Bundle of Sticks

Nate

Twintail Braids

We finally leave the beach to begin our homeward stroll, and I shiver beneath my summer shirt. 

The evening began as a sun-soaked parley with all my favorite people; some of us playing volleyball, others lounging in the sand. During the game I would glance over to see Anna scribbling on a crossword puzzle between cigarette drags, sitting next to Morgan as she held a paperback in one hand. Connor and I eventually got tired and joined them on the ground, which turned out to be a misguided decision––to establish immobility just as the sun was vanishing behind thick clouds on the horizon, robbing us of a sunset. Early summer in Vancouver is a precarious time; the temperature threatens to plummet at the first sign of shade, bursting the illusion of recreational warmth that the sunlight so kindly provides. The damp sand was cold to sit in but warm beneath the surface, which Connor discovered by digging a hole in typically labradoric fashion. Anna led a group-wide internet trivia game––What is cynophobia? What animal breathes through its butthole? What comes once in a minute, twice in a moment, and never in a year? (don’t say me ahaha). I sat opposite her in the circle, appreciating her giggly charisma from afar as I felt my extremities slowly go numb, wondering if she also thinks of our relationship as somehow primary to the others. We’ve known each other longer than anyone else in the group (we met the first day of school, living just three doors apart), and I often feel a conspiratorial quality to the brief glances we share in group settings, a knowing spark in our eyes. She moved off campus after first year and founded what feels like an endless web of loving friendships, a community that I was terribly intimidated by before I got to know them––now I can thank her for introducing me to all my closest friends. 

I’ve told her on drunken nights that she must be the most significant person to ever touch my life; and though she says it back to me, I can’t bring myself to believe her. For one thing, there’s Connor, who she’s been in love with for two years now…but it’s hard to hold that against her. After all, he’s the most lovable person that I’ve ever met too. Shouting out trivia answers, I helped him expand his hole into a tunnel––a monument of our immaturity. He broke up with Anna just a couple weeks ago, after a few months of dating. I can tell the subject is still sore for her, but you’d be forgiven for not even noticing––they’re surprisingly functional as friends again. She’s uniquely gifted at pushing feelings away before she gets caught in their snare, at changing the subject or dancing to throw them off her scent. She does it now, as she walks her bike beside the group: telling Morgan about something awful her mom said on the phone today, she giggles upwards like a toddler––familiar neurodivergent coping that makes me want to laugh and cry. 

We’ve left the beach now, walking through residential streets to get food on our way home. She won’t look at me tonight… I can see she feels my gaze, but she won’t return it. I continue to shiver, refusing the offer of Connor’s coat. Now that they’ve broken up, I thought it wouldn’t be weird between us anymore; but I can still sometimes feel a manufactured distance, a refusal on her part to acknowledge the closeness of our friendship. The pendulum of our relationship can swing wildly from remoteness to visceral attachment at a moments notice—I never know when it’ll happen. I latch onto every momentary glance she gives me, as if each one has the power to validate me as a person.

I haven’t eaten all day, and now that it’s nighttime my body feels alarmingly light––aluminum bones and sugar-free blood. I need food and warmth. Anna and Morgan ride their bikes ahead in cursive lines, looping back casually as the four of us on foot talk about Sally Rooney and fast-food chicken. I see her stop to light another cigarette before riding on ahead…wisps of locomotive smoke curl around her twintail braids and catch the light of a streetlamp, haloing her like a beckoning spirit, guiding us to salvation. 

We arrive at a plaza which has two food options: A gyro shop called Nostos and a 24-hour coffee place called Kafka. I am suddenly torn between my need for sustenance and my need for the soothing warmth of hot chocolate. Biting wind cuts through my too-thin clothes, my hands are numb. I see Anna is also cold in her billowy linens––she says something about requiring a “warm beveragino,” and I make shivering sounds of agreement, assuming everyone shares our sentiment. There is a sense of indecision among the others––I hear mentions of both places––but we walk on as a group nonetheless. Nostos is between us and Kafka, so that as we pass it, I expect to part with the nutritionally responsible members of the squad. Connor leads the way into the restaurant, and suddenly everyone in the group follows without looking back, leaving Anna and I lurching on the sidewalk––

