It is past noon. The sun is shining, the snow is sparkly. The world outside is somebody's kingdom, someone's playground. It is bright blue sky and ominous cold shadow. Somewhere out there is probably something I could be doing.
I just got out of bed. It is well past noon. I called to find out my best friend is still alive. Someone isn't calling me back. My plans are uncertain. I hate having a day not knowing if someone will call to make plans or not. In the meantime I decide: do I leave and have a lovely life missing this person and take the chance that I'll miss the call and the chance to cross paths? Or do I sit at home with some semblance of normal passing before my eyes wondering why I'm wasting time?
Life is like a bag of salad. Bad simile, but appropriate. Who do I want to be today? Spring mix? Youthful and wild but not necessarily tasty? What about garden? Isn't that what soccer mums bring home?
This morning which is now afternoon I am not a bag of salad. I am someone trying to decide between breakfast beer or breakfast coffee and settling for breakfast tea. I am trying to understand why I can't seem to put my shoes on and go outside. I love outside. I am trying to pull from the haze a memory of a place I could go to write and drink coffee but the only places coming to mind are mixed with feelings of being the outsider. The only cafes I feel comfortable writing in are so far from here that the words would be lost by the time I got there. Why can I not find such a place in my own hometown? And what defines it? Good coffee, gentle atmosphere, and the kind of place where strangers coexist, as opposed to a place where friends go to meet friends. Somewhere that displays a perpetual state of culture shock because on days when I cannot get out of bed, that is what I seek.
Culture shock makes me feel normal again.
Yet there is not a cafe in chinatown or little italy or little india where I can go to write. I cannot be the stranger in my own hometown. I can change my hair and wear things no one thinks I own but I cannot feel incognito here.
It is the writer in me. I could have a fantastic performance career doing almost anything involving news, dance, probably even art, but I chose to write. Or it chose me. I prefer to be the bricks in the wall the lovers leaned up against. I want to be the snow crunching under your feet or the sun kissing your face or the wind running its fingers through your hair. Once or twice I want you to notice me but not enough so that I need cease describing your beauty.
Who describes me? What defines me?
When I am the invisible energy surrounding us, when I blend into the wall, a figure with a notepad, does anyone feel the scratching of my pen on paper like an itch they cannot quite comprehend?
When you put your arms around me do you have any idea what is going through my head? Did you know that beauty, the feeling, comes in colours and sounds? Do you know how it feels when all that invisible energy rushes to your head to the point where you cannot think but only experience? Have you been to the place where words cease and it is only after that it can begin to be captured, thusly destroyed?
She ran her fingers through my hair yesterday before I left. She massaged and the release was amazing. We decided I would be her tax write-off and we could tell everyone we got married because she has amazing fingers. But did she know at all how her fingers felt on my head? She has a gift like that, one that is not spoken of nearly often enough. It is too intimate to speak of friends like that. Yet neither of us know any other way to be.
He moved through the door into the hall gently coordinated, swaying a bit but not off balance. His movements were as elegant as any dance yet not a dance. Beauty greeted him at the door. Come sit by me she said. He resisted but finally threw himself to the wolves and the wolves picked his bones clean and considered it an honour. Something was missing. Beauty refused to accept anything less than full expression of herself. She asked her wolves to bring his bones to the edge of a cliff, where she could say her magic words and throw them off one by one. As each bone was hurled from the cliff, it transformed into a manifestation of who he was. Her words were simple. Each piece of who we are is in our bones. It is yours to keep or release. Keep what you will and release now what is not yours anymore. The earth will take back what she gave when it is no longer of use to you.
I love the pretty pictures I can make in my head. I do not know what he has released. I cannot tell you which bones sank into the earth, shattering on impact. I do not know what his new skeleton looks like. Though I can request it, though I can pull words out of thin air, I cannot predict. I know only what I see, what is underneath everything. I know where parts of his soul want to sing but they are not singing. I know parts that have amazing harmony because I have heard them. I know I am not the choirmaster.
Sometimes the blankets pull me under. They are warm and they know my shape and form. Sometimes I stay too long, I linger, I play with my computer. I roll out of bed squinting from eye strain and with my sweater open at the front in the mirror I see only my eyes. I like my eyes. Then slowly I look around. I realize I have become one of those women who is capable of rolling out of bed looking unconventionally pretty. It is not the kind of beauty you'd see in a magazine. It is the kind of beauty that comes from inside, the kind that convinces me to stay in bed or get up. It is a sign of how the world will be reflected through my eyes that day. I don't like to get out of bed if I cannot be convinced that I will face everything and everyone with my raw emotions. The hard ones sparkle if you catch me out of the corner of your eye. Everysingleone of my feelings come together to make me dance. When I can accept the idea of breakfast beer alongside breakfast coffee, I compromise on tea and begin. The world presents me with its sunshiny beauty and if for one instant I can accept it into my heart, I am blown apart by gratitude.
It was a promise I made myself a long long time ago, staring up at the stars somewhere I never should have been. If I do not face the beauty of the world with gratitude, I should not get out of bed.
I've had a few phone calls. My best friend is alive and my plans are happening this evening. I think now I can go outside. In fact, I think I am going to buy a salad in a bag and eat the entire thing.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
mon rose
They sat across the room from each other. Their hair had big, soft curls at the end, the raw beauty of hair taken down for the night. The room was warm with light but cool with chill making the women stay in their seats, nestled into their sweaters. Eyes wide and unfocussed, they listened. His voice was the only sound in the room. Each syllable rolled off his tongue with practiced storyteller inflection, the brown of his eyes buried in the book. The story was familiar but at the same time unknown in this other language. Every so often one of the women would confirm a word or phrase in French with him. The other women listened, following only the barest minimum for survival level comprehension. His warm voice turned the room into a living, breathing entity, full of light: a gift.
The story ended and she told her friend across the room that he used to read to her in French every night before bed.
As the other woman found her way under her blankets, she felt a new kind of love ease her gently into another world of stories.
The story ended and she told her friend across the room that he used to read to her in French every night before bed.
As the other woman found her way under her blankets, she felt a new kind of love ease her gently into another world of stories.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
rhymes with red
you accepted the promise in the darkest part of the forest but
the trees they whispered it was
not for you
it was not for you
you respected the goddess but the wind blew honest and
it was not for you
not for you
and then the moon broke free of the clouds
suddenly you saw through her shroud
her gaze was in a daze the haze you made
surrounded
not for you
you may walk the walk but you don't
talk the talk and her heart is locked
but for a memory
of who you used to be
when you accepted her promise
her truth was honest
but now the forest weeps for you
the trees they whispered it was
not for you
it was not for you
you respected the goddess but the wind blew honest and
it was not for you
not for you
and then the moon broke free of the clouds
suddenly you saw through her shroud
her gaze was in a daze the haze you made
surrounded
not for you
you may walk the walk but you don't
talk the talk and her heart is locked
but for a memory
of who you used to be
when you accepted her promise
her truth was honest
but now the forest weeps for you
Saturday, November 11, 2006
remembrance day
It is Remembrance Day.
At the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, I am pretty sure I was in the shower. It occurred to me that it was an appropriate day to celebrate my freedom and ponder world peace.
(sex culture sex)
(culture sex culture)
1. I am sitting at my table in my pyjamas. I live in Canada. It is winter. This necessitates warm sleeping costumes. The bottoms are covered in Hello Kitty. I recently learned she lives in London and likes to bake cookies. I like her because she reminds me of a different time and place where contemplation such as this would not be possible: a culture so far removed from my own that when my own confronts me, it is this far away place that feels normal. Reverse culture shock.
2. My sweater is a long sweater. It buttons right to the neck. It is gray. I saw it in the mirror either this morning or last night and was struck by how much it reminded me of Muslim modest dress. When I moved back into my mother's house and the only thing to do at night was listen to the coyotes sing, I bought a copy of Vogue. Understand how unusual this is for me - I don't wear makeup, I never know what the current trends are, and when I find something I like I buy three in different colours. I am so far from being a fashion victim I don't think I can even use the term correctly in a sentence. However, deep in my soul is a longing for feet that would fit Manolo's shoes, and every now and then I can actually read something like Vogue cover to cover. In one sitting. This time I found a number of garments had taken substantial influence from the geographic area where the Middle East becomes Asia. It dawned on me that my sweater might actually be fashionable.
3. This haphazardly brings me to want to voice my opinion on women who wear veils. It seems the dead horse has been theologically beaten beyond recognition, but with little or no consideration for the spiritual reasons behind the veil. When I cover myself, and I occasionally do, it is for spiritual reasons. I do not differentiate between my emotional, physical and spiritual space. It is one. When you stare at me, you are seeing my body, my feelings and my connection to the divine, all at once. Sometimes I find that overwhelming; sometimes I find that akin to being naked in public. Being able to cover myself creates a personal space for me. It is a space where I can hold my physical, emotional and spiritual self sacred. When I am able to do that, I am able to face the world in a more competent way because nothing of who I am is being compromised.
4. I do not understand how being covered can been seen as a threat. Admittedly, it gives the covered one a bit more strength, but how should it be the covered one's problem if our culture isn't equipped to handle a perception of strength? I am connected to divinity. If you cannot handle that, why should it be my problem?
5. Covered is sexy. I actually read this in Vogue. A designer who shall remain nameless because I honestly can't remember off the top of my head who he is, expounded on the theory that veiled women are sexy. Who doesn't want to know what's behind the veil? If the rest of her is half as stunning as her eyes, what's not to love?
6. When did modesty become a threat? And how? Why is it so difficult for me to find clothing that doesn't draw attention to my breasts? I speak specifically of the quest to find a sweater to wear for lunch with my Dad. I am his daughter. I am a woman. I have breasts. He doesn't need to see them. Why are most sweaters on the market designed to show off breasts? I'm sure Dad wouldn't be offended. I think we got through that when I was 16 and I'm pretty sure these days I couldn't come up with anything new. I'd simply rather wear something that doesn't scream, "Look! Boobies!"
7. I agree with most principles of modest dress. If I am out in public with my boyfriend, while I feel flattered when other men stare, I'd much rather that they didn't. I also don't think my boyfriend should have to put up with leers from strange men. He knows what I look like naked, the rest of the world shouldn't.
