nuit sur les champs-élysées.

May 4, 2007

those that know me well know that i will often quietly slip into streams of depression. in the past, this has been linked to stressful situations, personal rejection, lack of sunlight, lack of purpose, et cetera. an accompanying emotion to this is loneliness, and considering that i live now in a city of over 12 million, it’s surprising how often i feel completely alone.

the funny thing is that i’m not really alone. i can list at least 10 people that i call friends here: in no particular order, adrienne, elsa, david, aurelie, murat, jason, stepho, juliette, julien, nico…

but still, i’m falling back into that warm embrace of introversion and depression.

maybe it’s the fact that, in just over a week, i’m going to be officially a sans-papiers (and, the way things are looking, possibly deported if i piss the wrong people off, seeing as nicolas sarkozy is likely to be elected president of the republic in a couple of days). maybe it’s the fact that the people in victoria are incompetent boobs who can’t get their act together to send me a bloody piece of paper with my name and birth date on it. maybe it’s france’s legendary bureaucracy, which requires me to have my passport and two photos in order to get a goddamn library card (in addition to having to go through a metal detector to get into aforementioned library) and declares 90% of the green space in paris to be verboten, in addition to assigning people to enforce this. maybe it’s the fact that i kinda wish that i’d have met someone kinda interesting by now. maybe it’s the fact that i’m a silent minority here of sorts: somewhere between anglo and french (goddamn, why do i always fall into these gaps?). maybe it’s because i get a 10 out of 20 on my devoir sur table, and my prof tries to console me by saying that he marked me generously, but it was due to the language barrier that i didn’t do as well as i should have – seriously, sometimes, i don’t understand how the hell the french think…how can that be interpreted as consolation?

or maybe it’s the same thing that’s always been the issue, my crippling lack of self-confidence. y’see, today, when i went to go to get my library card, i read that it was necessary to have some identity photos. so, i go to BHV (imagine holt renfrew and home depot rolled into one) in order to get some taken, ’cause it’s about half as much as it costs in the métro. so i go, and get them, and pay, and have the library fiasco, and come home. pull out the photos. realise i look like a criminal…a goddamn eighteen-year-old purse-snatcher or low-level drug dealer. granted, you’re not allowed to smile or anything while the photo is being taken, but that’s irrespective of the fact: i’m convinced that something is seriously wrong with me, both in my face and in my head. plus, i got shat on by a pidgeon on my way to the metro, bringing the score to pidgeons 2, mike 0.

i can’t afford to let myself flush my life down the toilet. i’m twenty-three years old. it’s not like i’m seventeen. people i know are getting engaged, married, are starting their careers and continuing their studies, and i have nothing to show for anything! zero!

you know what? last summer, i received a call from guy babineau, a writer who does a fashion column in the georgia straight. he said that he had spoken to michael venus about looking for some people to do a photo shoot for the magazine, and that i had been recommended. in hindsight, i have no idea why michael recommended me; i must have been four or five down on the list. i go, i do the thing, all goes well, more or less.

i understand how photography works; sometimes, you just end up on the floor of the darkroom. i have no hard feelings toward mr. babineau. i understand that he has his responsibilities (and that i am not one of them), but it really hurts the ego to be dropped from something that you expected to be a part of. you obviously didn’t live up to some expectation…namely, that i was going to adhere to a scrubbed-out standard of gay beauty, something of which i am completely incapable.

my stepsister once asked me why i never bring any boyfriends over to meet the ‘rents. i think i made a joke out of it, but it really hurt to know the truth, that i don’t often meet anyone worthy of bringing home, and that when i do, time and/or distance throw a wrench into the plans. still, it does beg the question: i wonder if anyone over at parent-HQ ever thinks about how sarah manages to keep nice guys and how i never even bring the topic up.

goddamn rue des archives…you’re seriously gonna be the end of me. even though i (not-so) secretly wish i could fit in, one of us is just too good for the other.


2 Responses to “nuit sur les champs-élysées.”

  1. mt. Says:

    I hope things work out.
    And I’m here to say
    Words like
    and “wrong”.


  2. Charles Says:

    *hugs* I think photographs often reflect the attitude of the photographer towards the subject, and vice versa. If you didn’t enjoy that mugshot being taken, and they didn’t really care what you’d turn out like, then granted, it won’t be the nicest portrayal of you.

    Now, compare to the picture I took of you at the Lion’s Den (December 2006 Facebook album) – you look thoughtful, mysterious yet captivating, your lips are just barely letting out a smile that you know you want to break. And then in the one of you and Sean, you turn into total goofs who obviously love each other dearly.

    If it helps you feel like you’re evening the score, see if you can find pigeon pâté or some other consumable produced produced from pigeons 😉

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