“What’s it gonna be?” she asked, her fingers running slowly over the stem of her wine glass, the dim light glittering off of her red nail polish.
He was mesmerized. He smiled but the smile didn’t look comfortable on his face. He squirmed a bit. He tried to say a few things, a few times, but sputtered. He finally sat back in his chair and sighed heavily. He spun his glass on the table, watching the golden whiskey play the light back at his unseeing eyes. He slowly lifted the glass to his lips, took a long sip, held it in his mouth, felt it, and then gently, slowly, let the beverage burn its way down the back of his throat. He lifted the glass in her direction before responding, his eyes dropping to her knees, and then her ankles, peeking out from her fishnet stockings and descending into red stilettos.
“I have to hand it to you, Marilyn, you’ve really got me over a barrel here.” He paused, slowly bringing his eyes up her legs, up her body, pausing at the jewel that decorated her cleavage, taking a long, vengeful look at her neck, and finally coming to rest in her deep green eyes. He wished he could drown in the algae pool of her eyes.
“Oh come on Tommy. You don’t know the first thing about me and I don’t know the first thing about you. But I do know this: you’re a man and I’m a woman and in this church that means folks are gonna talk. We may as well just get it over with and give them something to talk about.”
Marilyn scowled at him and rolled her eyes as she reached for the dark bottle to refill her wine glass. It was a lovely organic cabernet sauvignon from Californa. The booze had been Tommy’s idea, his way of breaking the ice. She couldn’t see how any ice had been broken at all but was enjoying the drink. And despite her protests to the contrary, it was awfully nice to be with a man who was quite content to just sit across the room from her.
Tommy paused. His glass was nearly empty and he knew there wouldn’t be any courage in the bottom of it, or even in the bottom of the bottle for that matter. What Marilyn didn’t know was that when Tommy drank whiskey he was feeling desperate. He was also feeling lonely. He missed her and deep down, he didn’t really believe he’d ever see her again.
Marilyn started to look sad when he didn’t reply, instead brooding over his glass. He was so quiet. She knew his wife had died in some horrible accident but she had never heard the full story, only the whispers. Tommy grew up in the church. He was used to the whispers. He might even be immune to them by now, but for Marilyn they’d been the hardest part about joining the church.
“Tommy, I don’t know what you want. I don’t even really know what I want. I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
Tommy looked up at her as if he’d forgotten she was even there. For a moment he saw long, straight brown hair and deep brown eyes, but when she began to speak his mirage disappeared.
“You’re so quiet Tommy. And I’m not a mind reader. What do you need right now?” Marilyn leaned forward, crossing her legs and resting an elbow on a leg, head in hand. She tilted her head a little to one side and decided that she really cared about Tommy.
“Mari,” Tommy started, paused, then his eyes twitched and his mouth contorted a bit. She reached out and put her hand on his arm. Tommy rested his forehead in his palm and she watched as tears began to run down his cheeks and pool in the corners of his mouth. She said nothing and quietly moved her chair closer.
Tommy looked up and into her eyes. He didn’t know where to begin.
“Tommy, I want you to keep looking into my eyes,” she said. “Now we’re going to take a deep breath in, all the way down into our bellies.” She paused. “Then we’re slowly going to let it out.” Tommy struggled to keep his breath even. He wavered. “Stay with me now. Look in my eyes. Deep breath in… and out. And another one in… and out.” Tommy started to look more stable. And then he began to speak.
“Mari, I don’t know where to begin. I miss her so much that I don’t even… I don’t… I can’t…”
“It’s okay,” she said, pondering this strange twist. “Why don’t you start by telling me her name?” Tommy looked all strange-faced again.
“I haven’t spoken her name since…” She lifted his head to face her and took an exaggerated deep breath. He looked into her eyes and breathed with her. “Tanya Nicole. She went by Nic.”
“That is a good name.”
“She was shorter than you. Her hair was brown and straight and she always kept it long. I used to tease her that her hair and eyes were the colour of the dirt God used to make Adam.” Tommy put his glass down. Then he reached over with his dominant left hand and refilled it, not with one finger as before but all the way to the top. “I’ve never told this story before,” he said, as if by way of explanation for the full glass of whiskey.
“Hey, I have all night and a reputation to live up to, take your time.”
“I met Nic in college. I’d just finished my mission and was trying to figure out whether or not I was comfortable in anything other than a shirt and tie, or if maybe I could wear a coloured shirt. I was tugging at a shirt by the mirror in a changeroom when she walked by. She turned around to face me and told me to stop tugging because it looked perfectly fine the way it was. Then she introduced herself and asked if I wanted help shopping. I was so nervous the whole time, it was awful.” He paused for a sip of whiskey.
“A year later we were married.” He paused again and took a deep breath. “And two years later our first child died.”
Marilyn stared at him, wide-eyed and in disbelief. She couldn’t image the pain of losing a child.
Tommy drained his glass in one long gulp. “I don’t remember the funeral. I just remember a constant feeling that something was missing, something was wrong. I never got to say goodbye. One night I kissed her and hugged her and turned on her nightlight. One night she said ‘Dada,’ and the next morning she was so cold and blue.” Tommy’s hands had started to shake. Marilyn grabbed the blanket from the back of her chair and wrapped it around his shoulders. Tommy sat and shivered for a while, then he reached for the bottle of whiskey. This time he didn’t bother with the glass.
“I wasn’t there for Nic after Tiffany died. I wasn’t even there for me. We barely spoke. We both went to work, going through the motions. At least, I thought we did. One day I got a phone call from one of Nic’s friends, a lady she worked with, wondering what happened to Nic, whom she hadn’t seen in over a month.” He paused, taking a drink. He remembered the phone call, remembered looking over at his wife, completely confused and a bit afraid. “I tried to talk to Nic that night when she got home but she was cold and mean. What did I care, she wanted to know. Why would it matter now if it hadn’t mattered since Tiffany died?” He took another drink. The bottle was getting low.
“The night I lost my faith in God,” Tommy began, “was the night my wife waked out on me. She yelled and said some awful things. I told her I loved her and she said ‘Fuck you Tommy, you don’t have the balls to love anyone but yourself,’ and then she started doing things like putting on shoes and shoving things in her purse. I watched her go. I was completely numb and I felt stuck to the spot, like my feet were made of cement. I watched her leave and I just stood there without saying anything. It was my fault she…”
Again Marilyn intervened and grabbed his gaze, breathing deeply with him. He paused for another drink and continued.