8. How then, do I justify my dance? I am a Middle Eastern dancer. I have taken enough classes for enough years that now I am at a point where performance work or teaching is the direction I am headed. Anyone who has seen the dance either in restaurants or a proper stage show understands that it is physically revelatory. Costumes are scant, movements are technically demanding and considered quite sexy. Take the spiritual into consideration and I have to explain that I dance from a divine connection. My body knows the movements and when I dance, I allow my connection to the divine to guide me in a trance-like state. I rarely choreograph anything for my performance work.
9. I think I understand the levels of metaphor involved in the seven veils of Salome's dance. Having danced, I do not believe she ended in physical nudity but in spiritual nudity. With each veil dropped she showed more of her divine connection until all that was left for her stepfather was a visual presentation of her divine connection to God.
10. This entire process leads me to believe that it is the mind-body-spirit connection that is truly sexy. Women dancing and women covering is a cultural tradition older than time. How the spiritual was taken out of the equation in our culture I am not sure. I refuse to blame women's lib movements because real women's lib includes our unique theologies and connections to the divine. It bothers me that young women who are scantily clothed do not seem to appreciate the divine - or at least that is the impression I am left with. I feel sad. I feel violated on their behalf because there is a divinity in the profane that they are not acknowledging. I look at younger cousins who are "hooking up" with strange men and they feel awful when he doesn't phone back because no on is honouring the divine in what they are doing. I see women when I travel who are looking to pick up men everywhere they go and I understand. I know they are seeking something familiar in culture shock. I understand that so well. But in meeting all these men they invariably forget about their connection to the divine and they are left feeling just as disconnected and shocked as before. What I learned abroad was that often a visit to a temple or other sacred ground with an open heart often yielded a greater sense of connection than a strange man ever would have.
11. I suppose a conclusion is warranted. It goes something along the lines of this: Our culture is threatened by the mind-body-spirit connection exemplified in wearing a veil. It has set apart nuns, monks, women in hijab and men who wear beards for religious reasons. What we need to realize is that the problem is not with the veiled ones, but with those who cannot make peace with their own divinity, whatever their religion, whatever their beliefs. When the world understands that sexy is something that can be found in this trinity, and is no longer threatened by it, I see a slim possibility for universal world peace.
At the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, I am pretty sure I was in the shower. It occurred to me that it was an appropriate day to celebrate my freedom and ponder world peace.
(sex culture sex)
(culture sex culture)
1. I am sitting at my table in my pyjamas. I live in Canada. It is winter. This necessitates warm sleeping costumes. The bottoms are covered in Hello Kitty. I recently learned she lives in London and likes to bake cookies. I like her because she reminds me of a different time and place where contemplation such as this would not be possible: a culture so far removed from my own that when my own confronts me, it is this far away place that feels normal. Reverse culture shock.
2. My sweater is a long sweater. It buttons right to the neck. It is gray. I saw it in the mirror either this morning or last night and was struck by how much it reminded me of Muslim modest dress. When I moved back into my mother's house and the only thing to do at night was listen to the coyotes sing, I bought a copy of Vogue. Understand how unusual this is for me - I don't wear makeup, I never know what the current trends are, and when I find something I like I buy three in different colours. I am so far from being a fashion victim I don't think I can even use the term correctly in a sentence. However, deep in my soul is a longing for feet that would fit Manolo's shoes, and every now and then I can actually read something like Vogue cover to cover. In one sitting. This time I found a number of garments had taken substantial influence from the geographic area where the Middle East becomes Asia. It dawned on me that my sweater might actually be fashionable.
3. This haphazardly brings me to want to voice my opinion on women who wear veils. It seems the dead horse has been theologically beaten beyond recognition, but with little or no consideration for the spiritual reasons behind the veil. When I cover myself, and I occasionally do, it is for spiritual reasons. I do not differentiate between my emotional, physical and spiritual space. It is one. When you stare at me, you are seeing my body, my feelings and my connection to the divine, all at once. Sometimes I find that overwhelming; sometimes I find that akin to being naked in public. Being able to cover myself creates a personal space for me. It is a space where I can hold my physical, emotional and spiritual self sacred. When I am able to do that, I am able to face the world in a more competent way because nothing of who I am is being compromised.
4. I do not understand how being covered can been seen as a threat. Admittedly, it gives the covered one a bit more strength, but how should it be the covered one's problem if our culture isn't equipped to handle a perception of strength? I am connected to divinity. If you cannot handle that, why should it be my problem?
5. Covered is sexy. I actually read this in Vogue. A designer who shall remain nameless because I honestly can't remember off the top of my head who he is, expounded on the theory that veiled women are sexy. Who doesn't want to know what's behind the veil? If the rest of her is half as stunning as her eyes, what's not to love?
6. When did modesty become a threat? And how? Why is it so difficult for me to find clothing that doesn't draw attention to my breasts? I speak specifically of the quest to find a sweater to wear for lunch with my Dad. I am his daughter. I am a woman. I have breasts. He doesn't need to see them. Why are most sweaters on the market designed to show off breasts? I'm sure Dad wouldn't be offended. I think we got through that when I was 16 and I'm pretty sure these days I couldn't come up with anything new. I'd simply rather wear something that doesn't scream, "Look! Boobies!"
7. I agree with most principles of modest dress. If I am out in public with my boyfriend, while I feel flattered when other men stare, I'd much rather that they didn't. I also don't think my boyfriend should have to put up with leers from strange men. He knows what I look like naked, the rest of the world shouldn't.
8. How then, do I justify my dance? I am a Middle Eastern dancer. I have taken enough classes for enough years that now I am at a point where performance work or teaching is the direction I am headed. Anyone who has seen the dance either in restaurants or a proper stage show understands that it is physically revelatory. Costumes are scant, movements are technically demanding and considered quite sexy. Take the spiritual into consideration and I have to explain that I dance from a divine connection. My body knows the movements and when I dance, I allow my connection to the divine to guide me in a trance-like state. I rarely choreograph anything for my performance work.
9. I think I understand the levels of metaphor involved in the seven veils of Salome's dance. Having danced, I do not believe she ended in physical nudity but in spiritual nudity. With each veil dropped she showed more of her divine connection until all that was left for her stepfather was a visual presentation of her divine connection to God.
10. This entire process leads me to believe that it is the mind-body-spirit connection that is truly sexy. Women dancing and women covering is a cultural tradition older than time. How the spiritual was taken out of the equation in our culture I am not sure. I refuse to blame women's lib movements because real women's lib includes our unique theologies and connections to the divine. It bothers me that young women who are scantily clothed do not seem to appreciate the divine - or at least that is the impression I am left with. I feel sad. I feel violated on their behalf because there is a divinity in the profane that they are not acknowledging. I look at younger cousins who are "hooking up" with strange men and they feel awful when he doesn't phone back because no on is honouring the divine in what they are doing. I see women when I travel who are looking to pick up men everywhere they go and I understand. I know they are seeking something familiar in culture shock. I understand that so well. But in meeting all these men they invariably forget about their connection to the divine and they are left feeling just as disconnected and shocked as before. What I learned abroad was that often a visit to a temple or other sacred ground with an open heart often yielded a greater sense of connection than a strange man ever would have.
11. I suppose a conclusion is warranted. It goes something along the lines of this: Our culture is threatened by the mind-body-spirit connection exemplified in wearing a veil. It has set apart nuns, monks, women in hijab and men who wear beards for religious reasons. What we need to realize is that the problem is not with the veiled ones, but with those who cannot make peace with their own divinity, whatever their religion, whatever their beliefs. When the world understands that sexy is something that can be found in this trinity, and is no longer threatened by it, I see a slim possibility for universal world peace.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Gossip
"Uh, hi, are you Lena?" the man asked. He looked nervous. The staff in the cafe weren't sure if he was on a blind date or if he'd met her on the internet.
"Yes, you must be Josh, it's good to meet you!" she said. She had plain brown hair, straight past her shoulders. She was wearing a brown tshirt under a brown sweater that fell into a tied v at her waist. Lena had seemed a bit nervous as the baristas made her drink, but it was a bit out of their everyday job description to ask her if everything was alright. She wasn't afraid to meet their stares, eyes deep into eyes. No answers, just a whole lot of questions.
Josh was tall, skinny. He wore a gray hooded sweatshirt with jeans and sneakers that screamed stereotypical geek. His Asian eyes were a warm chocolate brown and his spiked hair invited a playful impression.
"I wasn't sure if this was the place," Josh said. "I took a wrong turn on the way here but there's no entrance to the parking lot from that street and I went around the block to try the back but there's no entrance there either and I ended up coming out by the Canadian Tire!"
Lena laughed politely. "Well, you found the place."
"It's nice," he said.
"I like it. It's close to home for me, I come here every now and then to relax and I thought it would be a good place to meet."
The baristas couldn't guess from their conversation whether or not they were romantically inclined or there for other purposes. Quiet for the first time that night, they hung on the couple's exchange stealthily.
Josh pulled out a laptop for the middle of the table. "I'll show you what I've got here and you can tell me what you think," he said. Lena pulled her chair around so she could see better. Their backs were toward the espresso bar and the baristas were mumbling to each other something about Josh being a stereotypical graphic designer.
"I'm really glad you could come out tonight," Lena said. "I don't come into the city very often and this isn't the kind of thing that can be done over the internet."
"Brian, your fiance, he didn't want to come with you tonight?" Josh asked. His inflection suggested it was an innocent question, not one meant to lead her into romance.
"No, he stayed up in Valleyview. Told me he trusted my judgement," she said, smiling. Josh chuckled politely.
The computer had finished booting and he pulled up a design for a web page. They went through all the features together, Josh explaining why each was the way it was. Lena listened. They leaned toward each other like conspirators in the back pew of a church, trying to plan something more exciting than the sermon.
Business, one of the baristas muttered to the other, and their conversation slowly resumed, the gossip having gone nowhere.
"Yes, you must be Josh, it's good to meet you!" she said. She had plain brown hair, straight past her shoulders. She was wearing a brown tshirt under a brown sweater that fell into a tied v at her waist. Lena had seemed a bit nervous as the baristas made her drink, but it was a bit out of their everyday job description to ask her if everything was alright. She wasn't afraid to meet their stares, eyes deep into eyes. No answers, just a whole lot of questions.
Josh was tall, skinny. He wore a gray hooded sweatshirt with jeans and sneakers that screamed stereotypical geek. His Asian eyes were a warm chocolate brown and his spiked hair invited a playful impression.
"I wasn't sure if this was the place," Josh said. "I took a wrong turn on the way here but there's no entrance to the parking lot from that street and I went around the block to try the back but there's no entrance there either and I ended up coming out by the Canadian Tire!"