Unexpectedly alone, we look at each other and I see she’s also taken aback––no one gave us a “see you in a sec!” or a “meet back here!”, not so much as a parting glance. It isn’t like our friends to leave us out in the cold like that, to be awkward and inconsiderate of abandonment issues. A familiar feeling of terminal invisibility snatches at my heart, a deathly chant echoes from the back of my head; but I shake them off with a laugh and say “that kinda sucked,” happy to suddenly have Anna to myself, knowing it was nothing more than a stupid mistake. I find rightness in the fact that we’ve been isolated together; united by imprudent fashion choices and a tendency to self-soothe with sugar. She doesn’t acknowledge my attempt at levity, and has distant eyes as we continue walking…she looks back to the window of Nostos as it frames Connor between its newspaper clippings…

The slight change in her demeanor upsets me on a level just below my awareness, and I feel a tugging urge to comfort her; realizing the devastation that such a moment can have on people like us when our emotions have been primed––livewires sparking at every inconsequential excuse to feel betrayed and abandoned. I know that she couldn’t care less about the others: it was only the snub of Connor’s cold shoulder that has cut her mood down at the knees. I feel especially conscious of it because of my experience in the past months with her; of the time when I cried in a café bathroom after she told me how much she loved him; the unending sleepless nights of spiraling self-hatred and dejection, wondering why I should even wake up in the morning…all against my better judgement, all with the knowledge that I was being irrational; that she didn’t owe me anything—that I should be happy for her. A self-worth defined by others is remarkably fragile; I wish I could do it any other way. The streetlight reflections in her eyes grow thicker with glassy tears…I can feel her heart hardening in stormy silence, acclimating to the subtle symptoms of their breakup––she would never think to not say goodbye, even for a momentary parting.

As we enter Kafka and look at the pastries gleaming behind the glass, I try to distract her with memories of simpler days; telling her about a time in first year when the same thing happened to me— “remember Tyler and Fabio?”. They had left me waiting in line at a Tim Hortons, unannounced and laughing over their shoulders; an incident which sent me into a dizzying cloud of anxiety for a little while. She’s the only person in my life witness to the shitty circles I used to put myself in, back before I realized I belonged with queer people. We both order our hot chocolates and wait at the counter for them. “Doesn’t surprise me… awful people do awful things,” she says, an implication written across her face. Our eyes meet again, and I see in her features a strained attempt at righteousness; a hope that she can spurn her love for Connor by believing he is somehow evil, or negligent.

“That wasn’t awful,” I say lightly, gesturing back towards Nostos. She remains unmoved, fortifying her conviction. Her unwillingness to talk about this meaningfully drives a wedge between us––I flounder at her confidentiality: something I’ve never known. Is this how I lose my closest friend? The only person who really knows me?

“I’m just so done,” she laughs, incredulous. She’s made many offhanded comments like this in the past couple weeks. Self-protective hatred…hatred that reminds me too much of how I felt when they were together––

I feel my tear ducts awaken. Something between guilt and compassion rises in my throat, and I see her face soften in response to mine; I step closer to her, a moment of hesitation passes, and then I wrap my arms around her like I always used to. I hold her tight, not sure whether I am trying to comfort her or myself, or if it even matters…I feel her arms around me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing further into her neck. Digging up the story from first year has disturbed the sediment of our history; images of naked intimacy, the clutter of her dorm room, shared tears––they all emerge through the roiling waters of my mind. Something undefinable gets transfused between us during the hug––an acknowledgment of our shared past and present, an endless conversation that seems to mean a million things at once: homecoming; farewell; comfort; apology; acceptance; love. I feel a shakiness in her grasp, a desperation. I hear a conversation to my right break off, and I can feel the eyes of our fellow patrons on us as they wonder what could warrant such a long embrace. “It’ll be okay,” I whisper into her shoulder. 

I feel her head shake against me. “I just miss him so much,” she says, her words thick with tears. 

“It’ll be okay,” I say again, with an unusual confidence––one that can only be founded in my unshakable love for her. She will forever look to him first, but I know that I’ll be there for her when she lets me; needs me. Her body starts to calm in my arms, perhaps believing my words. Restorative heat is generated between us––a happy byproduct of emotion and deliverance. In each other, we find the temperature of safety.

