and Camille's and Chloe's) but also mine and mine.

Meanwhile here are some portraits of me that aren't selfies taken in the last week of school.

Love,
Zoé

Becoming an adult in six simple steps

Number one: you start to think about laundry detergent options - either the expensive plastic cubes with everything included or the huge packs, but if you go with the packs you'd have to buy three. there you go, already forgetting that your body is your body, and that you are in it. remember when you used to write stories?

Number two: all of a sudden there's a lot less time for the art you always thought you'd be making. instead there are leases to sign and volunteer meetings to half heartedly attend. your emails become more blunt as you stop including "Thank you so much for your time" at the end of them. time is funny, it doesn't feel as if you turned eighteen three months ago.

Number three: the weeks finally start to understand your agenda, they shake themselves awake and quicken their pace. CVs are a painful thing for you now. you say "Have a good weekend" on Tuesdays.

Number four: how much does a dustpan-thing cost at Dollarama vs. at Pharmaprix? everything you told yourself you'd never really end up doing? you're doing: including buying that god-awful gym membership and frowning when people laugh in the library.
you look at the unstamped boxes on your gym card. you compare them to the smoothness of your face and you know which one of the two will stay unstamped.

Number five: you start to hurt for the complicated meals which you used to eat while talking talking talking. back home, there were no such loaded terms like white privilege, islamophobia, heteronormativity. the world could be talked about quite easily.
here, you watch your tongue, watch it bleed, bite it till it bleeds, watch the space in between your knees, watch your mouth, on the metro, look rested but not superior, not aggressive, not bitchfaced, not flirtatious, your face isn't the bouncy thing it used to be.

Number six: now your shell is almost completely hardened, there is one more thing to do: it is time to dread the nostalgia you will feel in ten years when reflecting on the person you are right. now.