March_2015.html

the mEp.
march 2015

March 30

great big singalong time. "what's going on"

wedding planning - let it be known - needs a dash of 'WTF'
to be successful. also you need to write a song.

when do you meet 'the one' ?
no one knows. but you.

hoping to get married here:

<big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>March 29</big></big></big></big></big></big></big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> now, where was i... catching up after a week of bad sleep, i stare at thoughts passing by me; some ring over again in my mind, as i push them away, it's literally cobwebs and there's a freedom that comes with being free; a tiny smile slips through my lips; catching up on me, rounding out this mind, as i brush through it while it wakes, on sunday. march 29 stares at me, the ides have passed, a woman suffers, a man got shot, a girl is pregnant at machu pichu. this brain is about two weeks delayed to place march 29, some moments it's fine and some it's not. some harsh cruel things could happen if we let them; but we don't now, do we. instead, we write songs, no, not about ear infections, that would be harsh and cruel, we write songs to explain the different kinds of love; we write songs we write songs. ... it's a blue crisp sky with brown sticks in it it's the end of march in montreal it's always the end of something and the beginning of something else. </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>March 28</big></big></big></big></big></big></big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> people are writing blog entries in their fiftieth year; am i? no. i'm not. i don't watch milestones; i don't mark them; i don't celebrate them; i don't venerate them; what i do do, is engage in every single moment; fifty years on, i'm learning so much more about myself; what i've known since i was 14; it's all ringing true in one huge cliche of being fifty; that i live, mostly, in the moment, which is why i'm happy; that my motives are good and that the past is the past and that the future can be anything you want it to be. so in between 14 and fifty: what happens? what happens to the 'best years of your life' ? you spend them living, and living means doing shit, and to do shit you have to be motivated; and to be motivated you have to have goals; and to have goals you have to work; and to work, you have to make mistakes, and to make mistakes, you have to live. so you live. and then, you turn fifty, and if you are lucky, you come to realize what you knew all along: i was right when i was fourteen. it took me thirty-six years to learn that, which is ok i guess. well, it's ok as long as this man who makes me feel fourteen is by my side. if only someone would have told me this was possible when i was fourteen. the truth is, no one did, so i had to learn it myself, along with everything else. and i guess she will, too. </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>March 27</big></big></big></big></big></big></big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> tired headaches wake me, on friday, with colleagues a-assholin'. we need to focus, remember his self-centeredness, how little he thinks of you, and that no amount of anger will change him. by tomorrow all will be done. deep breath. coffee. 7am. already. what do you do when you are the best dancer at your own wedding and, i'm preparing to 'dance light' at my own wedding. </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big>March 25</big></big></big></big></big></big></big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>in headaches we trust there was a space here. i filled it up. &lt;&lt;this week slipped by and by week i mean monday to friday, making sandwhiches and having a life&gt;&gt; &lt;&lt;oh and being angry at many things: lack of transparency; arrogancy; closed-mindedness; double-standardness;&gt;&gt; &lt;&lt;i'm old enough to do it myself&gt;&gt;&lt;&lt;also i interact more these days with the people of the metro than i do with work&gt;&gt; &lt;&lt;the metro people need me&gt;&gt;&lt;&lt;they give me hope&gt;&gt;&lt;&lt;the metro people have battles&gt; &lt;&lt;shari laughed when i mentioned the hamburger story in the old hotel&gt;&gt;&lt;&lt;that was one supremely beautiful moment&gt;&gt; &nbsp; ...&nbsp; &lt;&lt;both the one in 1986 AND the one in 2015&gt;&gt; even though i cheated to fill a space. i don't DO spaces. nor in thought, nor in dates, nor in continuum's. there&nbsp;&nbsp; must&nbsp;&nbsp; be&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; no&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; s&nbsp; p&nbsp; a&nbsp; c&nbsp; e&nbsp; s&nbsp;&nbsp; . </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>March 20</big></big></big></big></big></big></big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>in 2015, i needn't check the date on the calendar, for google announces me spring with virtual flowers blooming. this small body grapples; this small coffee&nbsp; is not a match for what it faces on a friday morning, i'll wrap that one. with an unusual pink floyd strumming in another window, these eight fingers tapping the volume button down, it streams from another window from a cloud-distributed server system, and this aging body normally doesn't find any of this unusual until unusual things happen in life on a thursday night have you ever visited a man who got shot after watching a movie? life imitates art. artfully i need to go to work now, with less coffee than i need in me; itchy sneezy; there's still so much i cannot say - am i really so different - my head throbs - i need hot water on it. wish me better luck than yesterday, as long as your love flows over me like liquid; i'll be okay; even though i've just about had it with people; i was never much of a pink floyd person; this beautiful song might be their shortest though. "How I wish, how I wish you were here. We're just two lost souls Swimming in a fish bowl, Year after year, Running over the same old ground. What have we found? The same old fears. Wish you were here." </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>March 19</big></big></big></big></big></big></big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>i won't push my luck; not that i believe in it; </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big>March 18</big></big></big></big></big></big></big> </big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>while