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Have a Cup of Chamomile Tea and Calm the Fuck Down

March 6, 2010

If I wrote a self-help book, that would be the title. Damn, I would have been a great therapist. Maybe it’s not too late. The world is full of people who could really use some honest advice along the lines of:

  • Stop being so motherfucking hard on yourself, asshole
  • Tell that piece of shit to get the fuck out of your house
  • For Christ’s sake, get some perspective
  • Don’t listen to those people; they’re full of shit
  • Go for a walk at sunset and try to find solace in the exquisite goddamn beauty of nature
  • and many others!

Today was one of those strange days (I believe the Doors may have written a song on this theme). When I got to school I found out class was cancelled. No, I can write that sentence way better. Waaay betterly. Take 2: I thought I had class but it turned out I had no class at all.

Anyhow, I was sitting on a benchity chair type thing effing around with this poem I’ve been revising on and off for three days (I have an unpleasant suspicion that it’s actually getting worse), trying to decide what to do with my day now that I no longer had class, thinking maybe it would be nice to explore Stanley Park (for my non-Canadian readers: that’s a park, not a guy), except that I had my computer and a big hardcover novel and a bunch of other crap in my backpack and also I only had one bus ticket left so I’d have been stuck there forever once I got there, so then I was having to incorporate a side trip to a bus ticket mercantile into the plan and it was all getting way too complicated so instead of actually doing it I just kept sitting there.

Digression: last summer when I went to Stanley Park I found myself on the shore of a little lake in the middle of which a baby duck was floating with its head on a lily pad, exactly the way baby ducks do in photos in coffee table nature books. It was just as cute as could be, except that there was no mother in sight and it was peeping with increasing desperation as it floated slowly here and there at the whim of the wind, being far too tiny to propel itself anywhere. Tourists kept coming into the clearing where I was standing, and every single one of them would immediately notice the lily pad duckling and start cooing and eeeeeing and taking pictures because they didn’t register the tragedy; they hadn’t been transfixed there for thirty minutes, pointlessly mentally imploring whichever god handles that type of stuff to please send its mother back.

I don’t ever want to see anything like that again, but I probably will. Nature can be pretty mean-spirited. Digression over. I was on the two-seater chairbench listening to Jay-Z and editing the mediocre poem and one of my classmates walked past and somehow got my attention and asked me what I was reading, so I told her, and I asked her some similar type of question, and she sat down and answered it, and goddamned if three hours later we weren’t still sitting there. It was one of those strange, rare conversations where you almost immediately dispense with the chitchat and start blithering (the judges would also have accepted “blathering”) about all kinds of shit, like you’ve known each other forever, even though you were relative strangers before you left for class that morning and would still be strangers now were it not for the exceptional – in fact, nearly impossible – chain of events that led to the last-minute cancellation of class. I try to be a good atheist but setups like that have Zeus written all over them.

Now I’m kind of rattled about certain things but more hopeful about others, and right now what I’m doing is having a cup of chamomile tea and calming the fuck down, to the best of my ability. (I think it would help a little if the tea had rum in it…)

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2 Comments leave one →
  1. Sleepless in TO permalink
    March 13, 2010 7:26 pm

    Er, what happened the the duckling?

    • Kate permalink*
      March 14, 2010 8:00 am

      I don’t know for sure, but I think we can probably guess…

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