“The police came to the door three hours later. I couldn’t breath. They told me there had been an accident. They asked me if I knew my wife had been injecting drugs, and if she’d been high tonight. They wanted to search the house and take me in, figuring I was also using. They wouldn’t let me see her. They wouldn’t let me see her body, saying only that there had to be an autopsy, and that I wouldn’t want to see ‘what was left.’”
Marilyn reached out and touched Tommy lightly on the arm again. He pulled her closer into an awkward embrace. He was crying and he was squeezing her very tightly. She wrapped her arms around him and massaged his upper back with her right hand. The whole time she kept breathing deeply. Eventually, when his breath pattern matched hers, he let go.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“Don’t worry. You needed that and I’m glad I’m able to be here for you,” said Marilyn evenly, wondering where her calm came from.
“I don’t believe in heaven,” he continued. “I don’t believe the sealing ordinances were anything other than rituals, designed to make us feel better about something we have no control over, something no loving God would ever put us through.”
“So why do you still go to church then? What is that all about?” Marilyn asked.
“I need the community. I grew up in the church. I don’t know… I’m not close with anyone outside of the church. I need them to get me through the rest of this Godforsaken life. I need their faith because it sustains me when I have no faith of my own. It gives me direction when I feel lost.”
Marilyn paused to drain her own glass. God, help me out here. I’m in over my head and so is Tommy. Throw us a bone, will ya?
“Tommy, what do you need right now to be okay?” she asked. She was afraid of the answer.
“I don’t know. I don’t… I’m not okay. I don’t want to be okay.”
“So is it true then, what she said the night she left? That you’re only focused on yourself? Do you not want to be a part of the world anymore?”
“What’s the point Mari? I have nothing left to live for. If I die and find out there’s a heaven, my wife and I won’t be there and our little girl will. Where does that leave us? How do I forgive her for not reaching out to me and how do I forgive myself for not running after her, for not… caring enough to even notice how far gone she really was?”
“Tommy, you’re a beautiful person and in spite of it all you’re a strong person or you wouldn’t be here right now. You want to live, deep down, and I can tell or you never would have invited me over. I really like you and I’d like to get to know you better but it’s going to take time and effort. And all of those people who know you from the church, they love you too, even if they have odd ways of showing it like Mrs. Dumont next door who can probably see my car in your driveway and is probably busy calling Mrs. Price to discuss our declining virtue.” Marilyn paused. She wasn’t sure exactly that she wanted to say what was coming next.
“Tommy,” she said as he looked into her eyes, “you have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Tonight I think you should go to bed and ponder. I’ll stay on your couch if you don’t mind because I don’t think it would be a good idea to leave you alone tonight. And in the morning we’ll have an awkward breakfast and go from there. How does that sound?”
Tommy looked at her. He looked sad, and he felt resigned and angry. How did this come to pass? Why him? And where’d this lady come from? Was he curious enough to care about sticking around?
“Oh what the heck,” Tommy said, cracking something that could've been mistaken for a smile. “I’ll show you where the blankets are. Let’s give ‘em something to talk about, shall we?”
Friday, November 26, 2010
Friday, November 21, 2008
For the security guard with the glasses who said no, write it now because there is no later.
She was the girl I used to know and the girl I used to be and what did I have to say to that? She baked cookies and gave so freely of her love that I was left alone in the room, disarmed. Who was she? Chocolate brown hair, blue eyes, shocking amount of verisimilitude. Is that the right word? She has attitude and an invigoration to pass on. It is contageous, like her smile. Who is she? Sadly, I either didn't hear her name right the first time or it's just me being bad with names. I do not know. It is because I do not know her name that it feels safe to know her in this way. I wonder what she would look like dressed up as a disco ball, throwing her light in every direction, mirror-sending passion to the passersby like a microwave tower... I wonder also what her hair feels like and this is when I slap my imaginary hand, roll my eyes and tell myself that I'd better make love with my husband when I get home. I still have my boundaries and this confuses me because so shaken before, my foundations have crumbled. This one is different. This one comes with more than the promise of a pretty smile. How about a house and trees to look after and eventually spawn? I think that sounds pretty darn good. It sounds like a sigh at the end of a long day, a sigh of contentment, sinking into that which is beautifully, blissfully mine. Love.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Hard core softie momma bride with a suicide spike mohawk
why
does
2 day old cheap wine
taste better than when the cork's fresh off the bottle?
He drinks from a mug so I thought I'd give it a go. Deep breath, peppered frets echo across the almost dusk of Indian summer.
Not all of the trees have changed yet. Some are still green. Summer was abundant with moisture, FINALLY.
finally, BITCH, finally
Dreamed about a girl last night, tiny, timid, MOCKING. I can't get her face out of my head. I think I understand, finally, what she said about being able to love me and hate me at the same time. I have respect for her position in my family. I have respect for who she is to he who used to be so much to me. Still could be. Stuck. Alien. Lost his ID, a physical manifestation of what happens when he is with a woman.
I thought I'd give that a go too. Party.
Last night we shot rifles
(BULLSEYE)
(if you can believe it, truth)
and then
we found out every single peeler parlour in the city is closed on Sunday.
Bugger.
Thoughts of Bukowski and my favourite dirty old fling float not far from my memory.
Tonight we finish boys' night out. I think we should do it again for his stag.
Yup, you heard me right. His stag. We're getting married in the spring.
Donde esta Brianna? The telephone didn't work. Long distance silence, then ringing, then crackles of Hola? Bueno? Bueno?
Glitch in the planning, missing cog on the gear, broken spoke on the spinning wheel making yarn to weave the tapestry of our lives.
MARRIAGE.
[backspace] [backspace] [backspace]
Can't forget deep breaths of frangipani behind my ear. I can't find a single florist who can bring one in for my wedding. I want to wear it because it means so much to me. It is the flower that stood by me while I stumbled blindly and often drunkenly through the transition from maiden to mother. I am ready, MOTHER, I am ready.
Deep breath.
Images of little Mini-Me running after Russell in the backyard. Covered in dirt and naked. I like to roll in the dirt and grass. He likes to brush dirt spots off his pants and shirts.
