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.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
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
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