i gently sleep sleeping; waking; watching and waiting to appear on the other side of asleep; devices flash; public radios and Swiss men call from the hallway; my back is straight; and itchy; exactly where i cannot reach; time ticks and scratchyback has not moved; how long is 600 million years; and how can it possibly matter what on earth i do today. <a href="http://humanorigins.si.edu/evidence/human-evolution-timeline-interactive">http://humanorigins.si.edu/evidence/human-evolution-timeline-interactive </a> i'm adding a sentance here in the hopes that you don't get to the next one; i could make it boring but i won't; sitting with the pastor was fun until last night / the God session will be much, much, easier. i know much more about God than about explaining divorce to children. </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big>&nbsp; the cement table hardens. the sound of placing a glass on it is beautiful. </big></big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big>March 17</big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>tuesday tuesday. irish tuesday. my coffee is too white; the air too cold; and the alarm too early; sip, poots, sip poots. a big zero degrees in the still-white world; poots slept, and she slept, and she slept. rushing through the stillness,the coffee pot ticks. wake up neurons, one at a time. the text messages chime. green clothing is needed. i don't remember all of the phases of youth; but my mother probably didn't know any. what i know is that she is still changing; learning; adapting; growing; sometimes the only phase i know is "panic". and i'm learning that money is security; in a house with love. and. this house is love. even in it's lacking houseness. i stumble over it, in the dark, i wake up to it, and i most certainly recognize it in his face; and in mine, as i lay in his arms smiling. in the dark. this love, which came from a hopeless place and swam through a tsunami to beat it to shore, is as natural and timeless as the tectonic plates which caused the earth to shift. </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>March 16</big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>alone, in this white world, did i miss his morning kiss</big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>, as fleeting as i know it is, on monday, with class at 8. i slept the night though, waking once to print an ethics project and twice to pee, it was a long night of sleep, with dreams forgotten with the first sip of coffee, and the cement table sits between dirty dishes, drying happily. can you come here, and know really how i feel? if you cannot, then please don't come. i'm alone which is fine, even nice, but my mind races, always, mostly, usually. do i feel anything at all. disdain for the work i am a slave to, not the work per se but the lack of vision. the acceptance of not only the mediocre but of low quality work. but the numbers in my bank account are high quality,&nbsp; and as i run my nails through cement-covered bangs, neurons remind me that my tax returns are also high, which, if it be said, are high enough to clear one debt, a debt of honour, the one which allows me the freedom to grant my own wish: a fairy tale wedding without the fairy: a white limousine i never wanted but which will fill the children with such joy; and peace of mind, a piece of peace of mind. this song says it all https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uVnxP6e9i-0&amp;t=181 "You Got Me Singing" - Leonard Cohen / Album of the Year Juno Awards 2015. You got me singing Even tho’ the news is bad You got me singing The only song I ever had You got me singing Ever since the river died You got me thinking Of the places we could hide You got me singing Even though the world is gone You got me thinking I’d like to carry on You got me singing Even tho’ it all looks grim You got me singing The Hallelujah hymn You got me singing Like a prisoner in a jail You got me singing Like my pardon’s in the mail You got me wishing Our little love would last You got me thinking Like those people of the past </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big>&nbsp; </big></big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big>March 15</big></big></big></big></big></big></big> beware, the ides of march. the Romans did not count forward in the calendar, instead they counted backwards from three points. the Nones, the Ides, and the Kalends. <big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>more sleep for poots. the theatre itself left me more impressed than the piece; an old fire station, and a special evening of rainy snow, it's the edge of the beginning of summer, we smell it in the melting sidewalks; we feel it in the heavy snow; we sense it in the spirits of the patrons crowding the entrance to the theatre. this was in fact a well-heeled crowd; moderate if creative; and for some reason mostly attractive in their youth. </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>the theatre: caserne no. 9 (firestation 19) <a href="http://www.espacelibre.qc.ca/articles/saison-2014-2015/les-oiseaux-mecaniques-du-4-au-14-mars">lesoiseauxmecaniques</a> and now it's another white morning; cross-legged, i sit in the darkness, waiting. hoping, ultimately, hoping, in the way that i have expectations not congruent with the rest of the planet, yet, i am accustomed of it, i am not forlorn, i am acting, really, although , well, no, i am not acting . today, in the city of montreal, a cement table was born. <img alt="tabla" src="cement_table_web.jpg" width="479" height="359"> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big>March 14</big></big></big></big></big></big></big> a day off. 8:19 AM <big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>at the end of a very long night of sleep, i ended up at the checkout counter, my mother in front of me, my sister behind. the conveyor was laden with meat. </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; march 13, missing here, was in the end, an eventful day. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; lots of emails, delivering phones, retrieving envelopes, looking at new cars, income taxes done, dinner made, love made. </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>i meet differing twitter personalities; knowing people virtually means that the judgmental judge quicker but those of us who have always been willing to give people a chance still do so here; the social norms of yesteryear are broken down and reconstructed; they somewhat resemble their former self; the Hungarian man from Edmonton prefers positivity; the word-man from Toronto is cynical; they don't like each other much; and the man i blocked because he was condescending is arrogant and probably didn't have a very nice mother. </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> &nbsp; </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>the new rodent greets me with a request for parsely which he would stuff in his pouch as though it were the very last piece of straw on the </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>planet, and in his youthfulness, hangs from the top bars of the cage before dropping into the paper and running on the wheel. i haven't yet told him he's not going anywhere, but I'm sure he knows. if the spider knows i am going to kill him, the rodent most certainly knows he ain't going anywhere on that wheel. in other real life news, the car needs repair, and although i have sworn many things about that car, including that i would not drive it, i find myself re-thinking past decisions yet again. i spent yesterday doing some pretty amazing math. the Swiss man came not only with a really great old car, but with the uncanniest ability to convince me to change my mind. no one has ever had the ability to do this, and, i hopped on that light brigade for a fantastic ride in 2011, and i hope it never ends. apparently today is 'pie' day (3.14.15) </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big>March 12</big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> even a spider knows danger. how can such a tiny brain know danger. </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>in the dark, poots managed to sleep, and wake up. a hamster called avery runs in a cold, dark room, and this rodent found a chair near the heater, and ten whole minutes. the cycle is definitely complete. i have come through the end of the tunnel, maybe it's called spring, poked my head about, and found that the world is a better place, love is in fact the only option, and that the positivity that is faith, helps. i can't recall ever quite feeling the cycle so clearly; it's as though a shell has cracked from around me and i have emerged with new skin. yet i am not naive; but i feel connected in a way i rarely have; yet connected to what, is hard to say. anger still rises, and the heavy heart that comes with knowing she will have her own path, no matter how similar to mine. perhaps preparing for yet another marriage is giving me strength: giving me hope: helping to feed the connection: making me feel less alone. i could write about jean vanier, if i was granted another ten minutes, i could pay the bills, i could buy a car, as i listen to mr. vanier speak about the humanity of the mentally ill, i realize that i too see this humanity he speaks of; i was born with this ability and for the first time in my life as i write this i wonder if my life might have been better spent giving. </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> it's not a poetic morning but i slept i feel human it is 7:00. </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big></big></big></big></big></big><big></big><big><big><big> </big></big></big><big><big><big> </big></big></big></big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>March 11 </big></big></big></big></big></big></big>&nbsp;</big><big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>religion used to be a private thing. </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>March 10 </big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>"I don't know what I think until I write it down" </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big> </big></big></big><big><big><big> </big><big> </big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>at the outset of the mEp i often quoted joan didion without knowing it. she was considerably younger then, at 69. </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <div align="justify"> <div align="justify"><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> it's not entirely true, as i am quite capable of knowing what i think without writing it down per se; </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <div align="justify"> <blockquote> <div align="justify"><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>but i most certainly do have to speak it otherwise my thoughts are a mess of jabberwashy darting and flitting about like a fart-jet</big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> and she named her beautiful adopted daughter Quintanna Roo, who died at 39, after having just been married the year before.</big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> her life in one paragraph sounds fantastic, apart from the two tragedies, which transpired only after having been married for 40 years.</big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> they were inseparable,&nbsp; and i can easily imagine the sounds of their leather heels clicking on the sidewalks of the upper east side as they</big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> strolled towards central park.</big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big> </div> <div align="left"><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></div> </blockquote> </div> </div> </div> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> 16:04 tuesdays. and all the other days. </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <div align="justify"><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>either be happy; or be sad; the smiling face of brenda brisson flashes through my mind every time i contemplate this; it most certainly is a choice ; a choice fed by expectations of the world around us ; mine are high ; is that perhaps another thing the Swiss man and I have in common? he has not done his homework. tonight is number two in our pre-marriage counseling sessions; that sounds silly to everyone who knows me; however i look forward to them with everything i have; contemplation about my life and my decisions are the most important thing i do; choosing to love him is the second. </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></div> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>March 