I Want To Tell You About My Grandparents

All of my grandparents are gone now, which is a really weird feeling. I never really knew my grandfathers, in fact I only met one of them. But my grandmothers were such a huge part of my life, and it feels weird that I haven't talked about them much here, because it just feels painful and hard. But now I think I am at a place where I can talk about them from a place of happiness and wonder at the fact that I got to meet these beautiful people and share so many moments with them in life.

Like a lot of kids, my parents were always busy working, they both had nine-to-five jobs that were physically demanding, and they were overworked and underpaid, so I got left with my grandparents a lot while my brother who was older was allowed to run around with his friends or go to after-school programs. I had no problem with this, because I was antisocial and I liked my grandmothers both better than I liked other kids my age and my friends at school. Even as an eleven year old boy, I had the personality of a woman in her late fifties. What can I say, some things never change.

My grandpa Al died before I was born, when my father was about seven or eight, I think. After he died my Nanny Better had a nervous breakdown; she grew up an orphan in the Canadian foster care system and had bounced around from group home to orphanage to foster home, etc, from what I've been told, and she ended up sending both my uncles to live with our great aunt Lillian, while my father, who apparently had intense behavioral issues, was sent to live in a boys home for a few years. At some point, Betty got her life together, she bought an apartment building and turned the bottom floor into a commercial space, opening a convenience store with her girlfriend Josie, who we grew up knowing as aunt Josie, because I guess everybody thought we were too young to understand that Grandma was dating a woman, lol. That convenience store is still there, in fact I went there a lot growing up after they'd sold it. It's called Sam's now and it has been since the eighties or mid-nineties, at least. In the early two-thousands my Nanny Tony, who lived a few doors down, would send me there with spare change and I'd buy Miami Cakes and pizza pockets galore before going back to her place to watch unhealthy amounts of TeleToon.

Anyway, Betty eventually ended up selling the store and becoming a librarian of all things. She loved books, but not as much as she loved cats and cigarettes. I have fond memories of listening to Stephen King audiobooks on tape at her and Josie's apartment in the West Side, in the dark, while trying to fall asleep, at like seven years old. I was traumatized. Baby's First Audiobook!

Nanny and Josie lived together for years, even after they broke up. The last time I saw them together was in 2015; I blogged about it on this blog, actually, if you go back to summer 2015, it's when I got my first tattoo with my cousin Amelia. I remember that summer so fondly, we went swimming and saw a truck back into the water and get stuck, we went to Dixie Lee and got decent greasy chicken and iced green tea, we walked every night with Josie and her sisters. Nanny and Josie had moved to Josie's hometown at that point so she could be with her family, I think they moved around 2013 or so. Amelia visited them dozens of times, but I'd only ever gone that once.

A short time after that trip Nanny Betty was moved back to our city, into a home, as her condition deteriorated and her dementia got worse. I'm ashamed to admit it, and it's a big regret for me, but I never went to see her while she was in the home for the last three years of her life; I was afraid, because I knew my father and I are probably both going to get dementia one day, it's like a family curse, and my father is already showing signs. I knew from Amelia and other relatives that she often didn't know who they were, that she often didn't know where or when she was. I couldn't see her like that, and the idea of it sent me into an anxiety attack every time, so my parents tried to shield me from the questioning and prodding of the rest of our family to the best of their ability.

Everybody tells me I'm like my uncle John, Betty's son, Amelia's father, because we both love reading and books, and we're both writers, and the truth is I think I'm like him because we're both like her. It comes from her, the love of books and stories, and police procedural dramas. She babysat me for years in elementary and middle school and she was always watching some form of CSI or Criminal Minds.

Nanny Betty always had a cat calendar on every surface, and cat plushies, and cat figurines, and more, and one of the keepsakes I have from her is a tiny cat statue on my bookshelf, it's white and blue and very elegant looking, even though I'm sure she bought it at a local dollar store sometime around like 2004.

