SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Monday, Jul. 07, 2014 @ 4:44 pm
Chris (Haha!)



As predicted, I'm here writing about Chris. Haha!

He emailed me spontaneously a couple of weeks ago. It was a lengthy email in his usual polite yet humourous tone, asking some things about work and life and describing his time in the oil sands. He's the last person that you'd expect to be working up there but it gives me hope that there are some people up there that are doing the right thing and that won't refuse to cover up or hide the truth. He's acted as a whistleblower in regards to water quality in Ontario, built wells in Africa, and spent a year helping people on the downtown east side. He's never owned a vehicle and will happily ride his bicycle for hours in the rain. The man is basically a saint, and I know that his reasons for going to the oil sands have nothing to do with making money.

Anyhow, it seems that he doesn't want to let me disappear from his life much in the same way that I crave to have him in mine. He's inspiring and positive and so much of an enabler. Makes me wonder what he sees in me, as I'm a sellout and lazy in so many ways, buying mass market clothes and owning half a car and sometimes throwing batteries in the regular garbage. I know!!!!! I used to volunteer a lot - when he met me I was spending one of my days off at the theraputic riding association, preparing horses for the disabled kids and then leading them around the ring during their sessions. That was kind of saint-like, but I honestly was in it more for the horses than the kids. I mean, I did everything that I could to help the kids and there were moments of beauty when an autistic kid would break out of his trance, but for me it was my own personal therapy to be in the dark fragrant stall with a horse and feel so safe and brush their coats to gleaming and polish the leather tack into dark supple goodness. I know!!!!! So maybe he remembers that part of me - the girl who spends her day off volunteering to help special needs kids.

Maybe my fantasy of Saint Chris if false too, and he's up there working in the oil sands to save up some cash so that he doesn't have to ride his bike in the goddamn Vancouver rain anymore.

I didn't reply to his email, thinking that I needed to let this thing go from my life. That it's a red herring, a carrot dangling off a stick, a faraway field of luscious green grass, all those things and more.

But then last night I dreamed about him. We were in my parent's front yard, sitting under the filbert tree, with its long slender branches and papery maroon leaves, rustling in the wind. Sitting under that tree, we kissed, and I felt a sense of panic and fear and excitement and shame and so many other things. And I wake up feeling all of these things, wondering if I'm slipping into and out of another dimension where I'd made different decisions in my life.

(And here's where I'd normally stop. Instead, here is the rest of the morning: I rolled over and kissed D good morning, and then had a shower, and then put on the oatmeal, crossed paths with D and pressed my shower-fresh body onto the length of his sleepy-warm body and we ate breakfast and he ironed his shirt and we took the train together into work and kissed each other goodbye. See. There. Those are the things that I normally don't show you.)

So here I am at work, a bit bored, thinking too much about my dream. Wondering if it's rude to not reply to Chris's email. Knowing that his parents live down the street from mine and that our Dads always talk to each other in the middle of the road. Wondering if I'm somehow stringing this thing along, wondering if he thinks even half as much about this as I do, or whether he's simply keeping in touch because his company is downsizing like mad and mine is weathering the economical storm without sending any of us down the plank.


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