Later, when the drinks come out, we’re both warm enough to not even need them. Leaving the café, the shape of our relationship seems to be different from when we entered. A sense of renewal permeates our souls––we have remembered a long-forgotten truth. We walk back towards our friends, invulnerable to the cold.

Nate

Raspberry Gummies

We arrived during the opener’s last song: lopsided indie rock. The backyard venue was buzzing with people I had never met, save for an oasis of familiarity near the middle which Tessa and I latched onto like a life raft––rescued by smiling faces and friendliness. Eva, Aidan, Emily, Emilie... usual candied dynamics in a fun-sized portion.

We soon decided to both have another gummy––Are you feeling anything yet?

The sun slid steadily towards the earth­­––warm pink light clipping the top of the house––while an ambient glow trickled through the not-quite-blossoming branches of the Sakura tree to blanket us all in spring. A lull in the performance lineup left space for socialization. I finally learned the name of a person who I’d seen three times before on campus (all coincidences, and two of which was them complimenting me on my sweater), which I now know to be Sonia. I congregated with the band who was my reason for coming in the first place: Aidan, Micah, Isaac, Josh––when are you playing? will there be time? are you excited?

By the time the next band started I was feeling comfortable, things were a bit funnier than usual but otherwise I knew where I was. I was struck by the quality of the music; it was as if a professional rock and roll band had stumbled in from the alley in a drunken stupor, deciding that the only way they would feel at home was by terraforming the environment through the purity of their sound. The singer and lead guitar fancied themselves comedians, pausing between songs to tell stories and laugh at the crowd. One of the tracks featured a slow building lead-in to the chorus, where the singer led everyone to crouch down in a hushed conspiracy of anticipation; and all the while the drummer kept the beat pumping with a head-splitting veracity. The release into frenzy with everyone jumping up in unison was just as electrifying as you’d imagine. I realized during those bridges that drummers are the most moving musicians to watch; no other shows the life-and-death drama of their craft more clearly­––in every moment the body battles its physical limits with the lifeblood of the song on the line. There’s something seductively tragic about their movements. It was near the end of their set when nighttime established itself over the yard, and it was under this cover of darkness that the gummies sprang their revenge.

Whenever I’m too high I tend to freak out, desperately grasping for continuity with every moment bringing a fresh wave of disorientation. I look at the person beside me singing along with the band, I search in my mind for what I should be doing, I try to copy them. I notice how the muscles of my face are being held, I am too aware of how air is hitting my arm right now. I swallow. It feels weird––my adam’s apple moving with its own agency. Someone catches my eye to the left, a guy around my height, wearing a denim jacket. His hair looks like mine did before I cut it, he nods coolly to the beat. The sporadic flashes of light illuminate his profile so I can see some of his face, and a numb horror washes over me as I realize that he is me. I feel foolish for having thought I was here as a person––no, I am a floating observer, a dreamy film camera here to capture my life from a few months ago. The more I look at myself the clearer this becomes. How strange it is to see yourself as others do––have I always looked that rigid? I’ve usually despised looking at myself in pictures, and while the hatred remained in person at first, it is starting to subside. Seeing myself in motion adds an element of sympathy that I could see people getting used to; a mouse face that announces its self-consciousness through animacy. I wonder what is so special about myself to get a filmic adaptation, but I make sure to frame the shot elegantly nonetheless. My trance begins to intensify, a dolly-zoom spinning sparks of parallax across my vision, when suddenly a hand grabs my shoulder and I whip around to see Tessa with an alarmed look on her face.

She said “what’s going on?” through wholesome giggles, and I immediately fell back into the evening as I previously knew it (back to past tense––thank god!). I told her that I saw another version of myself over there, and about my momentary freakout, and she laughs and I laugh, restorative light-headedness. She questioned me on it further, so I point him out to her, and he still looks exactly like me, but she says she can’t see him (wait wait, back again?). I’m quite a bit taller than her so she can’t see over the people between us and him, I lean over to give her room, and he turns away just as she looks at him. She says she can’t tell: it’s too dark.