On the other side of the family, there's my mom's parents. I only met her father once, when I was very young. He wasn't close with anybody in the family, and when my parents got married years and years ago they sent him money for a plane ticket and a hotel but he never came. My mom talked to him on the phone occasionally, but I never had much interest in him. He died a few years ago and my mom found out he'd had more kids and she has a half-brother and half-sister out there, who she's had a little contact with here and there.

Her mother, though, my Nanny Tony, was a HUGE part of my life. Nanny Betty and Josie always favored Amelia and my brother Brandon over me, which was very hurtful as a kid. I felt like I was the odd one out in the family who nobody wanted. But Nanny Tony clearly favored me, to the point where I truly believe I was her favorite person in the world. She died very suddenly when I was eleven, and my last words to her, a few weeks before that, were 'I love you' which brings me a lot of comfort even now that I'm an adult.

I would go to Nanny Tony's almost every weekend, Friday to Sunday. Amelia's maternal grandmother Lillian lived right down the street, so if she went to her place we could both hang out and play as much as we wanted, which was amazing.

Nanny Tony made the best scrambled eggs I've ever had in my life, and I always demanded she make them for me. I still try to make them like she did and I always fail. She loved Christmas movies and romantic comedies, and her house was a hub of activity, there was always several friends and family members coming and going, at all hours. If I slept in on the couch too long the living room got so crowded people would sit on my legs and wake me up. When my parents got into a bad argument my mom would storm out and take me and my brother to her place. We went there every holiday, and I remember one year on Easter she and my uncle Chicken, who passed away last year of a heart infection, put on the horror movie Boogeyman. Traumatized my dumb ass for life. Watching it now doesn't do anything for me though, it's so corny in retrospect.

Nanny Tony also smoked like a chimney. Her and Nanny Betty would sometimes meet up at the bingo parlor and were bingo buddies for years before they had a falling out and turned icy with each other. (Drama, drama!)

My mom took on Nanny Tony's personality trait of wanting to feed everybody all the time, although at this point I don't know if it's really a personality trait or a genetic disposition Greeks have towards hospitality and wanting to force-feed people. Both of them can cook a good damn meal. My mom is vegetarian and eats a mostly vegan diet now, but she still cooks meat dishes for my dad and I sometimes, like last night she cooked an amazing ham for us.

I have very fond memories of running in and out of the kitchen while Mom and Nanny Tony cooked family dinner, and how various cousins and uncles and family friends and whoever they were all dating at the time would come over to eat with us. Everybody loved her. At her funeral they printed out cards with her portrait and the caption 'Queen of Duke Street' which seems pretty damn accurate to me. I used to sit with her on her front stoop all morning, watching people pass by, and more than half of them inevitably stopped to say hi and chat with her.

I'm going to hop off now, since I think I've successfully conveyed how awesome these women were. They formed who I am and who I'll always be, and I'm eternally grateful I got to know them.

Confusion & Pizza

I thought today was Thursday, but it's still just Wednesday, which makes me sad. I thought Riverdale would be out, but now I have to wait another 24 hours, since in Canada it comes out on Netflix the day after it airs in America. In lieu of another episode of Riverdale I'll probably spend my morning writing. I finished a short last night, which ended up 2000 words longer than I thought it would be, so now I'm debating whether to draft another erotic short, draft the rest of Glimpse, or finish up my story I Kill Your Gods.

I'm supposed to have the house to myself today at least for a few hours, which sounds nice. People stress me out even when they're not doing anything, even when they're sleeping in another room making no sound, their presence unnerves me. Sometimes it's nice to have folks around, but mostly I find it very irritating, especially since the folks in question are my parents, and although I know they love me, I also know they judge me a lot and I don't live up to their expectations, so that's stressful. I mentioned to my mom yesterday that I wanted pizza (just an offhand comment about a craving) and when I woke up at ten last night, she'd ordered a giant pepperoni for me and a veggie pizza for her, so that was sweet of her. My dad, weirdly, does not like pizza.

