february 28th 2015
that was dumb
dragging myself through this hangover
was it a fitting sendoff
for a tall man
and on facebook
i see a large backyard and a large pool flanked by large houses.
and i actually see resources, work, and responsibility
which used to be things only the weirdos saw.
february 27th 2015
You Are Gone
l used to keep everything tightly wrapped up
in a ball
in my hand
opening it is very hard
because you don't want to know
what i have to say
to tell you what a friend does or doesn't do
and what's the point
i can't change you
so my wise words
are still for you
just tattered and torn
i reach out the crumpled ball
i flip my hand
i open it
but you're gone
Today, on every second Friday, I'm alone here with the ticking fish.
i dreamt of facebook, no surprise, and I slept, through the night,
until Friday came.
The word people have overnight llama tweets;
The Opera people delighted us all, who delight in laughter, and folly,
and anyone painting white sets with holes and lights in them.
with ringing ears, i sip, i rearrange, i alt-tab to the other world,
'red tights' is written in my hand in blue, as it fades it's the same colour as my veins,
and i wonder about Mary Anne
february 26th 2015
let me wake to morning light, you by my side, while the coffee slowly percolates into my brain
as i recalls dreams even my dream world could not comprehend, with a ticklish heart, smooth nerves,
and then lyrics from a love song written in 1972. and after i have penned these words, everything seems okay,
from the hell-bent evening consoling parents while we dragged their children into small apartments laden with the cheap beer cans of a romantic phD student, the overheard discussions of tweens soon teens, french fries and cold montreal alleys, to a soon explanation of purses and dresses.
february 25th 2015
it dawned on me today, that people who haven't been married thrice may think we are 'trying' to get it right each time and failing.
when you went to the Opera three times, did you go the second time because you failed the first?
february 24th 2015
i'm not sure i'd like the kinds of surprises he describes.
rushing to sit still in a place i can't even write here,
a night of perfectly uneven sleep
left me humming james taylor tunes,
thinking about rivers flowing down the street,
singing james taylor tunes,
and really, really angry.
oh sleep whereforart thou and how can thy be ruined in the ring of a phone call from Switzerland.
do i want to drag you on my back in this cold,
i think not.
sometimes there is a disconnect between beauty, surprises, and sex.
if only in my mind.
trembling, i'll run out the door to freeze to be silent and still.
there's no other choice for today
with bad sleep on my side.
and i'm slowly remembering - as i came out of the shower - there were three times to my life -
the young and the beautiful, the middle and the child-rearing, and the end which finally understands everything put together;
like a final resting place, your arms, my evolving maturity, and the understanding of all that came before.
lucky thee who find one person to match all three of these: lucky, invincible, thee.
am i supposed to have a comment section?
february 23rd 2015
why is it so beautiful when a woman laughs,
her joy lighting up a room;
is it so rare, like a Gem,
that she should delight
does it help you deal with the gravity of life,
or a darkness i know not of.
does it mean she laughs with you,
or at you,
and which is it you prefer,
sailing over the darkness of your world,
or pretending you are folly,
or still a child
does it make her intelligent, that she understands wit,
or give you hope that some exists,
is it the relief from ownership,
the glint of sunshine,
or a momentary reprieve from the inability to make her happy.
or just a chance to get laid (his words not mine)
lydia chiussi says i was charming in high school.
sunday, february 22nd
i used to use this space to call out old friend's birthdays, but since they would never do such a thing for me, i'll stop now.
charming is not ever, a word anyone has ever used to describe me.
how loverly is that.
patterns of war. you have patterns of war, i used to have patterns of love,
but i am making new patterns now.
saturday, february 21stin this bleak midwinter, there is finally food in that big black fridge.
survived 5 days with little/no alcohol, the Ricard's Red didn't do me any harm.
there's not a scrap of laundry to be found, barely a sock, if truth is told,
dusty bunnies cling to the cactus as it waves in the radiating heat radiating from the radiator.
i sit in my corner sipping a brew of new nabob, whose profit returns to vancouver, i hope,
the fish navigate a tank crowded of plants,
the silence around me sublime, the cheapest coffee pot in the Western Hemisphere ticks,
and the kleenex, too far to reach, past the plates, empty now of grilled wild salmon,
fried yukon golds, and lightly steamed baby spinach, beckons.
i have never forgotten we eat like kings. and often wonder how humanity lived without kleenex for so long.
so the daughter survived her first dance at another school, strapless dress and all, i answered her questions about the normalcy of being gay on the way, well i tried, i offered her earrings she refused, advice i hope she appreciated, and she 'schmured' up her beautiful face when she mentioned that she would not see me today.
i like having nothing to do.
i like having time for myself.
i like the man with the onion.
and marlene daley is always happy to see me.
