my E l e c t r o n i c pen m a y 2 0 1 3 i n d e x
22 degrees: tropical winds stir the leaves
to everything, turn, there is a time take your place
hope for life to return; beat it up;
kick yourself; stand your ground,
yes, weather has swept this montreal town, heat swaths over it
people says ridiculous things like sticky
as if the weather knows;
a night of birthdays, late night swimming,
we deserved it.
all things bright and beautiful
rainy day coffee
lets wake up
poots wishes there were 3 more hours in the day. every day.
she wishes she didn't need to wear glasses in the morning to see the computer.
and she wishes every morning was green, sunny, and eleven and a half degrees.
pre-coffee idea formulations ruminate before nine on a cold saturday in late may.
ten year olds sleep in a gymnasium; the paper arrives on time; coffee is someone's medicine; and crystals continue to form in poots mind.
is that what is meant by getting what you need?
stable walls all around you, familiar faces, are nice; aren't they. but they also reinforce rigidity, make change harder to do if it is what is needed.
does the familiarity help in requiring no change, maybe for some, but not for me, no sir, status quo equals death, and the decarie with its
throwing away of the bras :
the large bins in the lobby full of coloured bras made in china always provokes a gag reflex in me.
not sure if it's the thrown away sex, the thrown away relationship failures, the thrown away marketing ploys to convince us we need bras to be women,
or simply the thought of a bunch of sweaty bras headed for manilla.
so many books
but finally i know which one i would write... elusive subjects...dangerous and dear...
three days and finally a simpler head, poots writes at night nonetheless.
the internet is making us all one; porn is making us all animals; everything is converging;
they use computer modeling
and what is a sick poot when i sick poot doesn't know a poot is sick!
i need to buy cigarettes
filling out tombola tickets
drink poots drink
the planet spins, hadfield knows it,
midi-chlorians be damned
speak to me! answer me! phone the government!
what do i eat! many questions with a poot stretched head
just totally clicking on n'importe quoi, staring into space, must eat.
the body calls me, i feel viruses visiting each part, no one believes me, least of all him,
i'm too complex to be sick, my stories all construed, how simple is a virus
shall i be more specific, my lower back aches, which includes my left ovary,
the world spins, my breath shallow,
my ears are ringing even though i have not had wine,
my joints feel old, my neck muscles are strained, and i'm trembly.
through all of this, my frontal cortex reigns supreme! it tells me that there are balls i cannot drop;
a schedule to stick to;
a planet to spin with;
a job to keep;
a boss to please;
he's got his own world to run through;
hoops of pall mall, hoodies, and conferences,
a lost sweater gets lost in another day,
and mine in his, his in mine, as they slip through our fingers, days, weeks, hours, breaths,
and what is real becomes scant, physical, when the rest goes away, and i know this in a way that very few do,
this physical realm fleeting, so fleeting, as each passing moment ticks ticks ticks tocks.
half-e-mails, like brothers in arms, unsent, sent, read, unread, a meeting in 53 minutes, send the ppt, spin around in your bed, make it warm, drink,
write, write, write it all down, purge the brain, half lobes, frontal, backal, and all in between.
is my head a complicated space.
i am talking to myself but myself listens actually. usually.
now what's a poot to tell on a sleepy MONday morn.
where does the needing begin; and end;
will all attempts fail; will all thinking females suffer;
what's a poot to tell on a sleepy friday morn.
which life lessons need to be said, extolled, me, and the shiny spider, his filamential house, dancing in the reflection of a bright May sun.
there are lessons about what you can change, lessons about what you cannot change, and then the lesson to know which is which.
sometimes the only thing to do is to watch. wait. listen. and this, is not who i am, but what i have learned, failing all other choices.
full force 'i don't give a fuck mode' prevails in the pootly world these days; full circle and let's not pretend everyone cares;
telephones ring, ring, ring, ring, seven o'clock with a very sleepy Swiss man and a time zone in between.
indeed, there are only questions,
which have harsh answers.
how many thoughts can a poot not have
and as soon as the not thoughts are gone,
not much is left but winding around words to convey a message;
side-stepping what is real in my mind;
learning together, to deal with what is paleolithic,
everyone knows the outcome,
how much is useful,
a phone call from a pristine country leaves poots tidily tidying, happy to be awake after several long nights of PMS-able thoughts.
in sunshine, the world grows greener, a beautiful child sleeps deeply, and a shiny hallway awaits to be messed again, with the careless whisper of life.
and once again, speechless, poots searches for what she is allowed to write. most of her thoughts verboten, meaning, about situations which her mind has no control of.
and no one wants to hear it. do i?
alas, i was happier tidying the counter.
hello, world, how ya been, keep it all in perspective, all of you, it's only a book, it's only a game, it's only life, after all.
secret to happiness? don't take yourself so goddamned seriously. you too poot.
first day of may