My mom and I are usually more on the same page, and I look like her, but I have my dad's irritant personality and quick temper. He and I fight like cats and dogs, which is insanely stressful, but it's better than when I never stood up to him and just let him snap at or yell at me instead. At least I feel better about myself if I yell back, because then I have a backbone, right?

To be fair my dad works hard and is constantly tired, and he smokes too much and doesn't eat enough, so he probably feels like warmed over crap most of the time. But he quit for years and the new started again, so he only has himself to blame.

With that anti smoking PSA aside, I am going to listen to Grimes and get ready to write. Hopefully I have a cover reveal to share tomorrow! I do have finished works I can publish but I'm waiting until my backlist is longer; right now it's six titles total.

Someone Free Grimes (Plus Adventures in Puppysitting.)

Remember when Grimes put out the best album ever? Remember how we've been waiting for new material ever since and it hasn't happened?  Remember a couple months ago when she posted shady Tweets about her label and gave us some tea?

The only new music she's put out since then is a snippet of a new bop in an Apple commercial:

It sounds like a bop for sure, but we need it now, not later. I'd love to hear the full version. I'm glad more artists are going independent. Even if it means lower budgets at least it minimizes situations like this with shitty labels. It happens in publishing too, people get fucked over by their labels and publishers and management all the time. There are shady business practices and betrayals and drama. It makes my head spin.

I was watching an Emma Blackery video (I'm waiting for her new album too!) earlier where she talked about a chain bookstore basically blacklisting her and refusing to list her book or promote it because she got mad at them on Twitter for violating a release embargo on the book. Since when is that okay?

It's wild to me that people's entire careers are subject to random whims like this on the part of people higher up in the chain. Or to bandwagon hate, because that happens and ruins careers too. It's also weird how so many artists in the past just couldn't put things out on their own, at least not if they wanted decent exposure.

Now we have the Internet and everyone is kind of enabled to build a brand and name for themselves off of nothing. 

I recently put out a new EP on my SoundCloud called Plucked From Orbit:

(Listen Here)

I don't really make music with the expectation of being known for it or it gaining a lot of attraction. I just like tooling around with synths and different sequencers, and I like making glitchy sounds and album arts. For me it's more about enjoyment and the concepts than making /actual/ bops.

Although I do want to learn to make more mainstream sounding pop bops eventually. Right now I'm basically creating ASMR sounds :P

I'm supposed to be working on a new edition of Shadows to put out next month. But I'm a serial procrastinator, so instead of writing the new novella Lovecursed or updating my notes, I'm planning a new edition of Souls of Salt & Seawater. And listening to lots of Billie Eilish. Not gonna lie.

I've also just been stewing over how many good movies are coming out.

Aquaman, The Nun, Godzilla, that new Bella Thorne movie with the ghosts (it looks cheesy as hell, but that's half the fun) and stuff like Darkest Minds, Glass, Mary Queen of Scotts. I'm really excited for Riverdale season 3. Cults and supernatural elements? Sign me up. I didn't expect them to go full supernatural until season 4, but I'm all here for it.

A couple weeks ago I spent an entire royalty check on vodka, 'cause that's the kind of irresponsible human I am, and got smashed. My parents were having a huge party with dozens of people milling around and bonfires and camping and stuff, so that was a mess, and I didn't want to be sober throughout it, and I'm guessing neither did Kuma. We also babysat my brother's wild dog during the whole ordeal, and the thing is vicious. Also, my selfie stick finally came! Here's some snaps from the weekend:

(Otis is cute but don't let it fool you! He bites! He still thinks he's a lap dog, too...)

(Me & Kuma!)

(Testing the selfie stick, lol)

Now the vodka is all gone and I'm left with an empty wallet. Next time I get paid I'm buying charcoal toothpaste to remove the coffee stains from my teeth, and some charcoal face masks to go with it. I need to do something about this breakout. Ugh. 