When you're sad, just look how happy this man is with his onion pic.twitter.com/A63xBEXLhd— Faith in Humanity (@TheWorldStories) February 9, 2015
february 20th 2015a million things i never understood; a million lists i can now say "oh, that's what they meant"
unloved, take two.
and of all of them, the greatest is not love, meaning, not whom to marry or who married whom for when and for how long,
but the greatest of all is for those who never married, at all, and to understand the strength to say 'it's not good enough'
or moreover, the strength to say 'i'm good enough'.
can someone profess love, who won't pick you up at the metro?
in the end, i'm just re-arranging words
february 19th 2015i am weaker than i have ever been.
with him, i had control, nothing was left to chance, there were no variables,
without him, there are variables, there is darkness, there is real darkness, anxiety,
and one must fight for one's life.
just like the rest of them.
if i cannot ignore the evil, then the beauty is also not real.
i did not want to unlearn this.
i wish i never had.
maybe i was weak all along?
facing 6 more months without wine.
february 18th 2015there was this one particular night when the Swiss man was having a bad evening.
he got up, closed his laptop and declared at once matter-of-factly and with a resigned sigh,
"Downtrodden, Stinky, and Frustrated. My students are morons!"
and as that negative pre-bedtime declaration hit my years and rattled through my getting-ready-for-bed mindset,
i wondered very consciously if that was what i would really want my husband to say when we comes to bed -
which led me to wonder, what exactly would i want my husband to say as he prepares for bed -
at which point i couldn't think of anything other than what his colleagues might say to their wives
and i could only imagine the most boring of things, did you turn the lights out, would you like water,
are the kids in bed, or perhaps some minor grumblings over the events of the day or evening.
and instanly, i broke into soft laughter; and i laughed, and i laughed, and i laughed, there in the dark,
as he fumbled down the hallway. and i cannot explain why this made me laugh, was it that i couldn't think of anything better for him to say,
was it the juxtaposition of his desires to his desires; the contrast of his image to his image; or merely the insanity of how much he actually cares.
in any case, this comment, so completely unexpected, so totally honest and laden with emotion and expression, so blatantly forthright,
ended up being exactly what i would want my husband to say to me that night.
and i launched into a line for the end of my speech, which stated that starting a relationship at the beginning of menopause is not recommended.
and i smiled my way all the way into his stinky, frustrated, and downtrodden arms.
february 17th 2015
eventually, there's an answer for the question; it's a brief answer; it comes on the corner of westhill and somerled;
and the answer was easier than expected; without judgement; or prejudice; sometimes, there are just facts;
which are good enough for a bright twelve and a half year old;
and the answer explains all that needs to be known; which is that you cannot change anything.
it actually has nothing to do at all with alcohol, your mother, choices, or whether or not your wife puts her shit away.
it's a quantum world when you're up very very close; but for the rest of us, it's pretty darn molecular.
matter is not created nor destroyed. all the people on facebook will keep posting cat videos
and you will keep on ranting about your freedom not to do so.
and poots begins her Odyssey of laying in bed at night, sweating while the very hormones that made her,
try to rearrange themselves for the very last time.
here's how i see it. you can sit around waiting for the world to change. or, you can just sit around.
oh sweet lorraine; my memories are all wiped out,
february 15th 2015
lucky you, here is everything.
i will give you everything or nothing.
a wiggly hand brings this tepid java to my lips;
i think it's sunday;
pencil sharpeners aid and abet cement tables;
your projects are a sign of life for me,
i know this man, and his empty tube of silicon,
i know this man, his motives, his misgivings, and his mission.
i know him and i love him.
and she did not.
i just adore this photo, taken by Brian Snyder, and Stolen by CBS
could have been 1892 but it's 2015.
Oh man RT @CBSNews: Today, Boston could record in ONE month more snow than Chicago's ever had in a winter pic.twitter.com/fQjtkG8IPk— Carl Quintanilla (@carlquintanilla) February 15, 2015
february 14th 2015am i too kind? andrea dailey showed up twice at my door.
7:49am. valentine's day.
at that particular moment she needed someone to talk to.
i listened to her talk; she said the same things; twice; for several hours; she needed me. i was there.
yet so few others have come to me.
i've taken to quoting the bible, no matter what they say.
i'm gonna make a promise. and i'm gonna try and keep it this time.
so in between joan of arc; abruptly ended phone calls; and smart men hunting me down;
i decide i AM kind. i AM sensitive. and i DO care.
gonna make a promise.
gonna keep it.
february 13th 2015they tell me it's not about me, but that it's about them. which must be true, since it's all about me too.
i prefer speaking of myself in the third person, as poots would say,
stepping outside of myself is important.
but sincerity is important. yet i was not completely sincere, and as soon as i was, she walked away.
no one wants sincere, even if they think they do. i scared her, but which part of it.
it's a lazy winter, this long, frigid, montreal winter, and very few of our techniques are working;
we feel alone, lonely, and detached, he once in a while surfaces, speaking in the strongest sofly man tones,
and thanks me for making dinner. i must love him, he says, and i am forced to contemplate both the many days i didn't have the energy to make dinner and the dinners i made purely because i was hungry.