We stood there gob-smacked and slack-jawed for a while, talking about how we couldn’t believe how high we were, before giving up on listening to the music and shuffling over to Kat––when did she get here? She was standing with Eva and Emily; we communicated our dismay to them and were met with amusement. Suddenly, in a non sequitur of consciousness, I found myself surprisingly deep into a conversation with Maggie about how her hair was shorter than it was last year, and I did my best to say what a normal human would in that situation. Returning to the druggy solidarity of Tessa and the others, we found enjoyment in saying the things we were thinking and marveling at how ridiculous they sounded out loud. Someone tells me to look down and before I know why or how, my vision becomes nothing but purplish white; an ocean of rods and cones crying out in pain. I exclaim and press my palms into my eyelids, the purple edges of the ocean start to recede and I finally realize that it was a camera flash: someone had taken a group photo of us all from below. I can only imagine how goofy I must have looked. I open my eyes to find Tessa equally pained, waving her hands in front of her eyes––ohmygod ohmygod, and once again we are spurned into inescapable breathless laughter.

I noticed at some point that the bands had switched, now an alternative indie group whose name has slipped my mind. The camera flashes continued their assault on my retinas, but once I got used to them I found the beauty in their spectacle. Along with each one came my own personal snapshot from the moment of the light, a Polaroid negative printed in blue and green over my eyes. A figure with outstretched hands, a paintbrush hair-flip, Josh’s smiling face; a chemical slideshow of jubilation viewable by me and me alone. I felt a rush of gratitude for the magic of my sensory experience, that the illusory system produces beauty even when it is momentarily broken.

The light behind the band was steadily cycling through all the colors of the rainbow, and Tessa and I became transfixed by a pressing scientific discovery. We noticed that the leaves of the tree in the distance became more sharply detailed when the light was near the red end of the spectrum, and murkier on the blue end. I stared at those branches for way too long, riding the marry-go-round of visible light, running my imagination along the tactile crimson buds and stirring the indigo soup. It had been who-knows-how-long before I noticed the music building in the background, keyboard arpeggios dancing higher and higher, tickling my eardrums. I turned to Tessa to say “wait this sounds amazing!” and she nodded her head enthusiastically—Right?? The singer with dyed-red hair stepped away from the microphone to focus on their guitar solo, singing with metal rather than breath. Closing my eyes, I could feel the physical presence of the music, a rainbow orb spinning above the yard. Everything reaching crescendo, fierce melodies piercing my soul, I felt a white-hot ball of euphoria rising out of my spinal cord, before it was sling-shotted by the resolving note into my skull, bouncing around inside for longer than I thought possible. Vegas bulbs igniting with every supercharged pinball bounce, I made a noise halfway between a laugh and a scream, and I had to steady my dizziness against the tree, a floaty high made from the overwhelming distillation of the music and the people and the life into my brain. I told Tessa I couldn’t believe how good I felt at that moment, that I had no idea such a feeling was possible. And the best part about it was that the gummies weren’t what gave me that high; sure they might have helped a bit, but I had a confidence within me that it was produced by my environment, and the inconceivable effect it has on me when I’m able to truly appreciate it.

This is not to say the experience wasn’t scary. Early on, the host of the party grabbed the microphone and said his neighbors had called the cops for a noise complaint, which did wonders for my paranoia. From that moment on, any passing flashlight or unexpected movement was a SWAT team with guns drawn. Also, I would frequently fall back into my retrograde amnesia–whereamIohgod mindset, a sinkhole of unreality that came and went unceremoniously. All I had to do to trigger it was look across the yard at myself, unable to suppress my curiosity in this past version of me. Tessa later called my experience ego death, which seemed right. It certainly felt like dying––like this was my last opportunity to kiss my earthly body goodbye before pledging allegiance to the great Nothing. There was so much I wanted to say to myself. And yet––like an estranged father on the run, I was condemned to make silent amends from a distance… observing my creation in all his damaged solitude through a one-way mirror, unable to salvage our relationship with words––I love you; I know you; I’m sorry, please forgive me. I made sure to keep my distance from him; it was hard to picture us interacting without one of us trying to kill the other. Tessa did well to diffuse my situation, repeating that the guy didn’t actually look like me at all, and approaching random friends to ask “are you nate? are you nate?” in a demonstration of my ridiculousness. She was right: when I eventually got close to him the effect vanished. But nothing could convince me that this wasn’t just another malevolent trick by the god who was responsible for our meeting. There is strange part of me that refuses to recover from the existential test of that experience; some arcane allure to the idea that I am not the only version of myself in the world. Maybe it’s because it makes me feel less alone. It’s comforting to believe that there’s other mes bumbling around out there, making the same mistakes for the same non-reasons, who would understand, who could join in on a smiling shrug at our own expense. The more friendships I have, the more I realize how far away true understanding really is; that no one will ever fully know me, even if they cared to. We are all castaways––each stranded on our own island of an archipelago. We have too much to tell each other, and the smoke signals aren’t enough. Sometimes I think the great expedition of our lives is to cross this unknowable gulf that lies between us, to become acquainted with the embarrassing core of each other’s being, to show the version of yourself that’s only there when you’re alone. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared at the prospect of someone stepping onto the shifty sand of my domain––what will they think of the me that hasn’t been packaged for human consumption? Maybe a compromise is best. Meet me in the middle, hitch your raft to mine for a little while, and we can trade our mother tongues into the night.