I've gotta go take the dog for a walk and then come back and hammer away at this new edition of Shadows so I can finally share the cover with you. I only made it yesterday so I can't act like I've been sitting on it long, but it feels like it. It's very Pirates of the Caribbean... And I really have to go finish it, so I'll leave you with this here:

Thanks for reading!

Buy my books here.

Down In Atlantis

If I haven't been blogging as much as I want to lately, it's only because I'm trying to break out of my weird writer's block. I have plenty of projects to work on, but I'm not sure if I'm in the right place, so I have to force myself to sit down and hammer out words every day, and most days I'm only hitting 500 or so before I call it quits. For comparison, I usually hit 4k a day at least while I'm in the middle of a project.

But that's not what's really depressing me. The fact that nothing ever changes has been what's depressing me. The fact that I live in the middle of nowhere with little human contact is what's been depressing me.

At least now it's summer. I deactivated my Facebook the other night, and I think I'm going to spend a lot of the next two months taking daily walks down to the river or other nice little areas around my house.

Back in summer 2015 me and Kuma were out running the roads a lot, and it felt like where I was supposed to be and everything was okay and the future looked good, so I'm trying to get back to that, because lately most days when I picture my future there's nothing but suicide or a big black blur. We walked to a nearby lake one day back then, and it took three hours but it was so worth it.

And now I can't believe it's been two whole years, that it's 2017, and I'm in the same place. We were planning so many big things back then that never happened, and I'm worried to let myself start living or planning things again when I know that those hopes might just crumble too.

I'm trying to keep my head down and work my way through whatever this funk is, and at least come out on the other side of it with a heightened wordcount. But it's been hard.

Which is why this blog has been drying up.

That, and I spend most of my days inside, sitting at the same spot, and don't have much to talk about. Like I said, though - winter is gone, and with the nice weather here maybe I won't be such a hermit.

Another big problem that keeps me from, you know, being me, is that every day I convince myself I'm dying of a terrible disease. I wake up like, "Oh my god, I think I have bone cancer!" And everybody else is like, "Kai, shut the fuck up."

And they are probably right.

But logic does not apply to the mass of writhing black gunk, toxins, and mental illness that is my brain. Meaning I spend my day imagining symptoms and worrying for nothing.

Or maybe I'm right, and one day soon I'll keel over of some undiagnosed monster tumor or something and you'll all be like, "We should have listened!" Either way, we're all cool. I am at peace with the void. Or if not peace, then like, a level of familiarity where the void and I could go shopping together without a third friend to be the buffer and it wouldn't be awkward, you know?

#TightWithTheVoid

Outside of all the gross personal stuff, I've been drinking as much coffee as I was before I said I wanted to try quitting caffeine. I'm still sleeping weird hours. I'm still outlining more projects than I can possibly write.

My brother really wants me to go see his new house, to the extent that he's holding my birthday gift hostage there, but I honestly never get a chance to go. I probably won't go until he gets a dog, and then I'll never go back again because I'm not welcome, because I tried to steal his dog, even though I have three of my own.

Although we may have to put our dog, Kota, down--she's really old, and her back legs are going and have been getting worse and worse for months.

Honestly, once I move out on my own I don't think I'll own pets. If I do, it will be like, a goldfish or two. That's it. Animals get too close to you and then they die. And they shed all over your house and keep you sneezing daily.

I'd love a little puggle, but I don't think I'd be a good pet owner on my own. Especially in the city...I wouldn't want to walk a dog at like 3 in the morning in the winter months. Plus I have strings of days where I don't shower, or brush my teeth, and I can't get out of bed, and I walk around in three-day-old pajamas with tangled hair and hiss at anybody who tries to talk to me. I don't know if the responsibility would be great for me, and I'm not one of those people who thinks the mere presence of a furry body is going to magically induce a cure for my mental illness or personal problems.

I think most animals are a lot of work, and I'm still trying to work out how to exist as a human, let alone a responsible adult. So. No pets. If I can show the self-restraint not to impulse buy a rabbit or some shit...