Lena laughed politely. "Well, you found the place."
"It's nice," he said.
"I like it. It's close to home for me, I come here every now and then to relax and I thought it would be a good place to meet."
The baristas couldn't guess from their conversation whether or not they were romantically inclined or there for other purposes. Quiet for the first time that night, they hung on the couple's exchange stealthily.
Josh pulled out a laptop for the middle of the table. "I'll show you what I've got here and you can tell me what you think," he said. Lena pulled her chair around so she could see better. Their backs were toward the espresso bar and the baristas were mumbling to each other something about Josh being a stereotypical graphic designer.
"I'm really glad you could come out tonight," Lena said. "I don't come into the city very often and this isn't the kind of thing that can be done over the internet."
"Brian, your fiance, he didn't want to come with you tonight?" Josh asked. His inflection suggested it was an innocent question, not one meant to lead her into romance.
"No, he stayed up in Valleyview. Told me he trusted my judgement," she said, smiling. Josh chuckled politely.
The computer had finished booting and he pulled up a design for a web page. They went through all the features together, Josh explaining why each was the way it was. Lena listened. They leaned toward each other like conspirators in the back pew of a church, trying to plan something more exciting than the sermon.
Business, one of the baristas muttered to the other, and their conversation slowly resumed, the gossip having gone nowhere.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Kesa sized hole in my life
I think I saw you there
on the side of the road
on the side of the
blur
rushing past the car window
blanket over my knees outside leg cold
I think I saw
but it can't be and I know this
how long have I known this now? this time
of the year I miss
you
think about you lots when I think about riding
elephants through the jungle
because that was the same trip I wrote your mum a
letter
a crappy letter
saying sorry I
couldn't come home I
heard the news but
I tried to not step on tiny flowers instead
how can I thank you for your gifts?
how can I thank you for you?
I thought I heard your laughter or saw you in the
back of someone else's head that
night the other
night the black sky outlining your
profile
except it's not you and it won't be you and it can't be
you
ever
how did it come to this? And what the hell is
this?
I don't know.
i don't know anything about shit these days or that's how it
feels when I
think of you
because I want to hold your hand and play in the ravine and do stupid shit with our hair but
I
don't
have anyone to do those things with anymore.
on the side of the road
on the side of the
blur
rushing past the car window
blanket over my knees outside leg cold
I think I saw
but it can't be and I know this
how long have I known this now? this time
of the year I miss
you
think about you lots when I think about riding
elephants through the jungle
because that was the same trip I wrote your mum a
letter
a crappy letter
saying sorry I
couldn't come home I
heard the news but
I tried to not step on tiny flowers instead
how can I thank you for your gifts?
how can I thank you for you?
I thought I heard your laughter or saw you in the
back of someone else's head that
night the other
night the black sky outlining your
profile
except it's not you and it won't be you and it can't be
you
ever
how did it come to this? And what the hell is
this?
I don't know.
i don't know anything about shit these days or that's how it
feels when I
think of you
because I want to hold your hand and play in the ravine and do stupid shit with our hair but
I
don't
have anyone to do those things with anymore.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
How do you scrub crayon off the wall?
Lover brother my best friend, curved around my body your warmth is soothing, comfort incarnate and delicately wrong; a dream a fiend a friend, a sister but I missed her or didn't catch what she was throwing from another place her face in pictures missing her essence inexplicably free, you me and the divorcee were going to party and I wish I was there now but oh how I long for sleep, warm and deep, creeping upon me like a slug under rhaspberry bushes in the garden; tonight we grew a bonfire and the boys sprayed lighter fluid on it and I wonder under the crisp early winter stars if there is a god who loves my dad enough to let him live well for the rest of his years; my ears assaulted by stories of I don't even know what and I'm trying to understand, trying to remember if ever there was a time I did those things, did I party or do drugs or be excessive about anything, anything at all? Or was it really just my private writing on the wall?
Monday, September 04, 2006
line edit: Larry: 1 (or how I came to be called a whore)
1
There are always pictures in the clouds, but it was too dark to see them the night I kissed another girl on a Sydney beach.
We’d been friends for years but hadn’t seen each other for a few. As luck would have it, though we’re Canadian, we happened to be in Sydney at the same time. Our dads, old friends who flew together when they were our age, attempted to handle public relations for us, but the phone numbers they gave us mixed up the local and international dialing codes.
I waffled around, enraptured by the Bondi beach backpacker lifestyle for a while. I was, possibly for the first time in my life, free, and I had no idea what to do with the freedom. I booked a plane ticket to New Zealand for Christmas. I saw some of the city sights. I had lamb and eggs for my first breakfast. I made a vague plan to head up to Alice Springs, sometime. Before Christmas. When was I leaving? My left shoulder shrugged involuntarily at the question. My answers were vague and uneasy, directionless. Then one day an e-mail connected.
I stayed in Sydney for a girl.
I walked home with her hand in mine and her lipstick on my neck the morning after. We tumbled in the sand after wading in the ocean while the sun rose.
But after we shared a shower and went to bed, it was over. By mid-morning’s sunlight, beating cruelly on our hangovers, we returned to discussing boys.
Joan showed up in the lobby of my hostel looking grown up. Who is this woman waiting for me? Who is this woman I am drinking with who reminds me that we once shared a bathtub naked before our first birthdays?
I remembered going out for dinner with our families once in Toronto, we couldn’t have been more than 10 or 11 at the time. Joan wore a plaid skirt, her hair cut in a short bob, and makeup. I remember the makeup because I think Joan being allowed to wear it was what convinced my parents to allow me to wear it too.
Summers at her cottage on Wabamun lake dot my little girl memories. I remember the waterslide that had been constructed down a hill and all the way into the lake, and going back to her room that night to listen to Glass Tiger on her cassette player, a small black ghetto blaster. It's funny now to remember those little things that defined growing up in the 80s – changing out of our bathing suits and into mismatched fluorescent slouch socks.
The camaraderie didn't always extend to her birthday parties. She had a best friend who lived with her in the city – I grew up in a town about 20 minutes drive from the city. I felt like I was second best. Her city friends, while they never went out of their way to make me feel unwelcome, left me feeling like an outsider. It was the same in Sydney when we went out with her friends – they were nice to me but I never got the feeling that they actually liked me.
Younger than that even, one of my earliest memories is of a sleepover at her house. We kept trying to sneak past her parents' bedroom so that we could go outside and play in the front yard. We were little – I can't remember how old but I remember doorknobs being about eye level. Sometimes we'd get as far as the living room but usually we'd get as far as her parents' bedroom door before her dad's voice would be raised, sounding like he really meant it, telling us to get back to bed. But we kept trying until we were too tired, the cool outside night tantalizing and magical.
The summer I was 17, I visited my grandmother in Toronto, and I arranged with Joan's mum to have dinner at her house as a surprise for Joan. I have never been so warmly welcomed. It was the last time I saw her mum before she died.
Joan and I sat up in her room and listened to Tori Amos. It seems so long ago now, like somehow there was a Before and an After to our friendship and that was the end of Before. The music was the only thing we had in common. The visit was almost ethereal; our lives removed themselves in completely different directions. I remember her mum's china set, patterned with herbs and their Latin names, because it was what I focused on when I made the mistake of bringing up our parents' divorces at the dinner table. Her mum was quiet. That was the night I found out her dad had left them for another woman. I never knew that part of the story.
In Sydney, everything was released. I asked about her mum because I had to. I didn't feel obligated; I felt like a distant Aunt had died. I was sorry that there was no way I could have made the funeral. She spoke without crying and I was drawn back to the memory of the night I heard that the cancer had won. I had sat on my bed in my basement room, walls painted electric blue, and cried. The hotel pub on the beach was far from that night, the cool breeze flaunting the scent of culture shock under our noses. I brought an old picture of our mums in Hawai'i. They were dressed in pretty sundresses. They had only wanted to wade into the ocean, but the ocean had other plans in mind, soaking them. In the photo they are hanging onto each other for balance, completely drenched. She had it in her back pocket when we re-enacted it mere hours later.
I saw our connection then, as we shared our first beer. Hell yes we're going for a beer, we've never done that before. When we were with her friends, our worlds had been very different. But one on one our bodies remembered those summers on the lake as forest princesses. I won't go as far as saying we were tomboys, although we certainly leaned that way more than the direction of pretty skirts and lipstick. We wore it growing up the same way hoods wore leather jackets. I suppose the correct term is with attitude; I don't feel that I can say that about her for sure because I've only known such small parts of her life. But that night in the pub we pounded back drinks and shot pool like the blokes.
For six months in Sydney we talked about boys, specifically how much we liked to sleep with them, punctuated by the occasional, “Oh but don’t cheat on your boyfriend! Be strong!” followed the next morning by the sly, “So, I noticed someone didn’t sleep in the girls’ room last night…” Every now and then an email from the other arrived when either of us were on the road about some random bloke and a great night but never any emotional stuff. Never any thought of love. Love was never asked about, never implied – not with boys or ever with each other. Was it part of the tough girl image? Was it because she was scared of dying of cancer and refused to let anyone love her because she knows how hard it is to lose someone from that terrible disease? Was it because I had a boyfriend?
The morning after we kissed on the beach I loaned Joan some clean clothes while we washed the sandy wet ones. We’d forgotten to get dry clothes when we stumbled back from the beach, instead heading directly to the shower we shared. We ran back from the shower not all fitting in my one small towel. We ran down the hallway thankful no one was up yet, a mixture of giggles and horrified exclamations (“Jennifer Rae Barrett, I am naked! I am in the hallway and I am naked!”) while I fumbled for my key in the sand encrusted pocket of my pants.
I still remember how she looked standing on the sidewalk in the morning sun, hungover, smoking. I remember the softly curved shape of her breasts unbound by a bra, accentuated by the blue weave of my favourite shirt as she inhaled while I hid behind my hair and tried to obscure my staring.
That was when I realized we would never talk about what happened the night before. How would we ever tell our fathers? What on earth did we have in common? She wanted to drive fast sports cars with loud stereos and well-groomed men. I was engaged to be married and not a full hour ago had gotten off the phone with my betrothed. Morning was tense, but we didn't acknowledge the tension. There were no soft girlish tendencies that usually follow such a night. No soft caresses from gentle fingers moving each other's hair from our eyes. No tears. No words of promised love. Nothing said to deny, because that would also acknowledge. We were just two young women bold enough to face up to a lifetime of infrequent incidences of friendship.
