the mEp                                                                                        september 2015









October





September 30
nite.

whirlwinds racing toward calmness, tinnitus follows me into bed at ten o'clock or so i thought until it said ten sixteen.
now i must stand again. the ringing inside my ears, focuses towards the left side of my brain, speak to me of wee bits of silky whiskey
washed down with chocolate cake. someone pinned up my photo, glossy, and their photos, in the kitchen of a house i wanted to buy.
in another lifetime, in another set of circumstances, i could well have bought that house, at a price far less than it was last sold at.
that could be my kitchen, my fluffy dog, my white cupboards with a view on a precious and precocious ndg prime alleyway. mine.
and i'm lost in that alley now, like tin pans clanging in my eardrums, as i worry about the Swiss man at 10:21, and the ringing
gets temporarily louder. i had enjoyed the calmness, the silence, the candle burning, the quiet children down the hall, the comfy clean
bamboo sheets, and the cherry juice waiting my lips, until that moment. my writing is changing, evolving, i feel more bold yet less kind,
i feel more raw, yet unsafe. i hear hiccups with my left ringing ear. it gets louder as the night progresses. conversations beside the white
cabinets ring in my brain, only half-baked until i run them by the Swiss man. and where is that damn Swiss man, it's now ten twenty-five,
twenty-six. yes, i wonder if anyone ever finds me here, would they turn away if they knew me, would they discount if i could ever really
write all this, yet they could never imagine the things i have never written. none of that could be imagined. they call her my twin.

 










September 29

rushing rushing no time for reflection, nor real reflection, nor sleep, nor real sleep,
too many black mollies swim the murky waters, and yes, yes, finally, i dreamt.
all i want, is to be strong again. crackled words repeat themselves. thirteen year olds chatter, is it my house.
rumblings in my house, it's not a house. children are off to school and sport, in this most unusualist of situations,
would i have wanted to be the unusual one, i would have, but perhaps not at her age.













September 27

there are no beautiful words to weave through real sorrow:
for nothing will tie such wounds but time:
in broken times,we wish for nothing, but time:
will brand


how  much new york is enough









 


September 22

i had never felt so badly; as i did yesterday;
betrayals are easier alone
especially when protecting is impossible













 

September 21

what to do when your 50 year old evolved self needs to talk sense to your 13 year old self without disturbing the balance
which was required by yourself at 13 in order to become your 50 year old self.

september 20 2015
this is the story of who i am.

     it is.





there's a story behind the cement table.
it started in 2011 and i cannot tell it.
it is larger than my life.
it is ultimately, a tale of two mothers.
they never met. they never will.
shaking my head, searching for words
which won't come, rotating the band on my finger
chewing deeply on my inner cheek
in an effort to fight the words
which might tell a story
that cannot be told.




























september 20 2015
wasn't she hot.

i could fall out of love.
it's happened before.












september 19 2015
the cement table


my philosophies notwithstanding, we grow apart
as we grow. all kinds of cognitive biases may come into play
but i don't mind. my view is mine, biased or not, as is yours.
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.
save me.





















september 18 2015
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 photos
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 world
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 hours
thin to avoid sleep, or dreams, or himself, or life itself. his conversations have easily moved from from engineers
to moving, from exasperated excellence to seeing how the face of world alights on facebook. i have a dream of
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.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -






september 15 2015
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 that tribe.

but the dreams themselves are beautiful;
the world they afford escape to, are perfect little reconstructions
of an altered reality, not real, but providing respite from Pipeda, PMT, and this world driven by human
insecurity. because i don't belong in that world.

but some things bring us together and some apart.















september 11 2015


you're gonna be very sure of yourself until you aren't any more










september 9 2015


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?















september 8 2015
squirrels and God

i've been relieved of varnish-peeling guilt;
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 different principles.
i wish i could muster once ounce of sympathy for her.
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 way;
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.




       













september 6 2015
  moving through dreams

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 poisoning
and her hospital bed neighbors, who were now children,
each treating their own metal mal-alignments
with catheters
and tubes of blood
and syringes.
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 movie
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 opinions
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,
that's me












september 4 2015
  bleeding

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

are not.











september 3rd 2015
  Gaussian distribution

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