winter, interrupts. us.
backstory upon backstory.
December 31that would be the last day of 2014.
more coffee, please.
i am not a sentimental person, however writing that might be counter-intuitive.
am i sentimental about being UN-sentimental? maybe.
Rumi says : Everything about yesterday has gone with yesterday, Today, it is needed to say New Things.
Welcome to the mEp, where every day is a new day; every yesterday yesterday.
Yesterdays collect dust; even in the mEp, where each one of them beckons it's words to me, reminds me of sentiments great and small,
piling on top of one on each as toys in an attic, they are only collecting dust on the digital cave, only waiting for the next one to appear,
since they, and their sentiments, are gone as each day passes. and perhaps that is in fact the entire point of the mEp, to lay to rest each thought,
each moment, leaving room for the next, cleaning out cobwebs (as i have done here), and making a tidy space for entirely new thoughts,
whatever they may be. yes, sometimes we whitewash similar ideas, but we always try to use a new brush.
and, if i read through those words, penned electronically so many years ago, i can re-organize them as follows:
i have unbecome conservative;
i have not only become netarrati but i think i have helped defined it.
i still don't talk about endings; and, as i read those cobwebbian words; i see that i have lied; i have lied or i have truthed beyond me:
because i am still lonely; chairs are still uncomfortable; and the vision with which i see the world around me has not really changed.
of course there is one important crack in the bedrock. and that came on june seventeenth of the year two-thousand and eleven.
and that crack, that cataclysmic, electron-scattering bang rang in a new era in my life, a permission, a valley and a mountain, and
a belief in something i never before understood, and that is of course, the inexplicable methodology by which that love i was given one day wraps itself around another human being, who then wraps it back around me, making a permanent bond.
i never had a lover. and i say that in the wuthering heights sense, which i can do, since i have one now.
and the coffee definitely still warms my soul.
Tomorrow is another day.
December 30as the java moves toward tepid, poots remembers that she slept all night. imagine that.
on facebook, ice pools and idealism woke me this morning, now that's an interesting juxtaposition.
no, normally i'm veiled, says frankie, and says me, how unveiled can i be, without juxtapositioning everyone right out of my life...
winter returns for a while, poots body a bit shaky, some nervousness seeps out, while alone, and physically lonely.
all i ask is that the coffee remains hot until i'm done here, why is that so much to ask. as the last PMS of this end of year cycle
lashes out, at me, at the fish, at the kleenex box. and that's a million kleenex boxes to you.
no objectivity this morning, texts, what day is it, sunny videos from el salvador, people are far away.
December 29post-modern parties have hashtags; even if no one uses them. (if a party has a hashtag and no one uses it, did the party ever happen)
poots raises her feet next to the gurgling fish, while the small wooden table remains in party position.
small piles of small gifts are on chairs and tables, smelly things, and buttery things, and more smelly and chocolate things over there.
cookbooks, two, Greek and shiny, as i rotate my shiny ring, i've never had a shiny ring, i've never had a real engagement ring, i've never written so badly, and i'm looking forward to something, although i'm not sure what.
frissons during the night had this poot clinging onto elbows as they were found in the dark; breathing into strong armpits, a bit sweaty, a bit alone,
a bit too much of a hashtag. #notanothersazerac
i'm tagging them and they are silent: dr. canton didn't respond to my last missive: the assumption is that love is a lonely place:
it lives on a mount, as alone as death itself, and only peering ones from the outside mimic it's joy; they follow it's lead;
but they never really behold it as truth.
once in a while, i'm ok with that.
i hope i was kind enough.
what i did not tell everyone that the unofficial impetus for that party was a celebration of the people i invited.
December 28the normally unwashed parts are washed;
the lasagnes are in the fire escape, safe from the squirrels;
the lemons are shined; the Zuepfe baked
i avoided the oddly colored gin, along with the headache;
the party is ON.
so many people merely pass thru this place; UN-preoccupied with getting the most out of things
they sit on a track, any track that passes, watching, mimicking, happy to just copy the world around them.
then there's the Swiss man and I: beating down life's door, asking every question there is to be asked, tasting every pleasure we can get our hands on, and never, but never, accepting the reality which is served to us.