When the tension ran too deep, I reminded her that we had made plans to get our navels pierced. As luck would have it, we'd heard of a piercing place not too far from where I was staying. Phoebe, my travel mate, was up by then, and decided to come along and get her tongue pierced. I was thankful for the distraction she provided.
Joan left me on a street corner, turning toward the direction of her bus stop. I paused to watch her go. I watched her pull her short hair back into a stubby ponytail, listened to her say that she needed a haircut. All her life she'd had short hair but I'd never known until then that she chose it because she liked it that way. I remember the place on her back where her skin came out from under her shirt and disappeared with the curve of her spine into the top of her pants, her mostly bare shoulders brown from the sun. She walked without looking back. My hand reached out. I wanted to call out, to ask her to wait, “But what about last night on the beach, Joan Dupree? How can you walk away like it never happened?”
I said nothing. I will never know if things would have been different if I had said anything. If I had made a squeak in the back of my throat and she had turned. If she had been waiting for me to say something because she couldn't. If she didn't know how to explain to her friends like I didn't know how to explain to the man I was supposed to marry.
How could I just let her go? I don't know her demons or the inner gallows she was facing. I know our families. I know how shocked they would have been. I know the atmosphere I grew up in, it framed my thoughts. My culture had been one where women didn't have nights together on beaches. It wasn't so much that it was taboo, it just wasn't done.
I wanted to cry because neither of us had voices when we parted. I want to think now that I would do things differently, that I'd say or do something, but watching her back walking away from me in my memory I am slowly accepting things for what they were, not what I wanted them to be.
There are always pictures in the clouds, but it was too dark to see them the night I kissed another girl on a Sydney beach.
We’d been friends for years but hadn’t seen each other for a few. As luck would have it, though we’re Canadian, we happened to be in Sydney at the same time. Our dads, old friends who flew together when they were our age, attempted to handle public relations for us, but the phone numbers they gave us mixed up the local and international dialing codes.
I waffled around, enraptured by the Bondi beach backpacker lifestyle for a while. I was, possibly for the first time in my life, free, and I had no idea what to do with the freedom. I booked a plane ticket to New Zealand for Christmas. I saw some of the city sights. I had lamb and eggs for my first breakfast. I made a vague plan to head up to Alice Springs, sometime. Before Christmas. When was I leaving? My left shoulder shrugged involuntarily at the question. My answers were vague and uneasy, directionless. Then one day an e-mail connected.
I stayed in Sydney for a girl.
I walked home with her hand in mine and her lipstick on my neck the morning after. We tumbled in the sand after wading in the ocean while the sun rose.
But after we shared a shower and went to bed, it was over. By mid-morning’s sunlight, beating cruelly on our hangovers, we returned to discussing boys.
Joan showed up in the lobby of my hostel looking grown up. Who is this woman waiting for me? Who is this woman I am drinking with who reminds me that we once shared a bathtub naked before our first birthdays?
I remembered going out for dinner with our families once in Toronto, we couldn’t have been more than 10 or 11 at the time. Joan wore a plaid skirt, her hair cut in a short bob, and makeup. I remember the makeup because I think Joan being allowed to wear it was what convinced my parents to allow me to wear it too.
Summers at her cottage on Wabamun lake dot my little girl memories. I remember the waterslide that had been constructed down a hill and all the way into the lake, and going back to her room that night to listen to Glass Tiger on her cassette player, a small black ghetto blaster. It's funny now to remember those little things that defined growing up in the 80s – changing out of our bathing suits and into mismatched fluorescent slouch socks.
The camaraderie didn't always extend to her birthday parties. She had a best friend who lived with her in the city – I grew up in a town about 20 minutes drive from the city. I felt like I was second best. Her city friends, while they never went out of their way to make me feel unwelcome, left me feeling like an outsider. It was the same in Sydney when we went out with her friends – they were nice to me but I never got the feeling that they actually liked me.
Younger than that even, one of my earliest memories is of a sleepover at her house. We kept trying to sneak past her parents' bedroom so that we could go outside and play in the front yard. We were little – I can't remember how old but I remember doorknobs being about eye level. Sometimes we'd get as far as the living room but usually we'd get as far as her parents' bedroom door before her dad's voice would be raised, sounding like he really meant it, telling us to get back to bed. But we kept trying until we were too tired, the cool outside night tantalizing and magical.
The summer I was 17, I visited my grandmother in Toronto, and I arranged with Joan's mum to have dinner at her house as a surprise for Joan. I have never been so warmly welcomed. It was the last time I saw her mum before she died.
Joan and I sat up in her room and listened to Tori Amos. It seems so long ago now, like somehow there was a Before and an After to our friendship and that was the end of Before. The music was the only thing we had in common. The visit was almost ethereal; our lives removed themselves in completely different directions. I remember her mum's china set, patterned with herbs and their Latin names, because it was what I focused on when I made the mistake of bringing up our parents' divorces at the dinner table. Her mum was quiet. That was the night I found out her dad had left them for another woman. I never knew that part of the story.
In Sydney, everything was released. I asked about her mum because I had to. I didn't feel obligated; I felt like a distant Aunt had died. I was sorry that there was no way I could have made the funeral. She spoke without crying and I was drawn back to the memory of the night I heard that the cancer had won. I had sat on my bed in my basement room, walls painted electric blue, and cried. The hotel pub on the beach was far from that night, the cool breeze flaunting the scent of culture shock under our noses. I brought an old picture of our mums in Hawai'i. They were dressed in pretty sundresses. They had only wanted to wade into the ocean, but the ocean had other plans in mind, soaking them. In the photo they are hanging onto each other for balance, completely drenched. She had it in her back pocket when we re-enacted it mere hours later.
I saw our connection then, as we shared our first beer. Hell yes we're going for a beer, we've never done that before. When we were with her friends, our worlds had been very different. But one on one our bodies remembered those summers on the lake as forest princesses. I won't go as far as saying we were tomboys, although we certainly leaned that way more than the direction of pretty skirts and lipstick. We wore it growing up the same way hoods wore leather jackets. I suppose the correct term is with attitude; I don't feel that I can say that about her for sure because I've only known such small parts of her life. But that night in the pub we pounded back drinks and shot pool like the blokes.
For six months in Sydney we talked about boys, specifically how much we liked to sleep with them, punctuated by the occasional, “Oh but don’t cheat on your boyfriend! Be strong!” followed the next morning by the sly, “So, I noticed someone didn’t sleep in the girls’ room last night…” Every now and then an email from the other arrived when either of us were on the road about some random bloke and a great night but never any emotional stuff. Never any thought of love. Love was never asked about, never implied – not with boys or ever with each other. Was it part of the tough girl image? Was it because she was scared of dying of cancer and refused to let anyone love her because she knows how hard it is to lose someone from that terrible disease? Was it because I had a boyfriend?
The morning after we kissed on the beach I loaned Joan some clean clothes while we washed the sandy wet ones. We’d forgotten to get dry clothes when we stumbled back from the beach, instead heading directly to the shower we shared. We ran back from the shower not all fitting in my one small towel. We ran down the hallway thankful no one was up yet, a mixture of giggles and horrified exclamations (“Jennifer Rae Barrett, I am naked! I am in the hallway and I am naked!”) while I fumbled for my key in the sand encrusted pocket of my pants.
I still remember how she looked standing on the sidewalk in the morning sun, hungover, smoking. I remember the softly curved shape of her breasts unbound by a bra, accentuated by the blue weave of my favourite shirt as she inhaled while I hid behind my hair and tried to obscure my staring.
That was when I realized we would never talk about what happened the night before. How would we ever tell our fathers? What on earth did we have in common? She wanted to drive fast sports cars with loud stereos and well-groomed men. I was engaged to be married and not a full hour ago had gotten off the phone with my betrothed. Morning was tense, but we didn't acknowledge the tension. There were no soft girlish tendencies that usually follow such a night. No soft caresses from gentle fingers moving each other's hair from our eyes. No tears. No words of promised love. Nothing said to deny, because that would also acknowledge. We were just two young women bold enough to face up to a lifetime of infrequent incidences of friendship.
When the tension ran too deep, I reminded her that we had made plans to get our navels pierced. As luck would have it, we'd heard of a piercing place not too far from where I was staying. Phoebe, my travel mate, was up by then, and decided to come along and get her tongue pierced. I was thankful for the distraction she provided.
Joan left me on a street corner, turning toward the direction of her bus stop. I paused to watch her go. I watched her pull her short hair back into a stubby ponytail, listened to her say that she needed a haircut. All her life she'd had short hair but I'd never known until then that she chose it because she liked it that way. I remember the place on her back where her skin came out from under her shirt and disappeared with the curve of her spine into the top of her pants, her mostly bare shoulders brown from the sun. She walked without looking back. My hand reached out. I wanted to call out, to ask her to wait, “But what about last night on the beach, Joan Dupree? How can you walk away like it never happened?”
I said nothing. I will never know if things would have been different if I had said anything. If I had made a squeak in the back of my throat and she had turned. If she had been waiting for me to say something because she couldn't. If she didn't know how to explain to her friends like I didn't know how to explain to the man I was supposed to marry.
How could I just let her go? I don't know her demons or the inner gallows she was facing. I know our families. I know how shocked they would have been. I know the atmosphere I grew up in, it framed my thoughts. My culture had been one where women didn't have nights together on beaches. It wasn't so much that it was taboo, it just wasn't done.
