On Happiness

04-06-2015

11:40 p.m 

What would I define as true happiness?

Do you mean a moment, or how I feel in said moment?

..

I feel serene and content, without a care in the world. Like everything that has ever worried me has involuntarily been pushed from my brain, and I’m not running around in a wild panic trying to find them because I don’t even think. I don’t even realize they were there let alone gone. I am laughing even though no one has said anything funny. I am smiling at what seems to be thin air. There is nowhere else, no one else and nothing else. There is only me, in that moment. When silence isn’t scary and the future doesn’t even exist. A nothingness that isn’t intimidating, as if I am afraid I don’t exist, but as if I never have, and that’s okay. That’s perfectly okay. It’s better than okay, actually. It’s the feeling of bliss that you believed never existed, because after that moment you might forget it ever did.

“Interviews With My Late Night Self”

-j.alice

There’s a Fugitive at the Bottom of the Stairs

Around eight o’clock today I had Toni over to play board games, and around 10:25 we heard screaming. Now there is a mouse hiding in our basement.

Apparently the story is this:

Abby was alone in the screened-door living room watching the Olympics, when she noticed a thing walk through the front door. She didn’t know what it was, so she didn’t say anything. Only when my father walked into the room did Abby point it out.

“There’s a thing by the door.” she said.

“What thing?”

“That thing.” she pointed.

“That’s not a thing, that’s a mouse.” said my father, who proceeded to chase it down the stairs with a broom.

At this point, both Max the dog and my mother were screaming.

“Get the broom!” my mother told Abby.

“Dad already has the broom.”

“I seen two by the cupboard earlier! Hurry, go get it!”

Abby rushed to the cupboard, only to find no trace of anything even resembling a broom.

“It’s not here!” Abby said.

“Well where is it?” asked my mother.

“I don’t know.”

“Well I didn’t take it.”

“Isn’t it in the basement?”

“Why would it be in the basement?” asked my mother, hearing the muffled swears of my father and quickly growing more frantic than she already was.

“Isn’t that why you got the new one? So the old one could be for the basement?”

“Where’s the broom, Abby?” she asked.

“I don’t know!”

And this was when we walked in.

“What’s going on?” I asked over yells and bright lights and dog barks.

“There’s a mouse.” said my mom.

I peered down the basement steps to see a chair thrown across the room, then at Toni, then said, “I’m going to my room.”

Which I did, but not before I heard her say, “Shut the door, Abby. This mouse is not leaving.”

Abby did as she was told. “I don’t want to see it dead.”

“Well neither do I, but no mouse walks through the door of my house and just leaves.”

And that was what was happening in my house at 10:25 on a Saturday night. Toni left almost immediately afterwards, which was convenient for her as a person who hates mice and crawly things. As soon as she left I darted across the road to my grandmother’s who had a bag of mouse traps waiting. When I returned, I witnessed a riveting argument between Samuel and my dad about whether to use cheese or peanut butter to catch our fugitive, and now I am on watch duty.

I sit with my back against the stove, watching the towel and wrench boxes set against the bottom of the door for any small quiver of movement, which, in normal circumstances, would only be a boring thing to do. But I am actually pretty bad at it because over the occasional snap of a mouse trap, muted grunt or heated conversation, the Olympics are still on TV.

 

 

This is a Title

I have realized by now that a career choice in blogging for me would not be a good idea because I do not know how to do it very well. This is, what, my seventh blog post since May? I am horrible at time management and keeping schedules that are not forced upon me, and also knowing what to write about when I am aware that people I do and don’t know are going to see it.

I think I am missing the point.

A blog is just a way to get thoughts out of your head, a way to put yourself out there in some shape or form, and not everything I write on here has to be this monumental, meaningful mess of words (that was a mouth full). This is for me, because I thought it would at least make life a little bit more entertaining. So, to reinforce this new spark of ordinary day inspiration, I am going to tell you how my life is going, because screw it. I am not Dawson (nor do I want to be).

I have finally started to read George.R.R.Martin’s books, and I think it is more of a commitment than I was anticipating. These books are massive and there are five of them and it almost makes me want to cry. I am excited to get into them though, and I have managed to stay oblivious about most of the deaths in the series and would appreciate it if I could keep it that way. I’m not even one hundred pages into the first book yet, and I am quickly running out of things to talk about because I’m not even one hundred pages into the first book yet.

I’m also running out of places to put my books. I have a stack on my desk, an overflowing bookcase, a trunk that can hardly close and crates of children’s books that I don’t have the heart to get rid of. I’m not complaining, it can just become frustrating sometimes because like anyone who shares this problem, I just keep buying more. Books are addictive because words are addictive, and it’s no wonder why I am a writer.

My favourite bookstore is this tiny used one in this tiny town called Alma. The store itself is named Cleveland Place, and every time I go there I pretend to not hear myself internally squealing. It’s adorably cozy, the entire town is, actually. There is a kids corner under the stairs, and antique lamps and green suede chairs meet you when you decide to walk up them. As soon as the red screen doors open, the musty aroma of once unwanted pages meets you, and I can’t help but smile. Every. Single. Time.

Alma, for those wondering, is the strip of road where the houses become a bit  denser on your way to Fundy National Park. It’s the town that is rich from tourists and fishermen, but they show it in such a modest way you would never think so. Alma is so small and quaint and beautiful, that it feels like home, even to those who have never been there before. Even to those who come from the Pacific coast just to see the East and know what an ocean looks like. People come back here, to Alma. And I plan on living there at some point in my life, even if it’s just for a year.

When the tides are out you can walk on the seafloor. This year we were on the hunt for purple rocks for Paulina, so she could fill a glass vase to put in her room. On the way back we had decided to come in with the tide, which was at first stressful because we were so far out and the waves can be fast, but then it was nice and peaceful and slightly eerie. It was bizarre to think that in an hour or two’s time, where we were standing would be so submerged with water that even the tallest of us would be forced to swim. It almost made you feel like just being there was something you weren’t supposed to do, which is maybe why people like to do it so much. But maybe not. I don’t know, really. I am just an addict after all and maybe I should be focusing on photography instead.