Aside from the threat of me someday coming home with a tortoise or a hamster I don't know how to properly care for, the most pressing issue for me has been my lack of finished work. We're just under halfway through the year and I still haven't finished a single book. I've barely done any work on the new edition of Iceblood, I just realized that Deadheart is going to be a four book saga instead of a duology (if I want to do the story justice, at least) and I'm feeling overwhelmed.

I also haven't been reading much at all, because nothing can catch my attention. Last night I finally gave up and started rereading Switched by Amanda Hocking, which is an old comfort read. (I think I've read the Trylle Trilogy six times since the first time I finished them in eighth grade, honestly.)

There really is never enough time. Especially not when I spend it blogging instead of peeing, making more coffee, or writing a chapter, all of which I have to do right now. So that's that.

Later :)

Balance

Storm of Masks is out, and you should probably buy it and read it and let it get you super excited for the fall. I mean, if you want.

That's actually not what I wanna talk about, right now, though. I put the book out the other day and it's been nice not being near the end of a project for a while, so I can just float. I'm so glad it's done and out there and it's just out of my hands - I wrote the best book I can, and it has to sink or swim on its own.

I've spent the last couple days just hanging out with friends, listening to music, catching up on BoJack Horseman and rewatching Jessica Jones. Fun, easy stuff.

I'm still working, but since SoM is published, I'm taking a couple days to play around with various projects and outlines and see what direction I wanna go in next. I think I may dive into the second books in the Evernight Falling Saga and the Seraph Chronicles. If I could finish ToS and Atrocity and put them both out around the same time, I'd be sososo happy.

One thing I've been focusing on a lot though is life outside writing. I've been publishing since the tail end of 2014, and it's been my absolute life focus since early 2015 - work, work, and more work. I'm not burning out, really, just more like taking a step back. I'm not where I hoped I'd be at this point with my career and lifestyle, and I'm trying to assess what needs to change. I know I'm dedicated to my books and can't stop writing, no matter what I do. I've essentially stopped trying to be a marketing machine and am just working on putting out a large, diverse body of work, so there's something for everyone.

But it isn't enough for me anymore to only focus on work and live my life. In the next year I'd like to get out a lot more and also bring up my income a bit, so I'm not a constant ball of worry and stress.

It just doesn't seem worth it to me to literally kill myself for my job and not see results, so right now I'm drifting and trying to figure out what new approach I'm going to take, while trying to balance work and actual recreation more.

I tend to write all day when I write, so it's around eight hour bursts of writing. I typically write 6 to 7 thousand words a day, as well as work on outlines for other wips. It takes a lot out of you to put in that much work and see very little reward, but this is both a numbers game and a test of patience. I know hard work pays off, but it's still, you know, hard.

So I'm compensating with a short vacation. Netflix and long walks and hanging out with the people in my life, being a human being before an author for once.

As much as I love what I do I think I've become a bit of a workaholic and let it turn into my sole focus, but I'm alive and I want to experience this world before I lose it, because we all will someday. I don't like that I often push away valuable, enriching experiences in search of more work time, so right now that's where I'm at, is trying to find a happy middle ground.

Too Much and Too Little

While going over SOSAS another time I've been listening to The Walk, by Imogen Heap, on repeat. I've also been stuffing my face with barbecue chips.

But I thought I would take a break from that to post a quote from the book really quickly:

You can buy the book here, or just wait until it's out in paperback. The new edition will have a map of the world in it. If I can figure out how to format that.

Or, you can request a free review copy by sending me an email, which I talked about in my last post. The gist of it is this: you like free books, I like honest reviews. And giving out free books.

So shoot me an email at ApolloBlake@mail.com for a free ebook if you're interested. Now, back to work!

I'm not afraid of a fucking yeti - I'm just cautious, okay?

In defense of my father, Bigfoot could be real. Mind you, when I say "could" I mean it in the same way I do when I tell you that I *could* probably survive being shot. That I *could* become a bio-engineer someday. Which is to say, probably fucking not, but I like to keep a sense of wonder about me.