I was beginning to come down when Aidan’s band started their set. I had seen them play maybe eight times before, and this was up to their standard level of magnificence––no amount of complication could change my love and appreciation for them. To be in such close proximity to a creation so enlivening is enough to make me feel like the luckiest person in the world. They generate a sacred space at all their performances, one in which you can go bananas with your closest friends and give in to the insanity calling your name. Not only is it amazing to know a band so closely, but each of their concerts have been a gift––free of charge. They’re really out here making us all happy one weekend at a time, out of the kindness of their hearts and the strength of their art. The whole project has been oddly validating, as if it confirms the quality of our community. Part of me feels that the creation of something great from our friend-group was an inevitability; like a chemical process in which colliding enough interesting atoms together is bound to produce something beautiful––social alchemy.

By the time they finished, it was nearing eleven o’clock. Some people began to head for the alleyway exit, others shuffled forward in a congregation of thanks––this was when we’d ask for pictures and autographs if we weren’t already friends. After hugging everyone and doing my best to convey my appreciation, I noticed how fried my brain felt and decided it was time for me to leave as well. Of course, it only made sense to leave with Tessa––my comrade in the terrifying experience. I am endlessly thankful that she was there to keep me sane. As we were crossing the wooden threshold out of the yard, I couldn’t help but throw a glance back at myself, secretly hoping he was looking at me too. I saw him gazing up at the stars with a little smile on his face, breathing in the evening while it lasted. The smile was contagious, and I turned back contentedly to Tessa, ready to skip off into the darkness.

Nate

The Kaleidoscope of Political Depression

Staring vacantly at the clinical white walls of Dr. Cottril’s office, an emptiness blankets itself over everything. Like a damp sheet fresh from the dryer, not dry enough to keep you warm but not wet enough to warrant another tumble. She repeats the question back to me, aware of my obvious dissociation in trying to come up with an adequate response.

“But how does it make you feel” she repeats.

“You seem to complain frequently about the stifling nature of growing up in Canada, but I want to understand what about this country feels so suffocating?”

I take a moment to collect myself. It is almost a cliché of mine at this point to blame all my problems on the neo-liberal, late-stage capitalist, imperial, settler-colonial hegemony of 21st century Canada (a string of buzzwords I frequently strew together to invoke some sort of reaction from anyone who will listen). My parents see these complaints as just my brash undergraduate education rearing its ugly head. My sister sees it as a manner of escaping my own insecurities, blaming my personal mistakes on the larger system. “A nation-wide scapegoat,” she says.

“It feels like we are just set up since the day we are born, to be made so small that we eventually just allow this smallness to swallow us whole” I finally utter. “I mean it makes sense though, Canada is a nation whose entire human history has been near erased by the expansive colonial agenda. The only dominant history that remains is the one constructed by a capitalist narrative. Unlike countries with immortalised history, nations which have a record of their different forms of organisation, Canada erased everything.” Just uttering these words makes my palms begin to sweat.

I am quickly reminded of the fragility of my own discontent. How unlikely it is for things to change. I am reminded that Canada has been this way since its foundation and that the current state of climate breakdown is only the result of this system of inequality.