I want the world to know that life is not always as it seems.
reams of tears
Tonight we're going out for titties and beers. Whiskey. I can't explain it, there's this spiraling grief for the bachelorette who used to be. I wouldn't trade what I have for anything in the world or anyone but... grief for the life that was so intense all of the time. In your face, in your world. One hand clawing at your heart, one hand caressing. One look penetrating your soul - that look went two ways. You need to know that and you never knew. You
a multitude
suitors
couldn't know
that what you said and when you said
touched my soul. I will never forget any of you. Know that. Sleep better at night for it. Or some such drivel. Do with it what you will. Hej Skoll and a bottle of Tallisker in a bath with smashed glass mugs and all that jazz. All that jazz. All that jazz. All that...
Where am I now that I throw my hands up at shit like that because... FUCK... I care too damn much to do it anymore. Care that we wake up the next morning to hold sacred in each other's arms the first breaths of morning.
Hard core softie?
Do you know what it feels like for my Dad to be our Dad? Do you? We're taking his name. Do you know how fucking shitty it feels to wonder if he'll still be around to meet the grandkids, Accident #s 1 and 2, whenever they grace us with their presence? Do you know? Do you have any fucking clue how messed up that is? How the fuck do we honour someone who has such a difficult time honouring his own sacred self or even recognizing it?
Twitch.
No.
Don't go there.
GO THERE.
Because there's nothing quite like complicated grief.
[sarcasm]
I am out of wine. Please hold while I refill my landfill. My mug is currently empty.
{hold music, ooh hold music....}
Wipe the spills with a hand towel
sweat pants and hair dye
grab a trowel
dig in the dirt to reconnect
I have a worm composter in my apartment. I have doubled or tripled my worm population in 6 months. Anyone want worms? Free or will barter for services....
Services.
Sir-viced.
Alcohol required.
City planning on the hot seat in Brainland today. Bridges for pedestrians over major roadways, connecting suburb to suburb's big box shopping hell. Pedibridge to a place so pedestrian inaccessible. Why?
Suburb where one car per person philosophy applies without enough parking and only two fucking roads out? Car unfriendly, great. Whatfuckingever. Lack of efficient and timely public transport and lack of feasible bicycle paths and lack of any planning whatsoever with respect to pedestrian accessibility. But my lawn will be greener than your lawn and my landscaper was better than yours.
Why do we need our own patches of grass?
I arrive at my mum's house and before reintroducing my old friend who gave me a lift, I am rolling in the grass and the leaves, bits stuck to my designer wool peacoat.
Why do we need our own patches of grass?
Wanna brush purple & blue suicide spike mohawk against curved roof of Belfast Avenue house for sale. Great first house, will be there when we are ready to buy. The Irish in me is sure of this luck. May even be cheaper. Close to:
everything
You read this right, first we're owning property, then we're getting married, going to school and somewhere in there is plenty of room for Accident #1 and Accident #2. Fuck planned parenthood. I've always been better at disaster planning.
Lead.
Follow.
Or, get the fuck out of my way.
Tie me down.
I have ideas, I have plans. I have so much love it brings me to my knees in tears with gratitude.
Tie me down because I am a slave to:
not
being able to find words to express gratitude where it is needed the most. How would it be received? I don't know. Fuck. Write a letter on paper, stick it in the mail... something to say hey!
HEY!
I LOVE YOU!!!
Something that screams pay attention, you're worth everything to me. But how to say that? Back to Dad. How to honour him? Why is this so fucking difficult?
Ascertation.
Assertive.
But with feelings for someone who can't or just chooses not to express... feelings gone up in smoke for 50 years... how do I teach him to feel, acknowledge the feelings and cry again?
Throwing my hands up in the air. This is my motherfucking gift, helping others realize how amazing they are. Fuck. How do I do that with someone who gave me this life? Where are the words? All I find is frustration and silence. An outburst. We stood there once screaming at each other on a street corner in a foreign city. Did he ever ask why I stuck around? Did the thought cross his mind that I was one wash my hands of this away from leaving? Did it ever cross his mind why I never left? I KNOW WHO IS INSIDE.
I know.
Scare tactics are a start. But I need to put the final nail in the proverbial coffin, extremely bad taste in proverbs notwithstanding.
What would my world look like without a Grandfather? Zero concept of paternal instinct geneologically misguided but in the right place. What does love from a man look like? When can we stop freaking out from the trauma of the first 20 years and start living for here and now? Can't we start appreciating what we have now instead of running from the past? Sure it's a leap of faith that he'll be a good Grandfather - he had no role model. None. Death by suicide, the coward's way out. Take that one step further and BE.
BE!
Who the hell are you not to believe in yourself? You believe in me and you don't even know half of me... I shelter myself because you shelter yourself. We hide behind masks and be who we think we want each other to be. Can we stop?
I LOVE YOU!
I know you feel that as deeply as I do. If only...
I felt
that were still enough.
If that were still enough....
it is. It's not. I'll explain one day.
Scare tactics. I don't have long to get explaining. Fuck. Me.
sigh.
I need to be brave. I need you to understand how important Grandfathers are. You never saw your father have the chance to be my Grandfather. I think you might be the only person who stands half a chance of understanding how bereft I feel about that.
My wine glass is empty again. I'm not sure how he'd feel coming home knowing I finished the 4/5ths full bottle of wine from the other night. I don't know if he'd be unimpressed that I'm buzzed or grateful that I thought a wine he picked was delicious after being open two days. Or if he'd have realized that I'd have drunk any liquor in the house except the nasty vodka
be
cause
the altered state of mind helped my feelings come out. I suppose counselling or a shamanic work may have done the same thing. Differently. And I wanted to write.
Helped the feelings come out.
Finish it. Finish the bottle. May as well. Or want to? Is this the point where I should stop drinking? Is this the point where fun reaches problem? I don't know.
He isn't home yet.
{laundry interlude}
I'm thinking about an ex
(can you guess which one?)
and marriage and
whiskey
Oh whiskey.
It was St. Patrick's day and I'd been stood up
but wait.
It was fall in Sydney and a girl I knew took me out to a hotel. Or we somehow ended up there and it was burbon and coke and looks exchanged into making out on the beach. Bondi. So right at the time. Finished off with a sandy shower and navel piercing, awkward smoke breaks on the sidewalk in the morning sun.
Too scared to call when we were in her city. Boys in the way? Girls on the side? I don't know.
It was St. Patrick's day and I'd been stood up. Russell had just moved and I didn't have his phone number. No dice. No dice. Friends took me out and no Guiness. I just about cried again. I settled on Irish whiskey. Not great but a good start. Get home to a fridge full of G and a game. Irish much?