Why am I bringing up Bigfoot? Well, because a Sasquatch probably could survive being shot, if one did exist. And because my dad is fucking obsessed with them for some reason.

Seriously, I think I've been forced to sit through more history and science channel specials than a damn junior high teacher. My dad is like, the official unofficial Sasquatch expert. But this week the Bigfoot obsession has been kicked into overdrive - as in, while we're all sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner, he's got the iPad propped up beside his plate watching documentaries about the hunt for the Yeti. Yeah, welcome to my world.

But the thing is, today, I had one of those Reese Witherspoon "I should embrace nature" kind of moments and, in my basicness, went outside to do just that. So, picture this: me, wearing a hoodie, swim trunks, and boat shoes with no socks on, wading through knee-deep snow in the middle of the woods out back.

I swear, I'm not one of those straight boys who walks around in shorts in the winter to prove his masculine and hetero he is. . . namely because I'm not a boy and because I'm miles away from hetero and because masculinity honestly bores me . . but also because I'm really just too lazy to change out of my pajamas even in the winter.

So here I am, half-dressed in the snow, in the middle of the woods, and I just think well, this is fucking creepy. Because I was focused on those stupid Yeti videos and how a Sasquatch could totally tear my limbs off my body and like, eat my heart out of my chest or something, and I wouldn't even be able to run away because I was wearing those stupid boat shoes with no socks, and my feet were slipping all over and oh my god was that a branch breaking? Why am I still standing here????

I swear, I know Yetis don't fucking exist. Where I'm from, a yeti is just another name for a popper with weed and tobacco (which I can pop, but not without crying). So I'm not afraid of a fucking yet - I'm just cautious, okay?

And now, I need to get back to work. Well, after I go and close the curtains, y'know, just in case someone who is totally not a yeti is spying from the woods. . .

Things That Need To Stop

A List:

1. Random racist people popping up in my Tumblr inbox to tell me they should get away with saying blatantly anti-Native stuff.
2. My brother coming home with little to no warning. (I like my brother: I like him better from a distance.)
3. My Mom cooking Chicken and then doing her best to convince me to eat it even though I told her before I took a nap this morning that I was going vegetarian.
4. My jaw randomly hurting every time I open or close my mouth.
5. Poverty.
6. Sobriety.
7. The world, maybe?

I don't know. As you can see, I'm agitated as hell tonight. I think I might punch somebody.

I feel a lot better than I did before sleeping, at least, but I'm still generally pissed at the world. That was my mental illness acting up. This is actual, rational emotion. So I don't know why the things that annoy me decided to collaborate and make this the day I go to the pen, but they did.

I'm going to focus on working on SOSAS and lock myself in my room so I don't have to deal with my family, since avoiding human interaction for the next few hours seems like my best bet.

I do have a few errands I might have to go into the city for tomorrow morning after everyone wakes up, though, and that troubles me. I mean, I can definitely handle going out and dealing with the real world. I don't really want to, but I can.

So that's where I'm at right now: annoyed and trying not to be a bitch and wishing things were different, even though that's pointless because I can't change them.

Some Stuff, About Stuff

I'm in a lot of pain right now. Did I break a leg? Cut myself? Sprain something? Nope: I went to a friend's house and got a lot of flea bites. They're swollen, because I'm allergic to flea bites, and itchy, because they're flea bites, and it sucks. Fuck fleas. Honestly, they can go to hell.

Flea bites aside, though, I've been having a (mostly) good time, as of late. But life is still weird, in the way it's always been weird, and between bursts of goodness and fun, life has been a cloudy mess of nostalgia and dread lately. Basically, it's almost fall.