it's a winter with a dead end, this cold, bright, and cold, winter. it circles back to us,
forcing us into rumpled sheets, contemplating our lazy, carnivorous ways,
and staring at random piles of mismatched socks. rich, lazy, and poor.
the oxygenated blood pools in various muscles.
frozen, frozen, the crisp and crackling world of painful cheeks and thighs cringe only as the engine of the car turns slowly and starts,
and it seems a miracle, that something would rotate willingly in such a stiff and painful cold, and that isoctane and butane would actually flow willingly from metal cylinders past volume counters which then accept my credit card in exchange.
every ounce of me washed the counter.
every ounce of me loaded the dishwasher.
every ounce of me sits here contemplating the blood pooling in my veins.
the world is awash in fifty shades of commercialism, buying books and watching movies built with Lego dolls,
and it's so funny, so completely unlike me, to watch from the sidelines.
i've never known more about something than what is presented;
i've never been content with what i have;
i've never understood that i was the lucky one
and i've never even really wanted to be the lucky one.
how incredibly bizarre is that.
february 12th 2015it's a vice grip on this head today / rolling brain / more watery tepid coffee / shaking in boots / more thoughts from three am to five am than the rest of most days / it's a battle, a small war, for words, for thoughts, for truth, for love, and on these tired days all i see are towels.
february 10th 2015tingle twingle we make up words.
it's a narrow box we have put ourselves in, are we singers, writers, or even a nurse, who knows this body inside and out,
looping from Henle past Langherhans islets and eventually to the mylein sheaths of motor neurons; this poot and her brain remembers it all.
i would invent a word to mean boxless human.
and all the rest can aspire to become boxless, so no one would know if they had long hair
or liked Ikea
and i can't believe of the things that i have to keep reminding myself
define standing alone.
february 9th 2015perhaps it's a decent woman which begets a decent man.
and yesterday, something reminded me i am Christian.
let's re-package everything i have to say.
no one is listening to un parcelated things anymore.
and i desperately need them to listen
february 8th 2015
those of us who write, are searching. we are searching for the perfect combination of words, the juxtaposition, the context,
of a set of words which when combined in short sequence, at first titillate, at once soothe, but ever-so-slightly cause you to be uncomfortable at the sight of yourself in the mirror.
the monkeys and i are tweeting into oblivion;
the Swiss man likes having a girlfriend;
the coffee is hot
but warms our souls.
february 7th 2015
finally, sleep, hunting down nightly thoughts, mostly about my daughter, and some about life too.
difficult and heavy words follow me around of late; but in the mEp, they are stirred and tossed about,
because the mEp has a softer brush; it doesn't argue with me; it doesn't judge me;
and i don't judge you.
but it needs to be said, on the pavement, on the walls, pounded and plastered, sword-like, mEp-like
with every words i can find / every song i can sing / every confetti i can throw
no matter who follows me back (thank you Patti Smith).
several things, which need to be said, follow me daily, hang on my shortails and weigh my shoulders
1. i will never waste yours and you must not waste my time. we'll be dead for long enough.
2. if i have to stare at photo-shopped images of your 18 year old ass, spread across the sky like a cross and at every turn of my life,
then i can talk about sex without being branded a slut.
3. i can sing Christian songs JUST BECAUSE I LIKE THEM and it doesn't make me either a fundamentalist, anti-gay, or a Republican.
there, i said it, my manifesto.
... i've never called myself a name, but something deep inside of me says that i'll go out with that.
february 4th 2015
je n'ai pas oublie charlie
a night of unguents, journalists, and restraint, how can i count the ways.
i am actually not that person who loudly and passionately told a story about what i feel i cannot post on facebook
i am not that person the introverts were eyeing from down the table, opinionated and sore,
catching my glimpse in the round mirror,
i am not even blonde anymore
i am more than that,
than ever before.
there are heaters in every room.
february 3, 2015
In the night i write pages in my mind.
in the morning it's a whirling head which leaves no words for scribbling.
last night, about houses grand; the ones i dreamed of and then changed my mind;
they were there, in my dreams, created by television, no doubt, and big families were even written in a list of things i wanted.
but we change, those of us who experience, who desire, and we might end of desiring lots of things which can never align with big families and cascading mahogany staircases; which are actually obtainable in this city; since there are many old ones.
california called, didn't it. and upon our return, our goals mis-aligned, since he was afraid of houses, afraid of money, afraid of sharing,
or perhaps simply had different goals. mine shifted.
so in the end it's about aligned goals and work.
i know that now. i'll be sure to tell her before she's 50.
february 2, 2015
DEAR TIME; what i hate you most for is making me check that my shoulders are still attractive and making me like perfume.
i had it, but now it's gone. creaking halls
february 1, 2015
time and silence
i don't do fiction;
i do where fiction and non-fiction meet;
where bygones can be bygones; where politics don't exist;
where my world is the only world; be it fame or fortune; lost or lust; evil or no evil.
since no one else is there.