Met a man on the internet and we didn't quite connect but went for a bottle of Scotch and I wanted a piano but settled for a bath. Smashed mugs on the bathroom floor and didn't get up the next morning. Ill.
Tonight a piano and scotch would be perfect. Record that shit. I don't play very well at all but you'd be crazy if you couldn't hear the feeling in what I'd play. Who even has a piano anymore? Aunt Bev. Not so comfortable drinking scotch there. But seriously. IF
IF
I could find my way into somewhere that felt 100% safe with a bottle of scotch and a piano shit... you'd hear something. You'd hear....
My favourite dirty old man fling started underneath a piano with a hug from a friend who whispered (this is yours if you want it but if you don't want to, just tell me and I promise I won't let him near you)
later
I found out she met my cousin because my favourite dirty old man fling and my cousin used to have baths with scotch to settle disputes and secretly she wanted in on their baths. First she went for him and later for my cousin. When we both had ditched him he felt a sting.
I am a sucker for scotch and pianos.
I think we're back to where we started, well placed reminisciences of ex boyfriends on the proverbial eve of marriage. Believe it or not this is a love letter. I'm sighing with resignation that it may be misinterpereted. What it is is a thank you for who you have been in my life. Who you are now. Who you will be. You are amazing and do not forget this.
I under
stand
stand underlining the meaning
I know this is a stupid thing to say. know how it feels to have someone say you're amazing but not for me. Please just be okay with that. Please just know that I respect you for who you are now and who you will become.
{please know that love is limitless}
and i wish you well and all that bullcrap that is always said
at the end
(my inspiration)
does
2 day old cheap wine
taste better than when the cork's fresh off the bottle?
He drinks from a mug so I thought I'd give it a go. Deep breath, peppered frets echo across the almost dusk of Indian summer.
Not all of the trees have changed yet. Some are still green. Summer was abundant with moisture, FINALLY.
finally, BITCH, finally
Dreamed about a girl last night, tiny, timid, MOCKING. I can't get her face out of my head. I think I understand, finally, what she said about being able to love me and hate me at the same time. I have respect for her position in my family. I have respect for who she is to he who used to be so much to me. Still could be. Stuck. Alien. Lost his ID, a physical manifestation of what happens when he is with a woman.
I thought I'd give that a go too. Party.
Last night we shot rifles
(BULLSEYE)
(if you can believe it, truth)
and then
we found out every single peeler parlour in the city is closed on Sunday.
Bugger.
Thoughts of Bukowski and my favourite dirty old fling float not far from my memory.
Tonight we finish boys' night out. I think we should do it again for his stag.
Yup, you heard me right. His stag. We're getting married in the spring.
Donde esta Brianna? The telephone didn't work. Long distance silence, then ringing, then crackles of Hola? Bueno? Bueno?
Glitch in the planning, missing cog on the gear, broken spoke on the spinning wheel making yarn to weave the tapestry of our lives.
MARRIAGE.
[backspace] [backspace] [backspace]
Can't forget deep breaths of frangipani behind my ear. I can't find a single florist who can bring one in for my wedding. I want to wear it because it means so much to me. It is the flower that stood by me while I stumbled blindly and often drunkenly through the transition from maiden to mother. I am ready, MOTHER, I am ready.
Deep breath.
Images of little Mini-Me running after Russell in the backyard. Covered in dirt and naked. I like to roll in the dirt and grass. He likes to brush dirt spots off his pants and shirts.
I want the world to know that life is not always as it seems.
reams of tears
Tonight we're going out for titties and beers. Whiskey. I can't explain it, there's this spiraling grief for the bachelorette who used to be. I wouldn't trade what I have for anything in the world or anyone but... grief for the life that was so intense all of the time. In your face, in your world. One hand clawing at your heart, one hand caressing. One look penetrating your soul - that look went two ways. You need to know that and you never knew. You
a multitude
suitors
couldn't know
that what you said and when you said
touched my soul. I will never forget any of you. Know that. Sleep better at night for it. Or some such drivel. Do with it what you will. Hej Skoll and a bottle of Tallisker in a bath with smashed glass mugs and all that jazz. All that jazz. All that jazz. All that...
Where am I now that I throw my hands up at shit like that because... FUCK... I care too damn much to do it anymore. Care that we wake up the next morning to hold sacred in each other's arms the first breaths of morning.
Hard core softie?
Do you know what it feels like for my Dad to be our Dad? Do you? We're taking his name. Do you know how fucking shitty it feels to wonder if he'll still be around to meet the grandkids, Accident #s 1 and 2, whenever they grace us with their presence? Do you know? Do you have any fucking clue how messed up that is? How the fuck do we honour someone who has such a difficult time honouring his own sacred self or even recognizing it?
Twitch.
No.
Don't go there.
GO THERE.
Because there's nothing quite like complicated grief.
[sarcasm]
I am out of wine. Please hold while I refill my landfill. My mug is currently empty.
{hold music, ooh hold music....}
Wipe the spills with a hand towel
sweat pants and hair dye
grab a trowel
dig in the dirt to reconnect
I have a worm composter in my apartment. I have doubled or tripled my worm population in 6 months. Anyone want worms? Free or will barter for services....
Services.
Sir-viced.
Alcohol required.
City planning on the hot seat in Brainland today. Bridges for pedestrians over major roadways, connecting suburb to suburb's big box shopping hell. Pedibridge to a place so pedestrian inaccessible. Why?
Suburb where one car per person philosophy applies without enough parking and only two fucking roads out? Car unfriendly, great. Whatfuckingever. Lack of efficient and timely public transport and lack of feasible bicycle paths and lack of any planning whatsoever with respect to pedestrian accessibility. But my lawn will be greener than your lawn and my landscaper was better than yours.
Why do we need our own patches of grass?
I arrive at my mum's house and before reintroducing my old friend who gave me a lift, I am rolling in the grass and the leaves, bits stuck to my designer wool peacoat.
Why do we need our own patches of grass?
Wanna brush purple & blue suicide spike mohawk against curved roof of Belfast Avenue house for sale. Great first house, will be there when we are ready to buy. The Irish in me is sure of this luck. May even be cheaper. Close to:
everything
You read this right, first we're owning property, then we're getting married, going to school and somewhere in there is plenty of room for Accident #1 and Accident #2. Fuck planned parenthood. I've always been better at disaster planning.
