Big Head Tag-along

That was my nickname for a time.

Not sure it would apply quite the same anymore, but what does, really?  There is still truth in it, so it sticks like syrup to my persona and its perception.

Some people, I look forward to seeing.  I get excited every time and imagine how it will be.  It is never how I imagine it, of course, and there is a certain distancing in the resulting disappointment as my mind attempts to realign imagination with reality.

I forget the distance, however, and build them back up in my mind prior to our next encounter, ignoring the sensemble that it will all feel wrong again.  That I will feel wrong again.

Big head tag-along.

Other people, I forget – in the time apart – how they make me feel when we see one another, and am swept up in giddy surprise each time.  My mind struggles to hold onto those feeling during the in between times, but it ultimately fails, and the sensations of emotions I felt in those moments fade away into the moments passing by us afterward.

Most people I just don’t think much about until I’m given cause to remember; to recollect and forget again soon after.

Memory is a funny thing.  It can be so strong as to keep the past alive in us, yet often in flimsy incomplete fragments, as those life has been lived as glimpsed through a veil by someone else; there and not there.  Ours and not ours.

My connection to the present world and its inhabitants is as vague and fragile as the memories between the moments.  It’s easy to sometimes wonder if they ever really there at all, the connections, or if I am just glimpsing yours, and tagging along for a spell.

Only to forget again in the moments in between.


I dreamed about a friend last night, one I haven’t seen in a couple of years now, but who was – at one point – one of the closest friends I had in the world.

We haven’t just not seen one another – he pretty much dropped off the face of the Earth once he was laid off from where we worked together. We hadn’t been as close once I moved to a different department, but the love was always still there.

I miss him a lot. I’ve dreamed of him often since then – that I’d bump into him somewhere and basically be, like, “Dude WTF? You can’t just exit my life like that!”

Last night’s dream was different, because I dreamed that he still worked here, and that we were the only people working in that department again, but that he was quitting. I remember thinking the HR Manager would be shocked when she got back from her vacation (which she is on in real life). There was something so familiar and comfortable about just being around him again in the dream. We were an amazing team work-wise, and even better as friends outside of work. It kind of boggles my mind how much we’ve been through together. Relationship ups and downs, illnesses, emotional trauma of varying sorts – I helped him choose the engagement ring he gave to his now-wife, he called me when “SHE SAID YES”, I was there the day they brought their newborn son home from the hospital, and I can’t count the number of times we went out together after work just to talk through whatever was going on in our lives. He took very good care of me, both at work and as a friend. He went with me to my first appointment with a new therapist, and from then on, every time I saw her, I’d tell him all about the session after.

Usually over beer.

I miss that guy so freaking much sometimes. Like now.

This morning I woke up thinking I might just show up at his door on Halloween, because I know he’ll be there doing his thing for his favourite holiday. I also found him on LinkedIn and sent him a request to connect on there, as it would be a start, at least. Obviously we won’t be hanging out every day like we used to, or anything, but any bit of something is much better than the nothing we’ve had in the past couple of years.

We have a lot of catching up to do, after all, and I refuse to just let that one go.

Bikes and Forts

It’s nice outside today, so I went for a long-ish walk with Mr Brodykins.  Along the way, we passed a small dead-end, cul-de-sac street where upon children played on a tire swing and had a game of street hockey on the go.  I almost paused to take a photo, as if capturing someone else’s moment would somehow preserve it in time and make it mine.

I have plenty of my own moments, however, so we carried on our way.  It did manage to conjur up my memories of some of those similar childhood antics, though.

I think, even though we also played street hockey and had swings, with us it was more bikes and forts.  It was small town Ontario in the 70’s and early 80’s, and we didn’t even lock our doors for at least part of that.  We went out to play, the whole village was our playground, and the main rule was that we had to be home before the streetlights came on.  Which we failed at on a regular basis, arguing that there was no way to know WHEN the lights would come on, so how could we know when to start heading home?

Um…because it was starting to get dark?


We were always out on our bikes.  And when we weren’t physically riding, there were no locks or bike racks.  We just tipped them over and left them by the side of the road until we needed them again.  En masse, usually.  That’s how we knew where to find one another.

Ramps were a big thing, too.  Anything from an uneven sidewalk to a plank leaning on a stack of newspapers would service as a means to a jump.  We destroyed so much stuff, yet still survived to tell the tale.  Remarkably, looking back on it now.

Someone not me had a Green Machine.  I’m still kind of jealous of that.

Anything could serve as a fort, too.  Blankets, of course, or a section flattened out of long grass or lilac bushes, a platform in a tree.  Playing indoors, we even used books opened and standing in a ‘v’ and lined up to create rooms and the like.  Sometimes less creative areas served as forts, as well.  Like the old ice cream trailer thingy.  Until the police got involved, of course.


For a while, a group of us created our own version of The A-Team.  Except without the helping people thing.  I was the only girl, so of course I was Hannibal.  The minister’s son got to be Amy.  We set up a bank account that eventually closed with something like $0.14 or something in it.  We’d had a bit more in it, but we’d decided to build a wee fire and have hot dogs.

We were pretty hardcore.