December 27so it's all about bodily parts today, Eleanor Duffy's birthday, and cooking.
lots and lots of cooking.
writing paragraphs backwards now, poots moves rooms in accordance. it's a joyful poot, in spite of the next paragraph,
it's a slept-poot, in spite of some ringing ears, and it's a slightly nervous poot, as the numbers on the calendar count up
to the 28th, which day will fill this lower duplex with people from east and west, some drinking absinthe for undoubtedly the first time,
and many, wondering how much the Swiss man paid for the shiny piece of metastable allotrope of carbon on my finger.
poots body decided on it's own, as it has done regularly for the past 3 years, to concatenate life events with bodily ones.
in some late-menarchal conspiracy, her reproductive organs conduct some kind of symphony of aligning itself with major life events;
the kinds of events which require my full attention; my full energy; and would drain even a well trained athlete. although it's nice to feel womanly, as one ages, the cooincidence has now happened more times than not, and is no longer a coincidence, but a bona fide plot.
now, if i knew the purpose of the scheme....
maybe the wedding dress should be red.
it's a funny thing to be in love.
there's an organ in my chest which i didn't learn about in anatomy class, in those tall stuffy towers.
sure, there's one which pumps oxygen-low blood out the vena cava and oxygen-rich blood back into the other side via the aorta; but i can't imagine how it continues doing while simultaneously expanding to fill my rib cage;
so there must be another one in there; it seems to connect all of the connective tissue, bones and erythrocytes,
into something i cannot recall ever learning about, in class, nor outside of it.
so that when, while you sleep, the small pads on the undersides of my warm toes meet yours and wrap themselves under them in a mini midnight union, this non-existent but very real organ i am not sure i ever knew, reminds me that somehow, everything is going to be all right.
even if no one believes you.
December 26fish look happy.
girlfriend looks happy.
well, that's One way to find out who is reading the mEp.
no one knows how much i love you;
and it's the best loneliest feeling i know.
December 24Lights are hung with the care of my back required;
Stockings are hidden since they are already full;
Saint Nick by any other name, has already come in several European countries
and my budget is blown before the party began.
7:29 am first sip
Don't harness my thoughts; don't tell me what I can, and cannot, say.
aging, at once scary and close, at once distant and remote, arrives with a sound-bell at six am.
this world; this flacid, empty world; pales in comparison; to it's former self;
it is tarnished in it's years, as the shiny rhodium is removed from white gold;
leaves behind only atrocities; aching joints; and shit, for sale.
and then we have to hang around just a little bit more, pretending we're okay with it.
dear allan wong and men who post chicks in bikinis in the parking cabin at the Metro:
just because something doesn't affect you doesn't mean it doesn't have an effect on you.
leave my daughter's self esteem, and her tits, out of Christmas, please.
a small, round, beast visits.
and yes, Goliath my love, this is the tiny organism which slays you.
on this shortest day of the year, the coffee is more bitter as poots rips apart the insides of her cheek, frantically, while racing for the next sip, odd tasting with a winter virus visiting her. it won't get the best of me although it knocked her out of cookie duty at eight on a saturday night.
mark sirois, dare i say his name, after not having spent enough time with his alogrithms, has grossly mal-predicted the pre-Chrismas weather, and as such, has been down-graded by yours truly. the Swiss man didn't seem to care when i told him that.
the Swiss man does care about christmas, though, along with most of the rest, while there is no magic left in it, this last of the greatest non-Hallmark holidays has turned into the same, for me, as i've walked through the other side of it, now seemingly on my own.
laying, sweaty, between cold weather sheets, i contemplated the importance of thinking you know everything, wrote a wedding speech, pictured myself at my own mother's hypothetical wedding, and i smiled in the dark as the swiss man emptily and silently embraced me for longest night of the year.
December 19pitch black in the northern hemisphere; sunny photos on facebook; gurgling fish tanks; it's nearly christmas.
friday 6:56 AM
candy shops are embraced by everyone in these pre-christmas days, as we dance in the aisles with silver dragees.
my lemon centerpiece will be magnificent.
was i asleep? am i rested, as i yawn through this darkness. are my shoulders down, are there drumsticks in the fridge,
a shiny ring on my finger, and four hundred percent interest on my credit card.
what could be counted today;
not ideas, certainly.
yes, i know, to you, it looks like i'm not interested.
what you don't know is that i've been where you are:
i've done what you've done:
now it's my time to rest.
December 18one more day
sleepy. in a good way.
one more time
one more sunset baby i'd be satisfied
but then again
i know what it would do
leave me wishin still
for one more day with you.