Lead.
Follow.
Or, get the fuck out of my way.
Tie me down.
I have ideas, I have plans. I have so much love it brings me to my knees in tears with gratitude.
Tie me down because I am a slave to:
not
being able to find words to express gratitude where it is needed the most. How would it be received? I don't know. Fuck. Write a letter on paper, stick it in the mail... something to say hey!
HEY!
I LOVE YOU!!!
Something that screams pay attention, you're worth everything to me. But how to say that? Back to Dad. How to honour him? Why is this so fucking difficult?
Ascertation.
Assertive.
But with feelings for someone who can't or just chooses not to express... feelings gone up in smoke for 50 years... how do I teach him to feel, acknowledge the feelings and cry again?
Throwing my hands up in the air. This is my motherfucking gift, helping others realize how amazing they are. Fuck. How do I do that with someone who gave me this life? Where are the words? All I find is frustration and silence. An outburst. We stood there once screaming at each other on a street corner in a foreign city. Did he ever ask why I stuck around? Did the thought cross his mind that I was one wash my hands of this away from leaving? Did it ever cross his mind why I never left? I KNOW WHO IS INSIDE.
I know.
Scare tactics are a start. But I need to put the final nail in the proverbial coffin, extremely bad taste in proverbs notwithstanding.
What would my world look like without a Grandfather? Zero concept of paternal instinct geneologically misguided but in the right place. What does love from a man look like? When can we stop freaking out from the trauma of the first 20 years and start living for here and now? Can't we start appreciating what we have now instead of running from the past? Sure it's a leap of faith that he'll be a good Grandfather - he had no role model. None. Death by suicide, the coward's way out. Take that one step further and BE.
BE!
Who the hell are you not to believe in yourself? You believe in me and you don't even know half of me... I shelter myself because you shelter yourself. We hide behind masks and be who we think we want each other to be. Can we stop?
I LOVE YOU!
I know you feel that as deeply as I do. If only...
I felt
that were still enough.
If that were still enough....
it is. It's not. I'll explain one day.
Scare tactics. I don't have long to get explaining. Fuck. Me.
sigh.
I need to be brave. I need you to understand how important Grandfathers are. You never saw your father have the chance to be my Grandfather. I think you might be the only person who stands half a chance of understanding how bereft I feel about that.
My wine glass is empty again. I'm not sure how he'd feel coming home knowing I finished the 4/5ths full bottle of wine from the other night. I don't know if he'd be unimpressed that I'm buzzed or grateful that I thought a wine he picked was delicious after being open two days. Or if he'd have realized that I'd have drunk any liquor in the house except the nasty vodka
be
cause
the altered state of mind helped my feelings come out. I suppose counselling or a shamanic work may have done the same thing. Differently. And I wanted to write.
Helped the feelings come out.
Finish it. Finish the bottle. May as well. Or want to? Is this the point where I should stop drinking? Is this the point where fun reaches problem? I don't know.
He isn't home yet.
{laundry interlude}
I'm thinking about an ex
(can you guess which one?)
and marriage and
whiskey
Oh whiskey.
It was St. Patrick's day and I'd been stood up
but wait.
It was fall in Sydney and a girl I knew took me out to a hotel. Or we somehow ended up there and it was burbon and coke and looks exchanged into making out on the beach. Bondi. So right at the time. Finished off with a sandy shower and navel piercing, awkward smoke breaks on the sidewalk in the morning sun.
Too scared to call when we were in her city. Boys in the way? Girls on the side? I don't know.
It was St. Patrick's day and I'd been stood up. Russell had just moved and I didn't have his phone number. No dice. No dice. Friends took me out and no Guiness. I just about cried again. I settled on Irish whiskey. Not great but a good start. Get home to a fridge full of G and a game. Irish much?
Met a man on the internet and we didn't quite connect but went for a bottle of Scotch and I wanted a piano but settled for a bath. Smashed mugs on the bathroom floor and didn't get up the next morning. Ill.
Tonight a piano and scotch would be perfect. Record that shit. I don't play very well at all but you'd be crazy if you couldn't hear the feeling in what I'd play. Who even has a piano anymore? Aunt Bev. Not so comfortable drinking scotch there. But seriously. IF
IF
I could find my way into somewhere that felt 100% safe with a bottle of scotch and a piano shit... you'd hear something. You'd hear....
My favourite dirty old man fling started underneath a piano with a hug from a friend who whispered (this is yours if you want it but if you don't want to, just tell me and I promise I won't let him near you)
later
I found out she met my cousin because my favourite dirty old man fling and my cousin used to have baths with scotch to settle disputes and secretly she wanted in on their baths. First she went for him and later for my cousin. When we both had ditched him he felt a sting.
I am a sucker for scotch and pianos.
I think we're back to where we started, well placed reminisciences of ex boyfriends on the proverbial eve of marriage. Believe it or not this is a love letter. I'm sighing with resignation that it may be misinterpereted. What it is is a thank you for who you have been in my life. Who you are now. Who you will be. You are amazing and do not forget this.
I under
stand
stand underlining the meaning
I know this is a stupid thing to say. know how it feels to have someone say you're amazing but not for me. Please just be okay with that. Please just know that I respect you for who you are now and who you will become.
{please know that love is limitless}
and i wish you well and all that bullcrap that is always said
at the end
(my inspiration)
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Ten minutes
Ten minutes, early in the morning. Noises from the neighbours' plumbing interrupt the silence. It is too cold to keep the windows open or there would be no silence from the early morning traffic. There is no real silence in the city, only a distance from the main roads at which one can perceive the absence of really loud noise.
It is dark out. The dark comes earlier and stays later these days, it is that time of year again. It is time to set the clocks back soon, an act that feels like a good idea at the time until everyone realizes that it is a human act with no affect on the universe. Commerce. In rural areas they don't like the time change because the livestock react badly.
Last night I had a dream about a ball python. The situation surrounding the dream was something going not as planned, and the snake was on my person the entire time. Snakes symbolize knowledge and darkness. Dark time of year is a time to reflect on things past and learn from them. Perhaps there are no secrets in this dream at all.
Morning. Time to leave for work. Soy lives in tea, tea lives in mug, mug is attached to hand. Extra shoes in the bag for tomorrow. Tomorrow features a distinct lack of dress code clothing. Tomorrow's specials include Blue Sweater for $5.49, Yellow Flower for $3.00 and Exoticism for $10.00 (or current market value).
