my    E l e c t r o n i c     pen                                               n|o|v|e|m|b|e|r    2 0 1 3                                                   i    n  d  e  x  

DECEMBER 1
710am


ONLY IN THE MEP DO MEPTHOUGHTS COME.
IS THIS MY YOGA, MY MARATHON?
HEATERS HUM AS  I PUT PEN TO PAPER, RED EVEN, WHILE MY SCREEN BARELY WEEPS,
AND A SCANT NIGHT OF GOOD SLEEP, ONE INTO THE OTHER, CLARIFIES ONCE AGAIN,
WHO I AM.


n {o} v         23
620am

  up again, slept, rest



 

n {o} v         23
620am

  up again, slept, rested, and early. my intestines tell me that i ate something greasy last night, my computer tells me everyone else had a life last night. all's quiet on the western front as they say. flashing lights in the dawn ight, a firetruck stops next door, thank you mr. fireman f
n {o} v         26
7:-15 a.m. not a moment too soon.

  stealing away from life required, on a frustrating bike dream filled day. they built the high school at the end of the road
and, when joe ignored me, i simply got up and walked away... Mike S had a bike that looked like a fire hydrant and so on and so on
while we waited to open the champagne. and, yes, some fourteen year olds smoke pot. hmm. i wonder what Dalton's up to.

some of us have worse things to worry about;
some simpler;
arguments ensue as soon as they confront, the natural state for two determined people.

all the rituals, one by one, disappear; we can create new ones maybe, or recycle the old.
we can don a white blouse; have time for packing Christmas decorations; and maybe, just maybe, get a pub night going.
reality? infused here? why you ask? when there is only about fourteen minutes to pack what i need an hour and half to say,
that's what happens.

before seven is simply too early, about six hours far too early, for this poot to be woken up.
*sigh*

M.U.S.T. W.R.I.T.E.
everyone else thinks i'm crazy.
hold on, maybe, just maybe, i am :-)

 
  up again, slept, rested, and early. my intestines tell me that i ate something greasy last night, my computer tells me everyone else had a life last night. all's





n {o} v         23
620am

  up again, slept, rested, and early. my intestines tell me that i ate something greasy last night, my computer tells me everyone else had a life last night. all's quiet on the western front as they say. flashing lights in the dawn ight, a firetruck stops next door, thank you mr. fireman f









n {o} v         23
620am

  up again, slept, rested, and early. my intestines tell me that i ate something greasy last night, my computer tells me everyone else had a life last night. all's quiet on the western front as they say. flashing lights in the dawn ight, a firetruck stops next door, thank you mr. fireman for not waking my family.

trying to keep this room (the yellow one, now) clean, requires effort. i guess everything does. you woud be happy to know. just that most things, for me, don't. it comes with being above average. and blond. and an extrovert.

n {o} v         21
early.

  my dreams took flight again last night, as airplane after airplane soared (not so high but not so low) above well lit cities, from Dallas to Dallas to Dallas over and over again. what has so fundamentally changed, but my freedom, and does there need to be anything more.

it's bonus day for a couple thousand of us, does he know how much of it goes to Switxerland, i wonder.

it's a crisp november morning, early, cars zoom passed; just waking up in this house takes one hour. but well slept, it is definitely the most important hour in the day. to take stock, define, realize, and be aware, if only for a moment. sometimes that is all you need.

it had been a long, long time indeed.

n {o} v         20
  still, dates.

  extra istrong java; reminiscent of me, but never tasting the same when i don't make it, parts chapped lips at the standard waking hour
it's a rare kleenex house today, where boxes have been piled correctly, and typewriters are tucked under christmas trees.
it's wodensday in montreal, time for poots to wake up in a week wasteland, where other than the passing of time and some cleaning, not much has come to pass. still, i look around this more clean room (how clean is anything, really, ever, in a world where our neanderthal immunity is enough?) and still, no kleenex box has magically appearred. i stip the tepid extra strong java, and maybe it's a good thing i cannot taste it.
  glasses or not, the bonus will arrive tomorrow, slipped ten digits onto an outputted php page with style sheets aligned, and then one by one, by exactly twelve, ten digits soon become one again. yet these are the events which make up a life; which cause us joy, bring us sleep, and make a family... well, or are they.
i have learned from pauline; from liz, from Heike, and Kathleen, and, i have learned from myself.
now where did that Swis man go.

some of us are outward.
some of us are inward.
some of us are suprstitious.

i'm going to sit here until he becomes outward.

 

after the book...

n {o} v         11
  dates.

on rememberance day i removed the last old boxes, filled with memories, and other fine dates. bragging is difficult.
i did finish the poem however. i will post it here, now.


International Cappuccino Day

i held my glow through all of friday
through bad meetings and bad cappaccino
through lunch at a diner with an El Salvadorian and a Chinamen
they didn't know each other.
I held my glow through mid-afternoon chats, with bosses and bosses and even my boss too.
And when the wine slipped through my glove onto the hard floor, i smiled still.
At the end of the day
as i made my way
through burly november wind
i heeld my red hat over my ears,
and i smiled because i still could not hid the morning glow





n {o} v         09
 
life is mostly about the process of re-claiming yourself, over, and over again.
if you're me, that is.

the world pushes me towards boundaries, well, i myself lean to the margins of things,
mostly i spring back again to my center, and sometimes i slip at the edges, for good or for bad,
and at the next re-claiming, i am more of myself; more of the individual i was at fourteen;
because that is the individual who was free and happy and that is ultimately, who i am; err, or
who i want to be.

there's not much poetic life coming from me now, i am far too awake,
but we still clamored down the cold alleyway, not knowing the shape of our destination;
nor it's inhabitants; and it has just dawned on me now, that this might not be something everyone would enjoy
and that is why re-claiming yourself is useful; it allows you to focus on the parts of your life that are exciting,
and re-claim them, too.






n {o} v         08

i wrote a poem today

will post it later

 








n {o} v         07
back to writing, a grumble headed poot does, windy rainy november morn in montreal.

come hell, wind, books or highwater, she still likes it here.
bow your head, tell of moments like this, cracked screen and stolen money,
one hundred and thirty five, wham bam, would have bought alot of manhattans at the keg.
but on a broader note, with no quotes coming, half caffeinated, i'm still strong,
and feeling stronger every day.

we morph into 'a couple', he and i, by the sheer passing of time;
{singing now}  ...  time, oh good good time, where did you go,
and why do you soften the edges of just about everything?
i'd like to say damn you for that, but i've already damned you for everything else, so there.
if i were in the Ashram, i would be there to simply come to terms with time.
you know, for a physicist, it's only an axis.
theoretically speaking, everything could have happened at once.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=alEhISQAnFE




not everything has to move you, not everything is about you,
but when it does, when it is,
man it's nice.

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/758431659