December 17getting to Chinatown was simple
made it through the night
but eating enough food to get me through the night
was not. but i made it. here i am. a symphony plays in my ears;
the fish gurgle. i need a kleenex.
what's the backstory today, breathing is useful, more caffeine required.
how is it possible to tweet to forty three thousand followers with not ONE reply.
magical mystery tour
reclilned on the pink sofa, facing a still-white world which mark Sirois didn't predict; poots sneezes twice into the air.
HAAACHOO. HAAACHOO. she isn't sick: au contraire: she feels better in her bones than she has in a long, long, while.
as comfort prevails, the tepid java gets precariously low. ears ring, as they are want to do, but i am determined to get a word out.
rob brimmer thinks i'm cool, and school photos are popular on facebook.
but really, there's a backstory to every backstory. the one that cannot be published.
today's backstory might sound like such:
It's amazing what might make you happy.
oscillating from normalcy and back again, for example.
i live in their world, so their rules might make me happy once in a while.
otherwise there's not much to say today: positive energy is back:
vacation is coming: santa came already:
and this little lady has her thoughts lost in a wonderous romantic magical summer tour over land and water to the sea, to the sea.
as we all know, dreaming is free.
...and i can't figure out why the bear won't work.
it's a different world for me
that's not my bear:
it's nose is too scratchy
will i ever be that bear again, enough to talk of disease and nuns, when did i become not that bear, and, as the Swiss man laments,
was i ever that bear.
sunday. papa turns 82.
it's Sunday morning and the world is still white.
jet engines roar under low cloud, this sound is comforting to me, a very crazy thing.
the room is dark. the room is warm. the variation in our bedsheets is high. this variation is only comforting when the bed is warm.
the Swiss man snores awake, mentions panic, temporal or not, who knows.
i run through scenarios, in the night, a multi-million times. useless, thrown out scenarios, until Liz whispers in my ear, "go to sleep "
and have we created demi-Gods of modern writers: they guide us: they allow us to say things we otherwise could not say. those of us who need them.
this is not poetic. this is not personal. but it allows me to organize my thoughts from my emotions. the spaghetti in my brain, it needs ordering, in the same way Hungarian women carefully align noodles. i won't say more about them, the emotions i have packaged only confirm to me a slight amount of psychopathic tendencies. so here i am, discussing them, finally, after many years, although they can still be normal if i just never mention them.
the Swiss man snores asleep, now. and if you believe what i write here in face value, as though it was the actual truth, then i feel sorry for you,
everything that is important to me is hiding between these lines, masked, serenading in semi-truths, veiled, it's all a lie, all of it.
i have said it now. i am smiling now. perhaps that is all there is to say. that i simply cannot say anything at all.
December 13 or 12/13/14
what i'm learning on about.me
describing me is impossible.
what one headline describes me? that i am still crazy? (not true)
that sincerity is all i care about? (not true)
that i want to connect with people? (but only the good ones)
i am not sure about.me is for me.
then again, that would just be the seven hundredth thing that isn't.
will i ever fucking fit in, anywhere, but in this man's arms?
today is someone's birthday; i don't remember whom
and yesterday i had a chat, in bed, akin to doom
although the day was terrible, i fought it off at night
in methods wild and wonderful, to thee i held on tight.
i was always so content with being different: it raised me up: it defined me: it still does
but as wisdom mellows like an old claret, moments of glory are fewer and further,
truths seem to seep through my thinning skin, the world becomes scarier, less forgiving,
and with all the principles i've scratched through my flesh for forty-nine years,
they are, all of a sudden, failing me, when no one listens to a young beautiful woman,
no one, in this world, certainly ever listens to an aging beautiful woman,
as all the ailing participants, lost in their own way, look to hallmark holidays
to define themselves in this aging, less forgiving, world.
the debeers diamond, you fake, you modern invention, you hallmark of gluttony and disgrace,
you fucking disgust me, as you sit in a board room and shine on ring fingers,
and possibly actually represent a love as pure as mine.
how dare you reveal your meaning to me like this, at this time in my life.
there are only two ways to see the truth: and that is not at all.
and it snows. and it snows.
this is Canada.
bravely sipping in the dark as the Swiss man tiptoes, groans, worries.
i've got about fifteen minutes, now eleven, stolen, from myself, one has to steal time for oneself.
i had thoughts, but now must wait. just because we're all grown up doesn't mean there are more like-minded individuals.
the coffee pot ticks. the new heater, completely silent. fish gurgle.