It is dark out. The dark comes earlier and stays later these days, it is that time of year again. It is time to set the clocks back soon, an act that feels like a good idea at the time until everyone realizes that it is a human act with no affect on the universe. Commerce. In rural areas they don't like the time change because the livestock react badly.
Last night I had a dream about a ball python. The situation surrounding the dream was something going not as planned, and the snake was on my person the entire time. Snakes symbolize knowledge and darkness. Dark time of year is a time to reflect on things past and learn from them. Perhaps there are no secrets in this dream at all.
Morning. Time to leave for work. Soy lives in tea, tea lives in mug, mug is attached to hand. Extra shoes in the bag for tomorrow. Tomorrow features a distinct lack of dress code clothing. Tomorrow's specials include Blue Sweater for $5.49, Yellow Flower for $3.00 and Exoticism for $10.00 (or current market value).
Saturday, October 20, 2007
what doesn't bend breaks
What calm looks like: the throwing and slamming of things, the use of the fuck word. Irritation at simple things like light and noise but not light and noise of home, light and noise of commerce and cars, retail and reinvention of self. A need to clean house. Cleaned my closet, left me feeling vulnerable. I don't know if I want to get rid of these things. But I don't wear them. Almost like the pants that are too wide in the waist and too short but I wore them today. What part of "I used to..." doesn't fit this sentence? Pardon my calm exterior. It is fear. Vulnerability. My quiet. I do not find this relaxing. This is not my idea of a good time, nor is it my idea of a relaxing day off. I wanted to say that. Instead I kept quiet. For weeks I didn't touch my letter writing stuff because you piled it all in the middle of the table. I am particular about how it is organized - it does not live in a pile. It was a neat pile. I was paralyzed by it. How am I supposed to feel when the top of the pile is a skeleton: photo taken by exboyfriend who invited himself on my grief vacation. (But it's a good photo...) I had planned a solo vacation to re-arrange things in my head again. Now I cannot return to the same place without those memories. And sure some were good but there was too much booze and half of it was my idea because I didn't know what else to suggest and I didn't want to stay home because my emotions were not in the same place as his. I guess what I'm getting at is "I'm going to go there too" doesn't work when I've already said, "It's over." How do I be a bitter bitch? The heartbreaker by virtue of breaking hearts never gets to whine about how the end of things really made her feel. I quietly say leave me alone, you don't listen. I say fine and suck it up. I still owe you money but I don't have your current address. I haven't heard from you in months. I feel bad about that. I want to ... yet I'm living with someone else and how what went wrong went down is still haunting me. I don't like that. Doors slam around the home and things are re-arranged and put in different places and I am confused by this. They were fine where they were. I am not ready to re-arrange things.
Tranquility eludes me. I do not understand why things are done the way they are done tonight. I do not understand the lack of communication, the shut off answers when I ask questions. I wander from room to room in squashed silence - I was not squashed, I merely have less than nothing to contribute to this particular sequence of events. It is not mine yet it transpires in my house. It is not directed at me, but it occurrs in my space, in my presence, and once in a blue moon a verbal exchange is directed at my face.
A reassuring hand on my body in passing. Love. It feels so strange that the sequence of events excluded me in such a hardcore manner. I may as well not have been here. I do not feel unloved. I do not feel taken for granted like the furniture. I feel more like an observer presence. I see and hear and feel the events but have no part in them. I can tell you exactly how it went down.
Now ice cream and laughter and I do not understand the sequence of events preceeding... I do not understand the emotional transformation. I do not become edgy when the home is cluttered. It does not affect my ability to function. Out of the home pollutants of noise and sound and smell get to me. When I walk into the grocery store and the lights glare and the music is obscenely loud and the lineups are monumental and everyone pays with plastic including the dude in front of me who has to try his card three times before accepting that it isn't working... the cacophony leaves me wanting to drop my purchases where I stand and just leave. When did anywhere start creating such hostile environments? But it is not the only one. Malls play music outside of the stores and everything is brighter, shinier, more expensive to catch the eye of the consumer who has no attention span.
In the magazine shop it was silent and the lights were turned up no brighter than necessary for reading. Why can't all places of retail be places of relaxation like that? I don't want to go shopping anymore. I save major grocery shopping for Planet Organic once a week and have no desire to go out in between. I have wasted too much of my life standing in lineups for things I don't really want in hostile environments.
Peace at home is my sense of loss. Items piled on top of my sacred objects. Other sacred objects piled into a corner. I feel like I am the one in the corner. I don't live like that.
I am trying to take deep breaths and remind myself that I am loved. I don't think that's even the issue though, or perhaps even relevant. I feel vulnerable because someone else touched my stuff? As crazy as that sounds, maybe that is it. There have only ever been two things no one has touched in my life - my sacred objects and my writing utensils - because you can't put shit on top of the Koran and I don't like it when paper is piled in between envelopes. I think the first one will get you to hell and the second one just plain annoys me.
Today I have learned lots. I suppose that is the day's saving grace.
Tranquility eludes me. I do not understand why things are done the way they are done tonight. I do not understand the lack of communication, the shut off answers when I ask questions. I wander from room to room in squashed silence - I was not squashed, I merely have less than nothing to contribute to this particular sequence of events. It is not mine yet it transpires in my house. It is not directed at me, but it occurrs in my space, in my presence, and once in a blue moon a verbal exchange is directed at my face.
A reassuring hand on my body in passing. Love. It feels so strange that the sequence of events excluded me in such a hardcore manner. I may as well not have been here. I do not feel unloved. I do not feel taken for granted like the furniture. I feel more like an observer presence. I see and hear and feel the events but have no part in them. I can tell you exactly how it went down.
Now ice cream and laughter and I do not understand the sequence of events preceeding... I do not understand the emotional transformation. I do not become edgy when the home is cluttered. It does not affect my ability to function. Out of the home pollutants of noise and sound and smell get to me. When I walk into the grocery store and the lights glare and the music is obscenely loud and the lineups are monumental and everyone pays with plastic including the dude in front of me who has to try his card three times before accepting that it isn't working... the cacophony leaves me wanting to drop my purchases where I stand and just leave. When did anywhere start creating such hostile environments? But it is not the only one. Malls play music outside of the stores and everything is brighter, shinier, more expensive to catch the eye of the consumer who has no attention span.
