years and a complete transition: the fog is
don't spend too much time worrying about many
peoples feelings and i have
not a great deal of recollection for anyone paying
great regard for mine.
F versus T:
F's pick out other F's and find T's insensitive
not because other F's pay regard to other F's
but because F's validate F emotions. so other F's
feed into their securities and T's feed into their
feelers don't necessarily pay any more attention
to my feelings than anyone else's
but they need others to validate their emotions
and they hate that i am not as dependent on others
because it reflects their insecurities back to
also maybe i have more energy for others
because i have less issues with me?
morning is winter.
so much sleep, even my plane dreams were in
a bed, late in line, lisette,
and planning a church procession made from
that was a whole lotta dreaming.
all good til the plane took off.
nearing the end.
eleanor duffey's birthday comes every year.
marking the passage of christmas
and another year. once it does, christmas,
only 2 days old, is wrapped up again
in the history of everything and gone once
again for another year.
a beautiful round cake sits squarely in the
middle of the small table around which we eat
i'm marking the passage of time by learning to
not care; this hardening of my shell surprises
only me, i think,
as the middle of the night is used to wrestle
with fixing the gap between my life and hers;
as though mine were over;
which i must keep reminding myself it is not.
that is one of the oddest but most natural
truths i've ever known.
and carving words into the shape of a thought
is such a perfect thing to do
because it spells accomplishment, no matter
how small, and i can leave something here
to bask in the glow of electron beams and dots
which is unchanging and permanent
in a world where nothing wants to stay put.
it's been that long.
i water the Poinsettia atop the espresso
machine, we've been here that long.
people ask us if that white cabinet is new,
we've been here that long.
i've lost track of the cookbooks above the
microwave, we've been here that long.
the cement table he was going to build for me
is covered in busy kitchen things
like tomatoes both pickled in India and non
pickeled, Swiss cookies and a scale,
bananas for bread, biscotti for bob, a hair
band, a half-smoked cigar, and a bottle
of Spanish wine. we've been here that long.
and as a thirteeen year old's lamenting tone
evolves, i am free to recall a bit of history,
not the history that brought us here but the
history that is this place, this big old
gray-stone that i sink into; that becomes home
for these adults, and home for
the children who pass through it. and in late
december of 2011, its 6 empty rooms
were big and scary for a small child as we
slept on the floor, in the chilling shadow
of brightly burning love.
but that was a million years ago.
we've been here that long.
those INFPs don't know me:
i'm a sheep hiding in wool;
being kind wherever i can;
and i like it.
friday night with spanish wine: the Swiss man
reads Sci Fi;
pages and pages and pages of Sci Fi; they
can't be ripped out of the book;
since there is no book.
stealing time, my coffee and i,
one shoe on, one shoe off,
it's an annual scene which i connected to
this tree of mine, nine feet tall,
as i was hanging red balls on it's drying
something snapped into place, like a lego
block from 1948
and the importance of ritual focused in the
fore of my mind
that ritual brings meaning to this life, and
the meaning may
be only in doing the ritual, our hands all
busy in a similar dance
and watching others on facebook, that this is
the only true gift
we can pass along to our children, this
business of ritual,
this repetitive meaning we attempt to string
infp in ENTJ
many thoughts are crytsal-clearing
i joined an ENTJ group to talk about my
emotions but what i should have done was join
an INFP group to talk about ideas.
Otis Redding sings about Christmas and john
oh thinks about thoughts;
it's just another sunday morning in the orange
i made it awake before the day is half gone,
harsh java in one hand,
three times i've added more sugar.
it's an intermittent mEp in the last days of
2015, watching shiny trees appear on my feed,
people are so comforted in the mundane, drawing
them towards their similarities and not
the grass is greener on this side of the fence,
although there is no fence, el nino packs a
the year we forked out an expensive coat and new
the mom awakes
how being grounded into a stake makes me spin;
and spinning makes me grounded.
i used to see only joy
and hope but as i fade slowly into the twilight, i see
only the end of the road
and the realization that hope is merely an illusion to
which we cling and that everyone who came before you
knew this and so the only choice left is to assist in
the perpetuation of this myth until the myth becomes
i never wanted a diamond ring; nor a perfect kiss;
well, not in real life; until i knew they could be
you can love a piece of rock when the time comes.