re-writing words that define 'about me' is not the easiest thing i've done lately.
which parts do i want to convety, which are important, and now, i have exactly seven minutes remaining.
seven minutes to kick-start the poot-brain; filter what matters; and spew it out here...
i never thought i would be a feminist: and now, i'm the worst kind.
i don't want to be the worst kind. the worst kind of anything never matters. never produces. never helps.
but i do, honestly believe, that this is where i was meant to get to.
and there is some comfort,
i don't want to see her jiggling tits.
those sexy faces you want me to click on are abhorrent.
and the seventy foot tall poster of the seventeen year old girl selling Victoria's secret shit downtown revolts me.
no matter how sexy and beautiful society has taught me that they are.
one minute to touchdown, and, that's as good a thought as any for today.
oh, that and gas-lighting. that is next on my list.
God Only Knows.
i may not always love you;
but as long as there are stars above you;
you never need to doubt it;
i'll make you so sure about it;
God Only Knows
What I'd be Without You.
don't get so lost in your own mind that you fail to see the obvious;
when you are pushed to the limit, look as closely as possible;
you are probably wrong.
it's not just a love song.
of the week, i had words, where are they now.
of subjects we can't write about.
of subjects we can certainly not talk about.
oh twitter, where art thou.
Geneviève Bergeron (born 1968), civil engineering student
Hélène Colgan (born 1966), mechanical engineering student
Nathalie Croteau (born 1966), mechanical engineering student
Barbara Daigneault (born 1967), mechanical engineering student
Anne-Marie Edward (born 1968), chemical engineering student
Maud Haviernick (born 1960), materials engineering student
Maryse Laganière (born 1964), budget clerk in the École Polytechnique's finance department
Maryse Leclair (born 1966), materials engineering student
Anne-Marie Lemay (born 1967), mechanical engineering student
Sonia Pelletier (born 1961), mechanical engineering student
Michèle Richard (born 1968), materials engineering student
Annie St-Arneault (born 1966), mechanical engineering student
Annie Turcotte (born 1969), materials engineering student
Barbara Klucznik-Widajewicz (born 1958), nursing student
end of the week, i had words, where are they now.
of subjects we can't write about.
of subjects we can certainly not talk about.
oh twitter, where art thou.
if i dabble in subjects private, where does lust fall.
in the education continuum; or not at all?
birds and bees can fly
but lust, like dust, is dormant
for a child.
Really loudly ringing
ringing in my head; drowning out all the rest; weak bones; ONE day of rest, i had, ONE day. trembling fingers, ringing phones, ringing ears, nothing can be done. bad sleep.
but if we train ourselves: it's the 4th. if we train ourselves: it's payday. the world is out there: nothing is really waiting for you, except a twelve year old with a missing gym shirt: and perhaps Sheila, and an overstuffed stomach, in the morning, signalling super bad sleep and baggy eyes. ugh ugh ugh. grab some optimistic comparisons. even sittin, cross-legged in this bed is hard, with eyes closed it spins. however. one part of you is still working. cross your fingers.
and we do train ourselves: we. that's the royal we. perhaps we don't all need training. those are the lucky ones, who do not. i thought of that yesterday on the escalator. with the masses. whom i hate as a group and adore as individuals.
tonight, i won't be able to be myself; the day is over when its begun in this case; it might as well be tomorrow, or Christmas, or something else.
i'm not tired. i'm just tired of this.
Really, Really loudly Ringing.
not Christmas music.
My ears. my tired, sleep-deprived, shrilly ringing, ears.
Tuesday. Really, Really, cold.
if i were to describe today, there would be biting cold wind, a trip to buy clams, and a single meeting where i earned my keep.
winter has slapped us in the face; no regard for boots; for our lingering memories of summer; nor for the chill in our hearts;
there is only one tunnel for such a thing, and that is the tunnel bored right through it: staring it right in the face; as though it knows it is cruel;
with biting winds which strip and chip at thin layers of humanity; walks in the park; chats with neighbors; any notion of camaraderie outside;
these are not possible suddenly; stolen; and the winter boxes are still deep in the closet...
in the bleak midwinter
cold precedes it
if i were to describe yesterday, there would have been grand french restaurants, grand dining guests, a reservation, and a meeting early in the day.
then, there was nothing. nothing at all.
the mEp ... aka my Electronic pen . . . the 2014 edition
...and all of the contents therein are copyright Poot's Place
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