9</big></big></big></big><big><big><big> </big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big>apres-internationalwoman'sday</big></big></big><big><big><big> </big></big></big><big><big><big> </big><big> </big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>just the mention of it makes me angry; i am not quick to anger; but it's a prison of a world when you cannot ask for something; when you must scream and shout to be heard: when you get blamed for rape. yes, you get blamed for rape. i have found my place: i have found my cause: i have found my mantra: it's a logical thing for me to find but who knew it would be so angrifying. i wanted to write beautiful words here: that is all i ever wanted to do, actually rearrange words to create beauty: something you could not take your eyes off of: stories which paint themselves; prizes or not; either you understand them or you don't and if you don't then i don't care to know you. there are hurdles being overcome, no one would guess, reading this veiled prose, so let me mention it i am on the other side of so many things now and that brings a smile to my face even as i recall yesterday on the other side of love/ on the other side of hate/ of families/ of tables/ of home/ and i did it my way. </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big>March 8</big></big></big></big><big><big><big> </big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big>apres-ski</big></big></big><big><big><big> </big><big> </big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>poots and the Swiss man went skiing. do not tell me what a house is; nor what is a door; nor what is a table; this is my world, i chose it, do not lament. and when God is your designer, there is no bad house. no bad table.</big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big>the Pastor says: my world is about ideas: the Swiss man says: many people do not like this. could it be so simple? then why don't i understand still? </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big><big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big> </big></big></big></big></big></big></big></big> <big><big><big><big><big>March 4</big></big></big></big><big><big><big> </big></big></big><big>another cycle begins.</big><big> </big><big> </big><big><big><big><big><big>like the monsoons, i too, am cyclical. some parts of the cycle are more obviously, the beginning, and i wonder, why is there an obvious beginning if i try to describe it, in my best veiled words, i get: realization/seeking/badding/loving/contemplation/changing/soaring/connecting/total confidence/ perfection/arrogance/lonliness/anger/lonliness/ action/hope/planning/renewal/forgiveness/remembrance/ freedom/épanouissement/embracing/loving/stretching/creating/hopingitwillalwaysbethisway. the part i haven't figured out? how to stop the cycle here. right here. right here where i am now; for this is the stage on which i acknowledge the cycle exists; which is the only place from which it can exist at all. </big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big> </big></big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big>March 3</big></big></big></big><big><big><big> </big></big></big><big>Katja's chapter </big><big> </big><big><big><big><big><big>no fish-watching today; i was woken abruptly by a long overdue facebook paragraph, seventy-two words to describe an entire year, a lifetime, and perhaps one chapter in my book.&nbsp; we each have our stories, with different names, different faces; but in the end the story is all the same. which i suppose, comforts us all. this night of sleep was not a night of sleep but of eight hundred times i closed my eyes. so even after climbing a mountain to drink only a pepsi, poots was deceived by sleep, cheated by sobriety, and tossed onto a pile of sheets like a dirty hanky, messy bangs and all. shin splints for walking to the subway, alone nonetheless, missing the enjoyment of the sunshine by your side, but the truth i hold on to as i sing this love song on the escalator grows. </big></big></big></big></big><big><big><big><big><big> </big></big></big></big> <big>March 2</big> </big></big> <big><big><big><big>eight fifteen and a longest night countries in africa are not safe what happened to them it's monday and we have jobs the shower calls the lunches prepared tomorrow is tuesday i'm awake but not woken mary anne runs thru my mind and that's a good thing even though she ignored me i'll erase this later. </big></big></big><big> </big></big> <blockquote><big><big><big><big>March 1</big></big></big></big> <big><big>Roger</big></big> </blockquote> <big><big> <img alt="roger" src="10153995_10152764677903651_7930838710224434442_n.jpg" align="left" width="452" height="337" hspace="18"> </big></big> <div align="justify"><big><big><big><big><big><big>if </big></big></big></big>i were to frame friday night, which enclosed and exposed this entire weekend, i would say that a tall Swiss man has moved people to become more than they were, in more meters than i will ever be, and that a twinkle in a man's eye calls to everyone, everyone who is paying any attention. and without layering anyone down to their gracious core, for he cannot be parcelized, it is still imperative to point it out; for it is rare indeed; to energize so many, in such a unique way, and bring together strangers, as if mysteriously united</big></big><big><big> by the common passion you have ignited in them. </big></big> <big><big></big></big></div> <big><big> let us hold back our tears and watch you light another part of the world on fire. </big><big><big>adieu.</big> </big></big> <blockquote> <blockquote><big><big><big><big>i guess we are all writers; </big></big></big></big> <big><big> <big><big>we are all photographers; </big></big></big></big> <big><big> <big><big>we all have eyes and we all have words.</big></big></big></big> </blockquote> <big><big></big></big></blockquote> <big><big> </big></big> <div align="center">the mEp ... aka my Electronic pen . . . the 2015 edition ...and all of the contents therein are copyright&nbsp; <a href="http://www.vif.com/users/louern/">Poot's Place</a> &nbsp; 1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012 and 2013, 2014, and 2015. All photography original unless otherwise credited.<a href="mailto:%20louern@vif.com">&nbsp; louern@vif.com</a></div> </blockquote> </blockquote> </blockquote> </blockquote> </body> </html>