I wanted to cry because neither of us had voices when we parted. I want to think now that I would do things differently, that I'd say or do something, but watching her back walking away from me in my memory I am slowly accepting things for what they were, not what I wanted them to be.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Mullberry Blue
Visions of blue paper fill my head. Colours, swirling, churning. Strips of paper in a heap, dropped from a fourth story balcony into the street below. The street is lined with trees and a little girl walks underneath. She wears a white dress and her long hair is unruly. I see the paper from her perspective, soft, beautiful. Mulberry strips being pulled by gravity and lifted by wind. Wind lifts them in places like a bat's wings: the paper takes on a balloon shape from the force of air underneath. I am amazed that air can do such a thing - that it can lift inanimate objects and give flight to the animates. It can be so very gentle or bitingly cold. Today the wind brought the gift of autumn. The breeze had a chill bringing back a quarter century of memories; everything from new school books to first dates, first kisses, bicycle tyres crunching in leaves gathered on the side of the road, late season football games won and lost, classrooms becoming enlightenment and torture, family gatherings becoming enlightenment and torture. The smell of the changing season was on the breeze; today the breeze gave me my smile. Textures my skin has become unfamiliar with become long lost friends as wool is again given the opportunity to create static with fleece. Fall rains bring damp, earthy, manytextured memories of old love. Desperate memories, awkward in their remembrance. What am I holding onto? What am I grasping at? Or am I merely holding something pleasant? The colour of the leaves in the river valley. I don't know the trails because I used to live nearby, I know them because I've walked them late at night in love. I know where the crunchiest leaves pile in the bicycle lanes. I remember the smell of a building that has housed coffee for so long the very wood is porous with the scent of grounds. I remember a kiss in the rain, wet wool beneath my hands. It is one of those beautiful moments I will likely remember forever. I know the smell of our sweaters and the rustling of my drum as it thumped against my hip as I tried to get closer to him on the streetcorner. It feels like yesterday but I know this cannot be. I remember an early morning, finding frost on the grass. I slipped out before anyone else was awake and stood barefoot on the frozen lawn, soaking up the sunshine, leaving melted barefootprints behind as I danced. I wonder if anyone saw the footprints. My impressions of beauty pegged me as a closet romantic, a trait I no longer deny. I see beauty in many places, and when something beautiful happens in my life, I am often mindful of the little things - the colour of the grass, the scent in the air, the shifting scratchiness of fabrics, the crunch of feet on the ground. I remember what looked like a large pool of drink spilled on the ground the night I wanted to jump in all the puddles on the way home. I remember my friends and the homemade veggie burgers but I also remember the deep sorrow. A day later I left them. I packed my bag and said goodbye to a city it hurt to leave, goodbye to friends who still write, goodbye to a neighbourhood where, for once in my life, I was considered normal. I knew people I passed on the streets. I left all of that to return to this place, where the few people I knew outright or through misunderstanding disowned me. This is the physical place I write from now. It is far from anywhere. It is home because I have lived here, but it doesn't feel like my home. The last few returns have been from far away places, with stories of exotic locals and late night long distance phone calls to the other end of the earth. I miss you. Do you remember when? And then you kissed me for the first time, while gently sweeping my hair from my neck and then it was alright for me to relax into your embrace. Do you remember that first night? We awoke at sunrise with the call to prayer at the mosque nearby. The closest I can get out here is the sound of the coyotes in the middle of the night. In the day, their beautiful haunting song is replaced by the sound of construction. They're building a freeway over the wetland end of a lake near here, a lake that was home to thousands of nesting birds. Not only can I no longer reach the edge of the lake to watch the sunset, but my silence is shattered by the noises of construction. My beautiful photograph of a daisy in a field is actually of a non-native weed growing right beside the road construction. I feel far away from everywhere. My connections here are thinning, but intensifying in nature. The season of change is upon us and we are all torn in various and sundry directions allowing for very little time to actually gather. New moons and full moons pass uncelebrated as the leaves change, fall to the ground, and are crunched underfoot by the gleeful schoolchildren on their way home at the end of the day. This carries on until Thanksgiving when we are beset upon our families in holy gathering to celebrate the gifts we have been given. My family traditionally goes around the table (in many cases two or three tables because we invariably have large gatherings) and each person is given the opportunity to give thanks for whatever has come to be in their lives in the last year, in front of an audience. It is a show of gratitude that my culture usually lacks. In our daily lives we forget to thank people for their gifts, the gift of their presences in our lives, the gift of their abilities. What would the world be like if we thanked our friends every few days for being themselves in our lives? Thanks for being you. I appreciate and love you like no other. What does that feel like? What does it feel like when we greet each other with compliments borne of love? Hello Beautiful, how are you? What would the world be like if we said I love you whenever we felt it, regardless of the circumstances? How many managers ever hear their staff say I love you? And what about our families? When is the time to show pride in the accomplishments of our families? Why not now? I know what mass gratitude feels like because I witness it every single year. It is the most powerful feeling of love I've ever felt. Can you imagine what the world would be like if we all expressed these things regularly? This kind of revolution fills my head with joy and goosebumps. As the leaves begin to turn colour and fall to the ground, I imagine each leaf a visionary, each fall to the ground an act of gratitude to mother earth for a bountiful summer of growth. In this vein, thank you for the memories. The resistance of wet wool on wet wool. The crunching of leaves. The feeling of pedaling and watching your feet fly through the leaves. The gentle touches, foreign sunrises. The smell of damp leaves on your clothing. The beautiful greetings. Thank you for the gift of your presence in my life. Thank you for reading my letters and thanks for the offer of hugs, if the ocean weren't in the way.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
abandoned swimming pool
Trespassing through the tall trees
thinking thoughts of the forgotten
memories that can't be mine
I wasn't there
I couldn't have been
she is dead to me now
how
memories armed with bartbs and claws
and hand grenades
waiting to go off
pins half way out
pins in limbo
everything reframed
same old shit seen through a different window
thank you for the memories
dark puddles reflecting street lights
the colour of our drinks
ink
dark liquid rippling
caressing the mind into coersion
again
slipping up the stairs ignoring the bewares
spraypainted onto the back of my retina
(by god?)
tripping down the short hall into (bed?)
It wasn't me I wasn't there
I swear
I would have ended up dead
like she's dead to me now
how
haunted in a gray forest
by prospects misspelled
construed
held tobgether by stringy melty cheese
and bunny fur
and blood.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Sunday, July 09, 2006
new home
oh
that's right
I was going to do some laundry
but instead I'm downloading music
sunday night in st. albert
lots of time on my hands
gotta use it
portable electronics covering my mother's kitchen table
laptop, camera, music on the speakers I'm
"unpacking boxes" and
"doing housework"
got the Public Enemy on the stereo
keeping time with the words yo
as setting sun filters in the window
that's right
I was going to do some laundry
but instead I'm downloading music
sunday night in st. albert
lots of time on my hands
gotta use it
portable electronics covering my mother's kitchen table
laptop, camera, music on the speakers I'm
"unpacking boxes" and
"doing housework"
got the Public Enemy on the stereo
keeping time with the words yo
as setting sun filters in the window
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Saturday morning coffee
Starbucks '06 Peaberry Blend. A 10 ounce cup means I make it with 12 ounces of h2o. Only 10 pour out in the end. I do not know why this is, it just is.
My mug says "I Write" but that's not who I feel like this morning. Yet. That is not who I am to be. Instead I am wondering where downtown I can buy linnen, preferably today, preferably in the next hour. I accept that in the next hour isn't going to happen. Tomorrow morning then.
I have also come to accept that I really only have one bottom sheet for my bed. The other one is ripped, and I could sew it but it wouldn't be comfortable to sleep on. I suppose now it is condemned to a life as giftwrap. It is a cotton sheet; it would not make very good rags.
The churchbells across the street are creating a cacophony that drowns out my Ben Harper. I almost never hear them anymore because I am so used to them being there, yet I think I would miss them if they were silent.
Silent.
It is clean sheet day at my house. This is part of the reason that I am thinking about linnens. It is clean sheet day and in approximately a month (maybe a month and a few weeks) my Love will be here. And I want him to feel like there is something here, in my linnen, that I have created to mark his place, his space. Something to let him know that he can co-rule my Queendom.
His favourite colour is blue. I know it well. Everyone in my life who has been close to me has something of me. I have dyed pillow cases in shades and hues condusive to good dreaming.
I think you know where this is going by now, what my little surprise will be.
Take it with you, my love, so that you will think of me every night as you close your eyes. Though distance separates, long may we meet in dreams.
My mug says "I Write" but that's not who I feel like this morning. Yet. That is not who I am to be. Instead I am wondering where downtown I can buy linnen, preferably today, preferably in the next hour. I accept that in the next hour isn't going to happen. Tomorrow morning then.
I have also come to accept that I really only have one bottom sheet for my bed. The other one is ripped, and I could sew it but it wouldn't be comfortable to sleep on. I suppose now it is condemned to a life as giftwrap. It is a cotton sheet; it would not make very good rags.
The churchbells across the street are creating a cacophony that drowns out my Ben Harper. I almost never hear them anymore because I am so used to them being there, yet I think I would miss them if they were silent.
Silent.
It is clean sheet day at my house. This is part of the reason that I am thinking about linnens. It is clean sheet day and in approximately a month (maybe a month and a few weeks) my Love will be here. And I want him to feel like there is something here, in my linnen, that I have created to mark his place, his space. Something to let him know that he can co-rule my Queendom.
His favourite colour is blue. I know it well. Everyone in my life who has been close to me has something of me. I have dyed pillow cases in shades and hues condusive to good dreaming.
I think you know where this is going by now, what my little surprise will be.
Take it with you, my love, so that you will think of me every night as you close your eyes. Though distance separates, long may we meet in dreams.
Feeding Bees Sleeping Trees
room dark small dark sparkly lights overtly happy
(I am used to the goth club?)
young ones they
can't all be old enough to be here but
they are
and the we
the me I am and the me in my head I talk to
the we
are self conscious
moving awkwardly to the music
feeling like some old imposter like everyone's
staring
but I know they're not
they weren't
I could have been invisible
but I don't dance like that anymore
music sweaty sultry rhythmic speaking of a time
place space a where
that isn't here but we
all of us on the dance floor
could create it if we wanted to.
Is this what the clubs in Havana are like?
I would love to find out.
Beautiful women singing to us, dancing at their microphones
casting thinly veiled glances our way
a performer's lonliness cannot be placated by a complete stranger's adoration
one is covered, the other wearing a halter top
her chest between her breats glistening with sweat
hued blueish by the lights. It is the kind of thing that catches the light
exemplifying the simple beauty of hard work
yet being a thing of lust for so many
How did simple hard work come to be objectified?
The night is dark and there's a place to go for a
slice of pizza that's surprisingly good
it reminds me of Vietnam - but just a
small slice stuck into a corner of Edmonton where my
highschool classmates were afraid to go after dark
It is not that it is a bad part of town, but there are sometimes fights,
the police are often called
drugs are fairly commonplace.
The inside of the pizza shop had off-white walls covered in sharpie marker
graffiti
no furniture, a ledge by the window and a step to sit upon. Nothing fancy.
In the back the big pizza ovens are visible
along with large sacks of flour
when can I say that I'm tired and I
want to go home?