To start with the good, I've had a great past couple of weeks. I promised to post more about my vacation and then never did, so to start I guess I should get into that: around a year and a half ago, my grandmother and aunt (who is not actually my aunt, but who I've always called my aunt anyway) moved out of the city to my aunt's home town, which is called Campbellton, and is a four hour drive away. I haven't seen them since. My brother, parents, and cousin had all been up to visit, and I hadn't. Since my grandma's health isn't great I've been really anxious to see her again since they left, and this past month I finally got the chance to go up with my cousin Amelia for a five day trip. The four hour drive ended up being eight hours, both ways (thanks, bus company routes!) and the trip was...wild. Good wild.

I never thought I'd get my first tattoo on a trip to Grandma's house, but I went ahead and did it anyway. Bad ass, right? Top that with a wolf and some store-bought basket food, Red Riding Hood!

Anyway, the trip was good. Amelia and I have been best friends since we were born (I was born exactly seven days before her) and we spent most of our early years together. Who we are is irrevocably tied with each other and, honestly, we're pretty damn similair: we're both creative, chaotic, passionate night-owls with a tenancy to bite off more than we can chew and get ourself into trouble like a fish gets wet.

My memories are scattered and hazy like the smoke from my grandmother's endless stream of refrigerated cigarettes: Amelia laughing out the open window of the car as we swerved around a corner, the hiss of my grandmother's ancient, bald cat as he batted at my face for daring to pet him, the fast-track, clipped accent of my aunt's seemingly infinite line up of sisters. My aunt, Josie, and her sisters, took me on a walk every night. Amelia tagged along sometimes, but other times it would be just me and Josie and one or two of her sisters, strolling along. we would point out houses we liked, tell old stories about each other, or ourselves, they pointed our local landmarks and recounted wisdom they'd picked up along their path through the years. I was consistently amazed by some of the little nuggets of humanity and wisdom I found among the cast of my vacation, which was mostly middle aged to senior women. But it was a young vacation, too. It was Milly flirting with the hot guy at the Sobey's checkout counter, it was me walking through the dark town alone in the rain, dreading coming home. It was diving back into the current at Tidehead beach and feeling new memories wash over my head like the cool water, swallowing me up to spit me out again as something new, something both older and younger.

And for the weird? Coming home was a struggle. I knew/know, in my heart of hearts, that this could be the last time I ever see/saw my Grandmother. I might have the opportunity to go up again in October with my brother, and if I do, I'll take it. If she lives through the winter, I'm going again next summer, too. Nan has been in bad health for years, and she's survived a lot longer than any of us thought she would, but I know that no matter how long she lives, I'll always regret not spending more time with her when the end inevitably comes. I've already lost one grandmother. So has Amelia. We both knew what we might be leaving behind when we climbed out of Josie's car and into the cold morning to get back on our bus. We knew, when Josie climbed onto the bus after us, tears streaking her face, to hug us again and press twenty dollar bills into our hands, what had pushed her to come after us for one final goodbye.

We both know what it's like to lose someone to time, to realize that your last goodbye was the last goodbye. I still remember Amelia's hands shaking as we hovered over our Grandmother's bedside in the dark of morning, wrapping her in hugs and whispering our goodbyes to her half-seeping form before heading out for the long trip home.

Something was coming to an end. A chapter we'd been reading so long we'd fallen in love with it. And this trip? This trip was the final scene of our beloved chapter. I know that I'm going to remember this summer, and this vacation, for the rest of my life, in some capacity.

It hasn't been all bad since I got back, either. My tattoo is now healed, and while I did miss the Saint John Pride parade, I've been out a few times. The other day I met up with my best friend, Kuma, and a friend of ours named Kevin, so we could go into the city for the day. The plan was to hit the library and hang out sketching, but instead, after checking my bank account for eight bucks and realizing I had one hundred and fifty, it turned into a wild day of walking, shopping, laughter, and sunlight that sears into the memory of the day so that you can almost feel it on your skin when you look back on it.

I bought a bunch of books, and a bunch of incense, and tea, and snacks, and lunch, and...okay, maybe I got myself a new pipe. My old one was broken, the mouthpiece is twisted. Her name is Lady Starship. The new pipe? Not twisted. Not rusted or burnt or damaged in any way. She's perfect, gleaming black metal, and her name is Black Cobra. I also got these new cigarettes (if you can call them that) that are menthol free and nicotine free.