In the magazine shop it was silent and the lights were turned up no brighter than necessary for reading. Why can't all places of retail be places of relaxation like that? I don't want to go shopping anymore. I save major grocery shopping for Planet Organic once a week and have no desire to go out in between. I have wasted too much of my life standing in lineups for things I don't really want in hostile environments.
Peace at home is my sense of loss. Items piled on top of my sacred objects. Other sacred objects piled into a corner. I feel like I am the one in the corner. I don't live like that.
I am trying to take deep breaths and remind myself that I am loved. I don't think that's even the issue though, or perhaps even relevant. I feel vulnerable because someone else touched my stuff? As crazy as that sounds, maybe that is it. There have only ever been two things no one has touched in my life - my sacred objects and my writing utensils - because you can't put shit on top of the Koran and I don't like it when paper is piled in between envelopes. I think the first one will get you to hell and the second one just plain annoys me.
Today I have learned lots. I suppose that is the day's saving grace.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Not Angry Anymore
Dear C-----,
It's been a long time. Too long. Sometimes when I'm coming home from a long day at work and it's dark and the crowds are on the streets in front of the bars I wonder if I could just walk into the Commie and find you there. You'd be with the boys talking philosophy only on closer examination one of the boys would be a 17 year old university philosophy major first year student and she'd be drinking in your words like liquid gold only to go home disappointed at the end of the night as you retreat to your piano and a glass of scotch.
I know it isn't like that these days. You aren't here anymore.
I think sometimes I've accepted that you've moved on. Some days I'm fine with it. Mostly I just miss you. You revolutionized my world from the day I was little. Remember the road trip we took to E-------- when we spent the return discussing alternative energy sources that could be found on the prairies and how it could be the next big boom? Your optimism was contagious and by the time we arrived home I was convinced we could re-conquor the world.
The new boom in S------- is actually oil. I think that motherfucking sucks, although I admit the economy could use the boost. How will the arts community cope?
Remember when we went for four days on coffee and Grandma's cookies and my writing and your big ideas? I idolized you then and in a sense I still do now. It started when I was 16 or so and you were thinking outside the box and it gave me hope. Every time I wanted to slit my wrists I went deeper into my own dark places and found revolution. I'm not saying you saved my life per se, but your existence certainly made small corners of my world a whole lot brighter.
I think of you now, somewhere where the sun shines and there is always heat. Your ocean shore has replaced the wild north. I often wondered if your experience going to Uni here wasn't just the most massive culture shock ever and I've often wondered how you coped with that, where the you who meditated on clifftops fits into the you who is so full of idealism.... you'd lead an incredible revolution and at the end of it I'd be the one sitting at your feet as your fingers tickle the ivory, scotch to scotch, asking in a quiet voice if you are really alright.
Are you?
I want to know if you are okay. I have no idea what your life looks like now. I know all too well how a change of scenery and a pretty lady can alter a person's perception of everything... and I know what it means to risk it all because I do it every day of my life. I'm not sure you knew we had that in common. We do. I risk love every day. All the time. The kind of love that makes me think the M word is a possibility for my near reality. Love where there is nothing more beautiful than the sound of his voice in my ear, the hugs with no words that mean everything... I know you know what I'm talking about. You might be the only person I know who truly understands this fragile stability in the same way I do. That it is wonderful, tenuous, delicate and hell hath no fury like that directed at whomever dares fuck with this love. It is a line that is not ever to be crossed.
I'm sorry. I know I'm too harsh and judgemental sometimes, that I jump to conclusions and would rather fight with other women than be their friend. But it's the other side of that same love that gave rise to things I said, things I did, and things I left unsaid. I wish it hadn't happened as it did but I wouldn't be the person I am if I didn't..... speak my mind. Right or wrong, it is my truth. My perception, my story. Not to be judged just as I shouldn't judge. Who am I to call someone else's truth red or blue?
I'm sorry that your mum figures we've been fighting for ages, that somehow she had the impression that it went on for months. I thought it was a couple isolated incidences and then I didn't respond until I asked to be left alone in a not very nice way. Family gatherings have been tense without you but if you were to visit, when you visit, I don't expect to be invited. I don't know what I'd say if I was invited. I'd say I'm sorry and I'd mean it and I'd be accused of being insincere. It's happened already. I'd be nice and it'd be thrown back in my face. I'd be nice because I meant it. I'd reach out if I thought it'd do any good but instead I'm writing a fucking anonymous letter on a blog you probably stopped reading and... I don't know what to do. We can't just keep denying each other's existence for the rest of our lives. You were almightily influential in my life and for everything that's come of it except the not speaking I'm grateful. I have enough gratitude to tumble the pyramids. I don't know how to express it. I don't know what forum to use to scream at the top of my lungs that I love you and I miss you and I wish you'd just say something.
Maybe I wasn't that important to you. Maybe I was never anything more than something like a little sister wanting to be as cool as her older brother but never quite living up to all either of us thought I could be. I don't know.
I'm not even that sure I care.
Are you okay?
I love you you know. That isn't easy to say coming from someone who is dead to you. I never stopped loving you. I never will.
Sincerely,
J. Barrett
It's been a long time. Too long. Sometimes when I'm coming home from a long day at work and it's dark and the crowds are on the streets in front of the bars I wonder if I could just walk into the Commie and find you there. You'd be with the boys talking philosophy only on closer examination one of the boys would be a 17 year old university philosophy major first year student and she'd be drinking in your words like liquid gold only to go home disappointed at the end of the night as you retreat to your piano and a glass of scotch.
I know it isn't like that these days. You aren't here anymore.
I think sometimes I've accepted that you've moved on. Some days I'm fine with it. Mostly I just miss you. You revolutionized my world from the day I was little. Remember the road trip we took to E-------- when we spent the return discussing alternative energy sources that could be found on the prairies and how it could be the next big boom? Your optimism was contagious and by the time we arrived home I was convinced we could re-conquor the world.
The new boom in S------- is actually oil. I think that motherfucking sucks, although I admit the economy could use the boost. How will the arts community cope?
Remember when we went for four days on coffee and Grandma's cookies and my writing and your big ideas? I idolized you then and in a sense I still do now. It started when I was 16 or so and you were thinking outside the box and it gave me hope. Every time I wanted to slit my wrists I went deeper into my own dark places and found revolution. I'm not saying you saved my life per se, but your existence certainly made small corners of my world a whole lot brighter.