I am too old for this shit. I don't go to bars to close them with the
partiers. At 3 am I should be in bed, not out on the
street
People in cars heckle us the
whole way home and I'm
putting on a bit of a show for them
politely
it is still fun it hasn't
denigrated
into fuck you
(I am used to the goth club?)
young ones they
can't all be old enough to be here but
they are
and the we
the me I am and the me in my head I talk to
the we
are self conscious
moving awkwardly to the music
feeling like some old imposter like everyone's
staring
but I know they're not
they weren't
I could have been invisible
but I don't dance like that anymore
music sweaty sultry rhythmic speaking of a time
place space a where
that isn't here but we
all of us on the dance floor
could create it if we wanted to.
Is this what the clubs in Havana are like?
I would love to find out.
Beautiful women singing to us, dancing at their microphones
casting thinly veiled glances our way
a performer's lonliness cannot be placated by a complete stranger's adoration
one is covered, the other wearing a halter top
her chest between her breats glistening with sweat
hued blueish by the lights. It is the kind of thing that catches the light
exemplifying the simple beauty of hard work
yet being a thing of lust for so many
How did simple hard work come to be objectified?
The night is dark and there's a place to go for a
slice of pizza that's surprisingly good
it reminds me of Vietnam - but just a
small slice stuck into a corner of Edmonton where my
highschool classmates were afraid to go after dark
It is not that it is a bad part of town, but there are sometimes fights,
the police are often called
drugs are fairly commonplace.
The inside of the pizza shop had off-white walls covered in sharpie marker
graffiti
no furniture, a ledge by the window and a step to sit upon. Nothing fancy.
In the back the big pizza ovens are visible
along with large sacks of flour
when can I say that I'm tired and I
want to go home?
I am too old for this shit. I don't go to bars to close them with the
partiers. At 3 am I should be in bed, not out on the
street
People in cars heckle us the
whole way home and I'm
putting on a bit of a show for them
politely
it is still fun it hasn't
denigrated
into fuck you
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Know Your Barista
It is night but it is not dark. It is the darkest, hottest part of the day when nothing is getting done. Looming, it casts shadows in inky fingers reaching for children's hearts. It is the chocolate milk in your 3 pm breakfast cereal. I thought you had a plan but what are you doing sitting here at 3 in the afternoon eating breakfast without a plan? Did you have a plan? This is not condusive to anything and in half an hour you'll curse the internet for the time waster that it is and be no further ahead. You're too much of a snob to go to anybody else's coffee shop to write in spite of the atmosphere. Atmosphere. And what the fuck is condusive to writing really? On a day off you dream of pulling espresso and it's the half finished written word that is intimidating. Don't deny that. It's summer. It's beautiful outside. It's this that and the next and .... not condusive to writing? You've heard of ominous blank pages confining writers to their beds for weeks at a stretch. But these pages aren't blank. You've written them. You've sketched the characters and now you just need to fill in their colours. But like every good summer affair with that Tool-fan co-worker that is doomed..... well, we fucked and it wasn't as good as with you, my love, and I was disappointed and then he didn't call me back the fucker and now I feel like shit because it wasn't even as fun as it should have been..... oh that's right. You gave that up. Now you only write about it. So predictable. Boring. Dull. The story never changes - find someone to love everywhere to avoid and it never works out but that's okay because flings rock that way. You can walk away. I am not your whore. Never was. Go fuck yourself. But what of this life, this stagnation that is not condusive to writing? Well it's not that exactly. It's just that....
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Love Letter to an Old Friend
My skin is not so soft as when you first touched it. It still looks as delicate, translucent ivory betraying a maze of veins, yet my fingers reveal to me rough patches. I think of you so often, you are my friend who never really had the chance to be. Circumstances conspired so that we might cross paths and though we had nothing in common, through recent experiences we found a common ground of sorts.
A deep melancholy defies me tonight. I feel ill and it has dragged on long enough to unseat me. I long to be outdoors in the glorious sunshine, on my bike with the wind all around me. I long to be at work with my platonic lovers, discoursing good from evil.
There was a time when I thought I could be your bottle of tequilla at a party, sitting next to you on a train, a fuel for your well hidden reluctance, but friends are harder to know that way. What firey intenseness we expect, we come to know, we anticipate from tequilla with consistency is inconstant in friends.
Daylight is beginning to fade, casting a shade of yellow on my walls that makes me feel so lonely. So alone. I want a friend I can talk with on the phone but I don't know your current phone number so I am writing instead.
With love,
J
A deep melancholy defies me tonight. I feel ill and it has dragged on long enough to unseat me. I long to be outdoors in the glorious sunshine, on my bike with the wind all around me. I long to be at work with my platonic lovers, discoursing good from evil.
There was a time when I thought I could be your bottle of tequilla at a party, sitting next to you on a train, a fuel for your well hidden reluctance, but friends are harder to know that way. What firey intenseness we expect, we come to know, we anticipate from tequilla with consistency is inconstant in friends.
Daylight is beginning to fade, casting a shade of yellow on my walls that makes me feel so lonely. So alone. I want a friend I can talk with on the phone but I don't know your current phone number so I am writing instead.
With love,
J
Friday, April 14, 2006
The One That Almost Didn't Make It
it was 6.24 on a thursday night
only it wasn't quite night and I
unlocked my bike to take it upstairs and down
the back alley my eyes met some stares
and it's the day/night before easter
and it's the day/night that I missed
her
the girl who used to have no fear
down the alley three men sat
looking homeless looking dangerous looking unkempt
unclean
three men looking hungry
slinging over my handlebars a bag full of food
just come from dinner with mum and a
bag full of food was mine
leftovers
three hungry men down the alley
what would Jesus do? Well, it is nearly easter it's a
fair question the sun shone down hotly, harshly, it
won't be cold tonight at least but
that doesn't mean shit when
all you need is food.
What happened to the girl who would have walked down
the alley?
The girl who shared her food?
mamma always tole' me to share
but I don't even have any utensils and
it's embarassing and
meagre and
who wants my leftovers? who am I to assume?
and
the bigger what if which was what if they were
more interested
in me?
and one two three
I'm half way up the stairs with my bike and my food
what if
this is the month I fuck it all up?
in spite of the fact that there is always
more
money than I expect what if
this month because I keep forgetting to pay my phone
bill and it gets bigger (I swear I have the cash I
just keep forgetting)
what if
I
fuck it all up and can't
find
can't hint loud enough can't
find the food to feed myself?
My fridge has the essentials - mouldy salad, soy
sauce, ketchup, one lonely bottle of beer (for a
special occasion) and soy milk
peanut butter
said one voice in my head
to the other
can always be eaten with a spoon
and later
when my inner hypocrite came out
in a record shop
I hate fuckin record shops
I couldn't find any Patti Smith
so I guess I'll just have to live
with Ani D playing Carnegie
hall
that's it that's all
Two days ago
two nights to chicks ago
I guided coffee tasting and we
heard about how we could help
chicks in Africa stay home and get an
education
instead of being married
when they're 9 years old
the story was told
by an Ethiopian woman
speaking softly, not wanting to push
and I said quietly fuck the silence
what's that all about
this is a worthwhile thing let's
get the story out
the karma spread like a siren's song around the room
and
then we drummed under the light of the
full moon
but tonight outside in the balmy spring air
the feeling that I had it
wasn't
always
there
that air that hung over us the other night
followed me home from the record shop
sort of
thursday before a long weekend and everyone is out
the party's just beginning
the yobbos are starting to shout
I picked the worst street to walk home on because
I thought in daylight it would be just fine
such a nice night I thought
there'd be lots of folks about
and there were
just not the safe kind
my path took me by a dodgy old hotel pub
with a clientelle I try to snub
drunks on the streets and streetcorners
dirty old men leering from every streetcorner and
I thought
if there are people about
no one will try anything
and I thought well I'll scowl and look mean and
see if
I can scare them all away but
overall under my baggy loose clothing is a
clean girl
a nice girl
a brave girl with a brave(stupid)heart
and what she lacks in brains she
makes up for with
bravado
and I was fine I was two blocks away from the neon
safe haven(hell)of a seven-eleven and
a stumblybum from down the street tripped
over his own feet into
the middle of the road
staggering about
and the closer I came I saw he looked clean just
fucked up a bit and I thought I'd be fine if he
didn't see me but
even when I try not to be I'm
bright and shiny
and he saw me and called out
and didn't take being ignored for an answer, turned
around,
called out and
started to run after me and I looked around and could
see no one
and thought well
I'm fucked
I guess.
If he doesn't like being ignored he won't like no or
fuck off or
leave me alone or
me screaming and acting rugby girl tough
to cover my fear
fuck
I mean really I walk this same fuckin road
after dark all the time why
now in broad daylight when there should be folks about
did the one bloke off his tree
have to start running after me?
What would Jesus do?
He was a step behind me
and calling to me then
beside me briefly in front of me but beside me
falling into step two compadres to any outsider
not too close
surprisingly not threatening but
wanting change and I just took my
hypocritical spare change to the record shop in the
mall
I had no cash on me
and I need to eat too
need to look after me
feeling guilty as sin
I gave him a quizzical face
he asked again.
quietly, I stumbled my words.
picking through the myriad of foreign words
trying to find three that were from the same
language
je ne comprende
no english
je ne comprende
he kept asking but was confused
je ne comprende
no english
no english
no english
cross the street once then twice forward moving to a
nicer street
finally alone
shaken
bilingualism as self defense? or a self perpetuated
hypocritical
offence?
around the corner through the grocery store parking
lot
in front of the ice cream shop
stopped at the seven-eleven before that
got some ben and jerry
only two men in my bed these
days
bumped into chelsea and matt
she really is a fruit fly
never saw it so clear before
then again
apparently
flammer characteristics notwithstanding
I apparently
have no gaydar
matt talking about my coffee seminar
that night we drummed until the stars
hung in the sky
said he'd call about my final
certification
the regulation
that lets me be the store coffee smartarse(village
idiot?)
perpetuating propaganda of goodwill toward coffee
farmers
hypocrite
music with a soul strong enough to make me cry
food in my fridge
freakin' ben and jerry's
vermonty python (sneaking up on me)
who the fuck am I
small and insignificant in the scheme of things
who the fuck am I
to sit here oh so comfortable sure
sure I work my ass off in
every area possible sure I
do what I can but
I can do more and I
know it
where is that fine line between
helping and hindering my health/wellbeing
where I can enjoy
something that means something to me
without feeling guilty
a lingering remembrance of
everything that's
where I've been
the landscape of my home fraught with
opposite emotions
the suburbs make me sick with their wealth yet
yet
the inner city.....
carves out my heart
hollows out my soul
leaves me feeling dark
leaves me feeling
imploded
silenced
only it wasn't quite night and I
unlocked my bike to take it upstairs and down
the back alley my eyes met some stares
and it's the day/night before easter
and it's the day/night that I missed
her
the girl who used to have no fear
down the alley three men sat
looking homeless looking dangerous looking unkempt
unclean
three men looking hungry
slinging over my handlebars a bag full of food
just come from dinner with mum and a
bag full of food was mine
leftovers
three hungry men down the alley
what would Jesus do? Well, it is nearly easter it's a
fair question the sun shone down hotly, harshly, it
won't be cold tonight at least but
that doesn't mean shit when
all you need is food.