Cute, right? I'm not a big smoker - I mean, sure, I smoke pot sometimes - and I've been known to indulge in a cherry cigar every other month, but cigarettes? Not my thing. Lung disease. Yellow fingers. Nasty. these, though? We found them in the organic food store while we were getting incense and tea and thought they're be fun to try. We chain-smoked them in Kuma's room while getting shitfaced drunk on home made wine and breaking in my new pipe. I'm not entirely sold. Kuma really liked them, since she doesn't smoke weed or actual cigarettes they make a nice, healthy alternative - but I'm not too fond. The smoke was really, really irritating, to the point where I was full on crying because ouch, my eyes! and I couldn't really taste the vanilla. And, you know, because I'm just that kind of high-class bitch, my organic cigarettes need that vanilla flavour if they want to keep me around.

We also took selfies in the Asian Market:

My point is, it was a good day. And there have been other good days. My cousin from Vancouver laughing at the table with me and my mom over a bowl of freshly picked blueberries, smoke twining in the air of my bedroom while I sit talking with my dad, an endless stream of good writing days and netflix gossip Girl marathons and so many coffees I'm sure my blood is half-caffeine now.

And yet I feel sort of...sad. Melancholy. And I'm worried. Scared, even.

I'm scared that the summer is coming to an end in a very short three days. I'm scared that I'm turning twenty years old in a few months. I'm scared that I might have to go back to daily classes soon if my homeschool-ish program doesn't work out this year, I'm scared I might never see my grandmother again. I'm scared that I'm turning into an adult. Time is passing so quickly now.

Yesterday I'd just been accepted into my first-choice high school. I was a naive, slightly-damaged but still mostly-innocent teenager who had four years to get his shit together. Today I'm a nineteen year-old who's going into my final semester (if things work out I'll graduate halfway through the academic year, as opposed to at the end of it) I'm tattooed and toughened-up. I've got new scars and new sorrows, and I'm stronger for them all. I'm a wholly different person, and I've barely had time to blink.

So who will I be in three years? Will I be the struggling writer living with his parents and working a shitty job at a Starbucks to try and get by? Will I be the published author and artist living in a tiny Toronto apartment with my best friend? Will I be single? What colour will my hair be? Where will I find room for some more scars? Who are my pets, my friends, my thoughts?

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm an adult now - or just about to become one - and it's fucking scary. Responsibility, work, regrets. I just don't want to look back in twenty years and wonder where all my time went, why I wasted all my chances. But I'm also excited.

I'm excited because I'm a self-published author with big plans to increase my readership. I'm excited because I'm finally turning into someone who isn't afraid to stand up for himself and be his own best friend. I'm excited because all these new opportunities are turning up and all I have to do is be brave enough to go after what I want.

In short what I'm saying is, nostalgia is messed up. And so is the future. And I'm sort of a mess, but it's beautiful. I have people on my team who are invaluable, like Amelia/Milly, and Kuma, and my parents, and my readers, and it's all kind of funny how things work out. If you'd asked me who I would be someday four or five years ago, I would not have told you I'd be the boy with a scar on each wrist (one still pink and healing, the etched in my flesh with ink) who had a fire in his chest and sparks in his eyes, who was a published author, who was not ashamed to look his own reflection in the eyes and say "I love you." but now I can't imagine myself as anyone else.

So that's where I'm at right now, between screeching at the MTV Scream finale and mainlining cheap instant coffee, I've been asking myself who I am and who I'm going to be. They're some tough questions. But I've learned lately that I'm tough, too, so maybe I don't have too much to worry about. I don't know what this semester, or this year, is going to be like - but I know that, through all of it, I've got me, and I've got this blog, and I think...well, I think I'm ready.

And that might be the scariest thing of all.

***
Bonus, the song that will officially remind me of this summer forever:

See you guys soon,

-Oliver