into bed at
ten o'clock or
so i thought
until it said
now i must
left side of
speak to me of
wee bits of
pinned up my
photos, in the
kitchen of a
house i wanted
another set of
i could well
that house, at
a price far
less than it
was last sold
that could be
my kitchen, my
fluffy dog, my
a view on a
and i'm lost
in that alley
now, like tin
eardrums, as i
the Swiss man
at 10:21, and
louder. i had
down the hall,
and the cherry
my lips, until
my writing is
feel more bold
yet less kind,
i feel more
unsafe. i hear
it gets louder
as the night
in my brain,
until i run
them by the
Swiss man. and
where is that
man, it's now
yes, i wonder
if anyone ever
finds me here,
turn away if
they knew me,
discount if i
this, yet they
things i have
none of that
call her my
nor sleep, nor
too many black
all i want, is
to be strong
is it my
my house, it's
not a house.
off to school
and sport, in
would i have
wanted to be
one, i would
perhaps not at
words to weave
will tie such
for nothing, but
new york is
had never felt
so badly; as i
to do when your 50
year old evolved
self needs to talk
sense to your 13
year old self
which was required
by yourself at 13 in
order to become your
50 year old self.
is the story of
who i am.
there's a story
behind the cement
it started in 2011
and i cannot tell
it is larger than my
it is ultimately, a
tale of two mothers.
they never met. they
shaking my head,
searching for words
which won't come,
rotating the band on
chewing deeply on my
in an effort to
fight the words
which might tell a
that cannot be told.
september 20 2015
wasn't she hot.
i could fall out of love.
it's happened before.
the cement table
notwithstanding, we grow apart
as we grow. all kinds of cognitive biases may come
but i don't mind. my view is mine, biased or not, as
so go ahead, used your biased view to judge mine,
it's all good.
what's in a dinner party?
a lego robot. a cement table. some fish and pizza.
and two adorable little boys!
late, hot, september.
the dreaming days
pulling myself in outside
myself mode, these are the dreaming days;
intensely rich dreams, living on the ocean and
moving, swimming in a sunset while laddavanh takes
a deck full of stuff, visitors from dallas,
strangers laying too close to me, giving directions
to people looking
to buy small purses, bought one for my daughter and
then she had them already; it's an entire made-up
we dream; it must be required for something - i
always feel better in the morning.
the Swiss man was awake most of the night, as i
drifted from dream to dream, he stretched his waking
thin to avoid sleep, or dreams, or himself, or life
itself. his conversations have easily moved from
to moving, from exasperated excellence to seeing how
the face of world alights on facebook. i have a
his frontal cortex taking over. this is the world i
want to live in.
in the daylight, i'm over-confident;
in the eve, a little more,
in the dreams, i'm in awe,
in my dreams, the rest of the world can manage their
emotions as well as me.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
the glowing edible-green
leaves of the maple tree reflect through
sunlight in the broken pane of glass across
the room; so many years later, i'm still
building my life in a box, in the morning,
with my espresso, dripped.
i'm an extrovert, you know. an extroverted,
intuitive, judging, percieving, woman.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
a world of human insecurity
conclusions come late, with
a Swiss man, or early, as in the next day.
it cuts me an opening sentence, his declarations,
pre-coffee, which cause me pause.
slowly from dreamland, i walk my brain towards
awake, fleeting memories of the Toronto airport,
a young woman from India, and another woman from
Toronto, who seemed to be keen as well,
on saving refugees.
yes, it's the season of refugees, caught on fire by
one dead child, this is the part i don't understand,
that humans are driven so strongly by
sentimentality. i'm often embarrassed to be part of
but the dreams themselves are beautiful;
the world they afford escape to, are perfect little
of an altered reality, not real, but providing
respite from Pipeda, PMT, and this world driven by
insecurity. because i don't belong in that world.
but some things bring us together and some apart.
you're gonna be very sure of
yourself until you aren't any more
last awake in a morning
house; the happy radio people banter and a nicely
smelling girl paces.
a million opinions on Facebook will never change a
thing - will it?
squirrels and God
i've been relieved of
of children's marks in the floor from a plasma car;
from broken window grilles (also called muntins);
from scratched paint around the keyhole
and even from squirrels chewing holes in
screen doors and window frames.
God bless that.
there's an old woman upstairs, her days are
long and lonely and filled with aches and pains,
if one is to believe her.
her children don't show up often, but to ferry her
around at Easter and perhaps to babysit in a pinch.
she was for sure, raised in a different world than
i; lived a different life and conducted herself by
i wish i could muster once ounce of sympathy for
hers is a world governed by 'what's in it for me';
by stinginess and frugality for frugality's sake;
by rules unwritten and certainly unwritten in the
bible; for she has lost her faith; she has lost her
she has lost her humanity. only her standards count;
kindness is only received never given;
for there is none to spare.
all i can do is pray for her, to the God she misses.
lately i close my eyes and
chris has two kids
next thing he turns and barfs after we came from the
hospital to visit Kim
whom i met in a previous dream with heavy metal
and her hospital bed neighbors, who were now
each treating their own metal mal-alignments
and tubes of blood
chris paid his meter until the return flight
me and the children were changing in the car
but only after my boss was very angry with me
because my ex husband invited me to appear in a
which seemed to have some huge conflict of interest
with the CEO
and this is only the Coles notes;
i tell you!
the rest is rich dreaming;
i can almost smell it
something about me has changed
and i dream once again the same things
which tell me that my daily life has too many
too much honesty
too much square centered ness
which means i'm me again
the dishes are done
after fity years and four in prison
i'm back to square one
have travelled so far
to get right back
to a hole in one,
i am fifty, menstruating, and ready to move on.
don't call me weird: even though I may be:
because when you call me weird it
means you believe you are better.
and you most certainly
talking statistics in statistically sweltering heat
does the area under the curve serve any real purpose
since the 66th percentile are so predictable,
either you're a head or you're a tail
in math or in bed;
i long for practical applications for everything;
everything must be understood
or at least not understandable
i beg of you, to synchronize,
to summarize, to synthesize,
everything from how you spend pennies
to what makes you orgasm