What happened to the girl who would have walked down
the alley?
The girl who shared her food?
mamma always tole' me to share
but I don't even have any utensils and
it's embarassing and
meagre and
who wants my leftovers? who am I to assume?
and
the bigger what if which was what if they were
more interested
in me?
and one two three
I'm half way up the stairs with my bike and my food
what if
this is the month I fuck it all up?
in spite of the fact that there is always
more
money than I expect what if
this month because I keep forgetting to pay my phone
bill and it gets bigger (I swear I have the cash I
just keep forgetting)
what if
I
fuck it all up and can't
find
can't hint loud enough can't
find the food to feed myself?
My fridge has the essentials - mouldy salad, soy
sauce, ketchup, one lonely bottle of beer (for a
special occasion) and soy milk
peanut butter
said one voice in my head
to the other
can always be eaten with a spoon
and later
when my inner hypocrite came out
in a record shop
I hate fuckin record shops
I couldn't find any Patti Smith
so I guess I'll just have to live
with Ani D playing Carnegie
hall
that's it that's all
Two days ago
two nights to chicks ago
I guided coffee tasting and we
heard about how we could help
chicks in Africa stay home and get an
education
instead of being married
when they're 9 years old
the story was told
by an Ethiopian woman
speaking softly, not wanting to push
and I said quietly fuck the silence
what's that all about
this is a worthwhile thing let's
get the story out
the karma spread like a siren's song around the room
and
then we drummed under the light of the
full moon
but tonight outside in the balmy spring air
the feeling that I had it
wasn't
always
there
that air that hung over us the other night
followed me home from the record shop
sort of
thursday before a long weekend and everyone is out
the party's just beginning
the yobbos are starting to shout
I picked the worst street to walk home on because
I thought in daylight it would be just fine
such a nice night I thought
there'd be lots of folks about
and there were
just not the safe kind
my path took me by a dodgy old hotel pub
with a clientelle I try to snub
drunks on the streets and streetcorners
dirty old men leering from every streetcorner and
I thought
if there are people about
no one will try anything
and I thought well I'll scowl and look mean and
see if
I can scare them all away but
overall under my baggy loose clothing is a
clean girl
a nice girl
a brave girl with a brave(stupid)heart
and what she lacks in brains she
makes up for with
bravado
and I was fine I was two blocks away from the neon
safe haven(hell)of a seven-eleven and
a stumblybum from down the street tripped
over his own feet into
the middle of the road
staggering about
and the closer I came I saw he looked clean just
fucked up a bit and I thought I'd be fine if he
didn't see me but
even when I try not to be I'm
bright and shiny
and he saw me and called out
and didn't take being ignored for an answer, turned
around,
called out and
started to run after me and I looked around and could
see no one
and thought well
I'm fucked
I guess.
If he doesn't like being ignored he won't like no or
fuck off or
leave me alone or
me screaming and acting rugby girl tough
to cover my fear
fuck
I mean really I walk this same fuckin road
after dark all the time why
now in broad daylight when there should be folks about
did the one bloke off his tree
have to start running after me?
What would Jesus do?
He was a step behind me
and calling to me then
beside me briefly in front of me but beside me
falling into step two compadres to any outsider
not too close
surprisingly not threatening but
wanting change and I just took my
hypocritical spare change to the record shop in the
mall
I had no cash on me
and I need to eat too
need to look after me
feeling guilty as sin
I gave him a quizzical face
he asked again.
quietly, I stumbled my words.
picking through the myriad of foreign words
trying to find three that were from the same
language
je ne comprende
no english
je ne comprende
he kept asking but was confused
je ne comprende
no english
no english
no english
cross the street once then twice forward moving to a
nicer street
finally alone
shaken
bilingualism as self defense? or a self perpetuated
hypocritical
offence?
around the corner through the grocery store parking
lot
in front of the ice cream shop
stopped at the seven-eleven before that
got some ben and jerry
only two men in my bed these
days
bumped into chelsea and matt
she really is a fruit fly
never saw it so clear before
then again
apparently
flammer characteristics notwithstanding
I apparently
have no gaydar
matt talking about my coffee seminar
that night we drummed until the stars
hung in the sky
said he'd call about my final
certification
the regulation
that lets me be the store coffee smartarse(village
idiot?)
perpetuating propaganda of goodwill toward coffee
farmers
hypocrite
music with a soul strong enough to make me cry
food in my fridge
freakin' ben and jerry's
vermonty python (sneaking up on me)
who the fuck am I
small and insignificant in the scheme of things
who the fuck am I
to sit here oh so comfortable sure
sure I work my ass off in
every area possible sure I
do what I can but
I can do more and I
know it
where is that fine line between
helping and hindering my health/wellbeing
where I can enjoy
something that means something to me
without feeling guilty
a lingering remembrance of
everything that's
where I've been
the landscape of my home fraught with
opposite emotions
the suburbs make me sick with their wealth yet
yet
the inner city.....
carves out my heart
hollows out my soul
leaves me feeling dark
leaves me feeling
imploded
silenced
Monday, April 03, 2006
Two Little Girls/Culture in Dating/A Sense of Place
The air hung heavy with dust in morning's sun. Rush hour was over yet the streets had plenty of traffic. Grit covered the sidewalks. Most grass was bare of snow and dead and dusty, dry from winter. The sun hung in the colourless sky - not discouloured from smog but miscoloured and hazy from all the dry dirt in the air.
Scarf around my neck still smells of Khaosan Road and a time of my life very much outside of time. A small town on a different river that was running too low for further travel. Up in the morning, layers, this scarf, walk out into the street to a dusty, dry world just waking up. Into a cafe to sit over coffee and breakfast, to write/into this morning's cafe greeted by an Asian boy wearing a Fuck FM tshirt bringing back a wave of memories of mangled random english shirts; into a cafe for takeaway bread and a walk around town in the cool morning. The smell and the haze over the river valley and the lack of hurry brought me back to a time and place where life outside of my culture felt normal again.
Standing in the hall as I walked past, two Asian girls talking, well I guess I should be going, it was nice to see you and I thought of Annie, how she looked into my eyes and tried to break a lifetime of conditioning that girls don't kiss in public and worst of all that Asian girls don't kiss white girls. I panicked and wish I could take back that moment. Why such surprise that an Aisan girl would be interested in a white girl? Wasn't I interested in her? Nothing I'd grown up with explicitly said anything was wrong with that construct of a relationship but there was nothing affirming it etiher. A number of unsaid things manifested in that moment. Sure, you can date girls, bring them home even, the family will understand or deal with it but Asian girls?
But I liked her. She was smart and pretty and athletic and had a fantastic way of being. She looked amazing in yellow. I felt young and inexperienced and out of my element - shy, embarassed - shameful - that I was letting the colours of our skin get in the way of my feelings. I'd never considered it before. Beyond shame at stumbling on skin coulour was a deep fascination with the way she looked - her beautiful hands and long black hair, the way she stared so directly with her deep dark eyes... It is the combination of these things that leave me missing her. Her presence was electrifying and fascinating and I wish I could have stayed focused there, just there, but when she reached for me to kiss me goodnight I felt taboo.
Two little girls from different cultures don't kiss.
Scarf around my neck still smells of Khaosan Road and a time of my life very much outside of time. A small town on a different river that was running too low for further travel. Up in the morning, layers, this scarf, walk out into the street to a dusty, dry world just waking up. Into a cafe to sit over coffee and breakfast, to write/into this morning's cafe greeted by an Asian boy wearing a Fuck FM tshirt bringing back a wave of memories of mangled random english shirts; into a cafe for takeaway bread and a walk around town in the cool morning. The smell and the haze over the river valley and the lack of hurry brought me back to a time and place where life outside of my culture felt normal again.
Standing in the hall as I walked past, two Asian girls talking, well I guess I should be going, it was nice to see you and I thought of Annie, how she looked into my eyes and tried to break a lifetime of conditioning that girls don't kiss in public and worst of all that Asian girls don't kiss white girls. I panicked and wish I could take back that moment. Why such surprise that an Aisan girl would be interested in a white girl? Wasn't I interested in her? Nothing I'd grown up with explicitly said anything was wrong with that construct of a relationship but there was nothing affirming it etiher. A number of unsaid things manifested in that moment. Sure, you can date girls, bring them home even, the family will understand or deal with it but Asian girls?
But I liked her. She was smart and pretty and athletic and had a fantastic way of being. She looked amazing in yellow. I felt young and inexperienced and out of my element - shy, embarassed - shameful - that I was letting the colours of our skin get in the way of my feelings. I'd never considered it before. Beyond shame at stumbling on skin coulour was a deep fascination with the way she looked - her beautiful hands and long black hair, the way she stared so directly with her deep dark eyes... It is the combination of these things that leave me missing her. Her presence was electrifying and fascinating and I wish I could have stayed focused there, just there, but when she reached for me to kiss me goodnight I felt taboo.