“Thank you for your honesty,” Dr. Cottril responds calmly. “I want to remind you that these feelings are not unique to you or your positionality. You are certainly not alone in feeling this way. I would say you are describing what is perhaps the consequences of a severe case of political depression”

Political depression? I ask myself. What on earth is political depression? I have never heard these two terms strung together before nor can I image the implications this combination of terms would mean to my psyche.

“As defined by Dr. Ann Cvetkovich, Political Depression is the feeling that systems of political action and critical analysis are no longer functioning to improve society or make us any happier. By examining where your depression and sense of ennui may stem from, it’s possible to create a more precise treatment plan that extends beyond typical medical intervention. Cvetkovich sees the current epidemic of depression not as a strictly chemical reaction in one’s brain, but as a symptom of the larger social and cultural inequalities ravaging the planet like racism, colonialism, homophobia, and capitalism. See, I don’t think your depression is entirely genetic or can be treated solely with talk therapy or medication, what your mind is reacting to is the need for social change.”

I sit with her comment, letting her words wash over me and soak into my past. Political depression: a feeling of helplessness and exhaustion in the face of social subjugation. Immediately, I think of Kant’s theory of the sublime. I think of how small it makes me feel to live in a world so grandiose and flagrant in its corruption and hostility. Yet where the beauty of the sublime should reside, I am instead confronted with fear and a sense of worry about where all this destruction will leave humanity. I find myself completely detached, unable to comprehend how to find art, poetry, or beauty in the outcome of our colonial past and capitalist future.

“How can I treat it? Political Depression?” I utter, eyes locked on the floor.

Dr. Cottril asks when I began to feel this way. Says the origin of these feelings will tell us where the best treatment lies. I respond that it was when I could no longer write. I had grown up with an active imagination, spending endless summer afternoons daydreaming along rocky shorelines, creating stories about magical forest nymphs and other creatures only my mind could conjure up. I remember seeing the world as a vast kaleidoscope, endless in its possibilities and combinations, ready for a new generation to discover all the wonderous symmetries and patterns that could be spun.

It was on these very same shorelines my fantasies came crumbling down. The Kaleidoscope stopped spinning. I remember the west side of White Rock beach, just past the train tracks where the landscape begins to curve, obscuring Salt Spring Island behind its towering trees. For the first time I feel my daydreams be punctured by the low rumble of churning engines and the stench of raw coal.

I spin the colours at random and discover anxiety. These trains which have rumbled my communities’ shorelines, sending ripples across our gentle bay, was killing us. Slowly but surreptitiously. I returned home distraught, crawled into my childhood bed, let the blankets crush me into the nothingness I felt on the inside. I wanted to scream but had no sounds to make. I wanted to cry but masculinity grabbed at my throat. The kaleidoscope became jammed in this pattern, unable to spin again. I tucked it away at the bottom of my junk drawer. Every once and a while, sunlight glimmers through and it shines once more. Coal trains are heavier than they look, harder to remove than a Prime Minister, especially when they come from America.

Why this impacted my writing, I’ll never know. Suddenly the words stopped coming to me. I left my journal under a duvet of dust for 5 years, only opened once again to document why I could no longer write for my future self to bring up in therapy. Like I am doing today.

I tell her this is what capitalism feels like. It’s the jammed kaleidoscope that keeps on shinning. The day you can no longer write. When self-expression becomes commodified, every move we make a form of productivity, all that survives is the dust covered journals of those who suffered before us. We study them. Name them the western cannon. If Ocean Vuong is right, and writing is a political act, I write to survive political depression. To cope with our politics in the hope that someone somewhere will read my words and find comfort in company.

“Then start writing again.” Dr. Cottril responds. “Write for yourself and no one else. Don’t just write about your emotions and feelings, but write stories, fables, tall-tales and fantasies! Revolution begins with a pen and paper. Resistance permeated by bleeding ink.”

Alicia Elliot wrote that her language, her voice, was stolen by both depression and colonialism, but that she doesn’t accept this. She writes as a radical act of self-preservation. Maybe writing in the age of anxiety, climate breakdown, and late-stage capitalism demands revolution of the personal kind. Sanctuary has never been more urgent. Writing becomes liberation in the face of adversity. I leave Dr. Cottril’s office and go to my junk drawer. I smash the kaleidoscope into a million pieces, rebuild something new, something unwritten. I build it to endure, I write us both back into existence.

Sam

Café poem

Nate