lucky he for whom the time comes young.
i made it. we made it.
through these weeks which are great marathons of
to a silent Saturday, silent and warm, with a
hoverboard, no less.
if thoughts are words, they are processed here.
last night in the dark, i ran trough a park as it only
exists in my mind
not the park the running - trying to recall which time
space continuum i was trying to break through
in july of 2011
being on the other side now, i can only recall the
transition as painful
in spite of all it's beauty.
i knead the possibilities which will lead to a
different future for her
then conclude they won't
and i tell her stories of choosing a man who is raw
enough to see his limitations
and accept that they need changing.
everyone who likes me is not from here.
am i a stranger in my own land?
i perambulate around a theory of not belonging in a
world of people who belong.
oh how the mEp was easier when it was only about me.
i lie in bed at night
thinking what they say i cannot;
i fit into a questionnaire which isn't large enough to
i have no to-do lists; create no enemies;
i wonder what you say in your houses, behind your
while my back is turned.
i wonder which fears you harbour and how you teach
your children ill will;
for ill is learned
i am not here to correct your ways, to fix your feels,
i will not mold to your failings, your battered soul
nor your slipshod ways.
my perspective is fluid yet perfect as it flows
through the crevices
around the banal observations ,
and atop world which isn't beautiful enough for me.
the coffee perks in
the last fleeting moments that my dreams disappear.
it's a grey world which will greet the Swiss man as he
leaves to write the exam; a warmish, grey, December
the machine asks me in plain english when i would like
to schedule an update,
i seek, but never find, the answer of 'never', thank
you very much.
did i dream of the INFP
people; like a species they are all insecure;
hesitant; wishy-washy; they scare me.
yet being around them makes me feel grown up. very
grown up indeed.
i had two lovely
Bergeron (born 1968), civil
Colgan (born 1966), mechanical
Croteau (born 1966), mechanical
Daigneault (born 1967), mechanical
Edward (born 1968), chemical
Haviernick (born 1960), materials
Laganière (born 1964), budget clerk in
the École Polytechnique's finance
Leclair (born 1966), materials
Lemay (born 1967), mechanical
Pelletier (born 1961), mechanical
Richard (born 1968), materials
St-Arneault (born 1966), mechanical
Turcotte (born 1969), materials
Klucznik-Widajewicz (born 1958),
if one asks why, the answer might be
'because i can'.
then i come up empty every time, as the
machine whirrs uncontrollably under my
and i watch the battery life slowing slip
i've got eyeglasses which are shit,
a laptop which takes 6 percent battery life
to open a file,
and a Swiss man heading out the door.
not a Kleenex in site;
lyrics from the eighties in my head;
and other bits and pieces which cannot be
most of what i would really like to say
here, cannot be mentioned -
which is what makes the answer to the first
completely moot and relevant at the same
could i build a file listing everything i
could everyone build a file listing what
they cannot say
am i the only person on the planet who
desperately more than anything, wants to say
what they cannot actually say.
i know you think i'm making this up but i'm
one beautiful thing i CAN say
is re-visiting music from a beautiful time
while the music is still beautiful and
everything else about
that time doesn't matter anymore.
that i don't remember a time of not living
with someone who would get me a charger when
my battery situation was dire
even when he needed to run out the door.
amount of java;
came make me come alive;
time distorts itself around me;
i sneeze, i scratch, i wheeze.
the ENTJs are split;
amongst the gooders and the bad;
some have lives to attend to
and some are just too good at what they do.
too smart for my own good, indeed,
dueling laptops of privilege
which doesn't appear to be what it is.
pigs squeak, nothing new, scurry, swiss man sleeps,
poots, her elderself, types, in an attempt to kick
there's not much to admit here, while no one admits
anything, and others have little to admit.
there are situations such as these, fixed
consciousness such as those, and the general
treadmills of life.
i like to walk out on branches however virtual, with
strangers, and find layers of connection,
it's what i have always done here, it indeed brings me
hope. mr Oh knows this as well.