Two little girls from different cultures don't kiss.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
soundtrack for late at night when you can't sleep
1. Sit Down, Stand Up (Snakes & Ladders) - Radiohead
2. Waiter - Nellie McKay
3. Alone in Kyoto - Air
4. Blackout - Muse
5. Winter - Tori Amos
6. Wolf At The Door (It Girl. Rag Doll) - Radiohead
7. Last Goodbye - Jeff Buckley
8. How do You Do? - Radiohead
9. Inner Peace - Nellie McKay
10. Creep - Radiohead
11. Time Is Running Out - Muse
12. Father Lucifer - Tori Amos
13. Watching You Without Me - Kate Bush
14. Backdrifts (Honeymoon is Over) - Radiohead
15. Sing For Absolution - Muse
16. Warm - Curtis Santiago
17. Really - Nellie McKay
18. Safe in Your Arms - Beth Orton
19 Thinking About You - Radiohead
home is quiet
light left on in case I was late
floor cold to bottom of my
feet
out of my shoes feels so good
whisper of fresh air from the
open window by the bed
sky is changing colour
lighter later but not quite summer
in the bathroom fixing laundry (see Serasonho's
loveletter to the Strat) and back is sore
from bending over the bathtub
squeezing, wringing
back by my balcony to hang it and
it
is darker, need to turn on a light to see
so quickly
see so quickly how dusk
dark
becomes
quietly out into the balmy streets, city streetlights reflecting
off the pools of water on the footpaths
where am I going? Do I want to go there? what could I possibly
need?
Do I care?
Groceries and Idon'tknowwhatall
leaving me so unsatisfied
well fed
sure fine but in the end
it's just me in my quiet dark apartment
turn all the lights on turn up the music wash the new pan to cook dinner
*finally* eat some sushi
I want chocolate but most of it is so sweet it hurts my teeth
read a bit write a bit
write a dirty spring poem for my lover
want to do something creative but nothing is quite
right
tired? But of course.
Yet sleep does not come.
The night grows old
The night grows cold
and I rolled over and stared at the ceiling
AGAIN
why can't I sleep when I want to sleep?
All these thoughts run through my head and I pick up some music
always
don't laugh, somethings really
never do change
when the rest of the world isn't working for me I
rearrange
what I can
the music I play
the day I stayed
a minute too long in some pub somewhere
a friend died
I miss her all the time
if we'd been smarter older wiser back then
if we knew then what we know now
I want to take back the night she cut my hair
the night we stood there
hugging
the night in the ravine
and by the river valley where we played until we realized
the whole time we'd been
seen
by a light from above and now
she's there
all around and everywhere
"Will you still think about me
when I'm gone?"
I wanted to show her my photos of
flowers
because if she hadn't stopped abruptly
every time we almost trod on one
all the way up that mountain
the day we danced naked at the top and took pictures
I never would have noticed flowers
and now I have a collection of 'em
from all over the world
don't tell me
(?)
"well they're fine for pictures of flowers but
what are you going to do with them?"
why the fuck do I have to "do" anything with them?
I only took them to show a friend.
2. Waiter - Nellie McKay
3. Alone in Kyoto - Air
4. Blackout - Muse
5. Winter - Tori Amos
6. Wolf At The Door (It Girl. Rag Doll) - Radiohead
7. Last Goodbye - Jeff Buckley
8. How do You Do? - Radiohead
9. Inner Peace - Nellie McKay
10. Creep - Radiohead
11. Time Is Running Out - Muse
12. Father Lucifer - Tori Amos
13. Watching You Without Me - Kate Bush
14. Backdrifts (Honeymoon is Over) - Radiohead
15. Sing For Absolution - Muse
16. Warm - Curtis Santiago
17. Really - Nellie McKay
18. Safe in Your Arms - Beth Orton
19 Thinking About You - Radiohead
home is quiet
light left on in case I was late
floor cold to bottom of my
feet
out of my shoes feels so good
whisper of fresh air from the
open window by the bed
sky is changing colour
lighter later but not quite summer
in the bathroom fixing laundry (see Serasonho's
loveletter to the Strat) and back is sore
from bending over the bathtub
squeezing, wringing
back by my balcony to hang it and
it
is darker, need to turn on a light to see
so quickly
see so quickly how dusk
dark
becomes
quietly out into the balmy streets, city streetlights reflecting
off the pools of water on the footpaths
where am I going? Do I want to go there? what could I possibly
need?
Do I care?
Groceries and Idon'tknowwhatall
leaving me so unsatisfied
well fed
sure fine but in the end
it's just me in my quiet dark apartment
turn all the lights on turn up the music wash the new pan to cook dinner
*finally* eat some sushi
I want chocolate but most of it is so sweet it hurts my teeth
read a bit write a bit
write a dirty spring poem for my lover
want to do something creative but nothing is quite
right
tired? But of course.
Yet sleep does not come.
The night grows old
The night grows cold
and I rolled over and stared at the ceiling
AGAIN
why can't I sleep when I want to sleep?
All these thoughts run through my head and I pick up some music
always
don't laugh, somethings really
never do change
when the rest of the world isn't working for me I
rearrange
what I can
the music I play
the day I stayed
a minute too long in some pub somewhere
a friend died
I miss her all the time
if we'd been smarter older wiser back then
if we knew then what we know now
I want to take back the night she cut my hair
the night we stood there
hugging
the night in the ravine
and by the river valley where we played until we realized
the whole time we'd been
seen
by a light from above and now
she's there
all around and everywhere
"Will you still think about me
when I'm gone?"
I wanted to show her my photos of
flowers
because if she hadn't stopped abruptly
every time we almost trod on one
all the way up that mountain
the day we danced naked at the top and took pictures
I never would have noticed flowers
and now I have a collection of 'em
from all over the world
don't tell me
(?)
"well they're fine for pictures of flowers but
what are you going to do with them?"
why the fuck do I have to "do" anything with them?
I only took them to show a friend.
like bunnies?
spring has sprung
the grass is riz
I wonder where
my true love is?
is he here or
is he there?
I want him in
my underwear!
the grass is riz
I wonder where
my true love is?
is he here or
is he there?
I want him in
my underwear!
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
mourning morning
floating in through the window fresh
air wafting down across my
face my
naked flesh whatever is
not under the blankets.
It is warm under the blankets.
Cold breeze and I am awake but
not
yet and I savour the moment briefly
home is safe
open my eyes and orient
several months later no
I'm not still in the Orient
waking sounds of Dengue Fever
no mosquito net
where?
sit up to look out the window
can I see what can I see what is the weather today?
my city
surprisingly low-rise out my window yet
I can see the airport. No surprise.
Stretch languish stretch hold
stretch
looking the other way
how long can I hold my head at this angle?
stretch
where again? What time? Who? Which day?
how long to flit
in the liminal stage how long to
linger
half asleep
before
I start mourning the morning?
air wafting down across my
face my
naked flesh whatever is
not under the blankets.
It is warm under the blankets.
Cold breeze and I am awake but
not
yet and I savour the moment briefly
home is safe
open my eyes and orient
several months later no
I'm not still in the Orient
waking sounds of Dengue Fever
no mosquito net
where?
sit up to look out the window
can I see what can I see what is the weather today?
my city
surprisingly low-rise out my window yet
I can see the airport. No surprise.
Stretch languish stretch hold
stretch
looking the other way
how long can I hold my head at this angle?
stretch
where again? What time? Who? Which day?
how long to flit
in the liminal stage how long to
linger
half asleep
before
I start mourning the morning?
Someone Gave me This Notebook...
waking he opened his eyes why he
heard the music thrashing bashing
blossoming over the run of memories of
I miss
obey the vibes the music seems to say
intuition a special vision
he knows the landscape may whisper
love
ogle the liquor in his glass
the night before
his soul tied twisted in sorry black twine
maybe she's sorry this time
maybe
we were flawless with summer
but the paltry season passed
leaving only a mist
I missed
Go from tiny year to big year big cheer
Mr. Sparechange was found dead
said the ancient toast now that it could burn
last night
sumptuous vast crush where his tongue was
sludge
rubber scent on the wind after he was seeping
further away
after he was
falling into
morning fading across her bed
his I AM wrapped around
what dreams may
heard the music thrashing bashing
blossoming over the run of memories of
I miss
obey the vibes the music seems to say
intuition a special vision
he knows the landscape may whisper
love
ogle the liquor in his glass
the night before
his soul tied twisted in sorry black twine
maybe she's sorry this time
maybe
we were flawless with summer
but the paltry season passed
leaving only a mist
I missed
Go from tiny year to big year big cheer
Mr. Sparechange was found dead
said the ancient toast now that it could burn
last night
sumptuous vast crush where his tongue was
sludge
rubber scent on the wind after he was seeping
further away
after he was
falling into
morning fading across her bed
his I AM wrapped around
what dreams may
Monday, March 20, 2006
mail order bride
Plant me a rose in your garden
so I can see it growing when I arrive
Roses can be fickle
care for it
as I know you care for me
It won't be long until I pack everything in boxes and
step onto that airplane
step on
step on
and at the count of 30
(she's a big and full bird)
we will take to the sky
Via some whitebread westcoast or mid-pacific American airport
all the signs in English
same selection of bad chocolate bars and newspapers
all over the world.
Funny that.
Globalization a culture of consumerism.
Don't tell me that is all we have in common with everyone on earth.
Don't tell me
I wanted to believe it was love or divinity
but we consume those too
rabidly
Plant a rose for me in your garden so that I can consume it
photograph it
write poetry about it
clip it for the dinner table
dry and crush the rosehips in the fall for
baths
poultices
tea
Plant a rose for me
grow it with your love
let it be an offering to
appease me
something to gaze at
when reality
isn't
something to be calm with when I realize
again
That I am lost in your/my culture
that I have become a citizen of the world
a closet pacifist
militantly against
rabid consumerism
I miss you.
I love you.
so I can see it growing when I arrive
Roses can be fickle
care for it
as I know you care for me
It won't be long until I pack everything in boxes and
step onto that airplane
step on
step on
and at the count of 30
(she's a big and full bird)
we will take to the sky
Via some whitebread westcoast or mid-pacific American airport
all the signs in English
same selection of bad chocolate bars and newspapers
all over the world.
Funny that.
Globalization a culture of consumerism.
Don't tell me that is all we have in common with everyone on earth.
Don't tell me
I wanted to believe it was love or divinity
but we consume those too
rabidly
Plant a rose for me in your garden so that I can consume it
photograph it
write poetry about it
clip it for the dinner table
dry and crush the rosehips in the fall for
baths
poultices
tea
Plant a rose for me
grow it with your love
let it be an offering to
appease me
something to gaze at
when reality
isn't
something to be calm with when I realize
again
That I am lost in your/my culture
that I have become a citizen of the world
a closet pacifist
militantly against
rabid consumerism
I miss you.
I love you.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Part 2
Listen here second! There's a five minute time limit..... the splice isn't too bad and believe it or not.... I totally don't mind the dodgy sound quality. You can totally tell it's a phone line.... but in some senses that is kind of cool. Fun fun fun!
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