I think of you now, somewhere where the sun shines and there is always heat. Your ocean shore has replaced the wild north. I often wondered if your experience going to Uni here wasn't just the most massive culture shock ever and I've often wondered how you coped with that, where the you who meditated on clifftops fits into the you who is so full of idealism.... you'd lead an incredible revolution and at the end of it I'd be the one sitting at your feet as your fingers tickle the ivory, scotch to scotch, asking in a quiet voice if you are really alright.
Are you?
I want to know if you are okay. I have no idea what your life looks like now. I know all too well how a change of scenery and a pretty lady can alter a person's perception of everything... and I know what it means to risk it all because I do it every day of my life. I'm not sure you knew we had that in common. We do. I risk love every day. All the time. The kind of love that makes me think the M word is a possibility for my near reality. Love where there is nothing more beautiful than the sound of his voice in my ear, the hugs with no words that mean everything... I know you know what I'm talking about. You might be the only person I know who truly understands this fragile stability in the same way I do. That it is wonderful, tenuous, delicate and hell hath no fury like that directed at whomever dares fuck with this love. It is a line that is not ever to be crossed.
I'm sorry. I know I'm too harsh and judgemental sometimes, that I jump to conclusions and would rather fight with other women than be their friend. But it's the other side of that same love that gave rise to things I said, things I did, and things I left unsaid. I wish it hadn't happened as it did but I wouldn't be the person I am if I didn't..... speak my mind. Right or wrong, it is my truth. My perception, my story. Not to be judged just as I shouldn't judge. Who am I to call someone else's truth red or blue?
I'm sorry that your mum figures we've been fighting for ages, that somehow she had the impression that it went on for months. I thought it was a couple isolated incidences and then I didn't respond until I asked to be left alone in a not very nice way. Family gatherings have been tense without you but if you were to visit, when you visit, I don't expect to be invited. I don't know what I'd say if I was invited. I'd say I'm sorry and I'd mean it and I'd be accused of being insincere. It's happened already. I'd be nice and it'd be thrown back in my face. I'd be nice because I meant it. I'd reach out if I thought it'd do any good but instead I'm writing a fucking anonymous letter on a blog you probably stopped reading and... I don't know what to do. We can't just keep denying each other's existence for the rest of our lives. You were almightily influential in my life and for everything that's come of it except the not speaking I'm grateful. I have enough gratitude to tumble the pyramids. I don't know how to express it. I don't know what forum to use to scream at the top of my lungs that I love you and I miss you and I wish you'd just say something.
Maybe I wasn't that important to you. Maybe I was never anything more than something like a little sister wanting to be as cool as her older brother but never quite living up to all either of us thought I could be. I don't know.
I'm not even that sure I care.
Are you okay?
I love you you know. That isn't easy to say coming from someone who is dead to you. I never stopped loving you. I never will.
Sincerely,
J. Barrett
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Persimons and dirty martinis
What's the sound: sizzle from the oven. Lights off in the fish tank, night, lights on in the living room, no red glow from the curtains on the window. Music loud, accusations of being bad neighbours. It is Thursday night. Coffee table needs to be washed down, hosed off, covered in gasoline and set alight. Shoes by the door, high heels reminiscient of 1945, navy blue, they belong to the woman in the navy dress with white polka dots. Her red lipstick is brighter than the curtains, a bit of a shine when the light hits her lips as she speaks. Her hair is finger waved perfection, brown and shiny, glossy like her eyes. She hooks a perfectly manicured finger in the pearls around her neck and rests her feet on the coffee table. She is beginning to get drunk and a dribble from her martini hits the carpet as she bends forward to put it on the table. She is telling stories about the last man she slept with, a married man who is part owner of the bar next door to where she'd been out with the girls the night before. She feels bad for his wife but she doesn't seem angry that he didn't bother to tell her he was married to the cute little nurse. Her language slowly becomes more foul as she begins to describe how their intimacy failed to thrill her. Her voice trails off as she stares after the olive in her martini. Her stockinged feet now fall gracefully to the floor, a shade different than the beige carpet. Her friend watches her, wonders where she bought the bra that gives her such amazing cleavage, wonders where the boys are tonight. Wonders where they could go within walking distance of home to pick up, wonders if they could both score on the same night. Wonders if they could score with nice boys who weren't more interested in doing a line of blow off their chests. Her friend wants to know how he could go back to his wife after she gave him a blow job and tell her he merely had a late night at work. Again. The martinis are starting to go to their heads and she asks the woman with the red lipstick if she feels like going out. Her friend looks at her like she's crazy and looks at her stockinged feet and when their eyes meet again they are giggling like schoolgirls, racing to the bathroom to fix their makeup. She shakes her head as they leave the basement apartment - they could definitely be mistaken for nice girls at first glance. They could definitely be nice girls - if they wanted to.
Monday, March 26, 2007
A Poem for Grandma
a large tree falls over in the forest
a small corner of life realigns itself
shifts
Each branch of the tree is broken
by gravity, by other objects, by sheer force, by age.
The tree no longer had strong roots.
It could no longer take in oxygen
asphixiation
That tree was there before I was born
and I knew it all through my life
there were things I would tell the tree
that I've never told another living soul.
The tree breathed gently, lived gently
in the grace of god and
She told me always, quietly, gently
that I needed to do what was right for me.
One day I walked into the forest and
the tree was no longer standing.
She had fallen. Shifted. Redirected.
She lay broken on the forest floor, shattered remnants
of her beautiful branches
scattered
I did not try to pick her up.
I knew I could not. I knew in the deepest part of my soul that this was her broken end.
I asked her spirit to leave in peace
because I knew it was the right thing to do
I felt in my heart that my request was true
Yet no mortal coil shuffling
hurts more than one we've blessed
I have not been back to the forest
in over a month
to see her wood overgrown with new spring life.
I do not know what she looks like now
or even for sure where she rests. Perhaps she has been collected.
All I know is that my dear dear friend
is missing from my life.
I know a void. It has a certain shape, a certain size.
A certain voice and a way of certain embrace.
I am left believing it was hard for her to go.
The wind tugged at her weak roots and
her leaves had trouble
taking in oxygen
I did not want her to stay like that.
I am angry that we could not have fixed it.
In my grief all I have to give
is my hair
all I have is to live
my life
All I know are the words
to a prayer.
a small corner of life realigns itself
shifts
Each branch of the tree is broken
by gravity, by other objects, by sheer force, by age.
The tree no longer had strong roots.
It could no longer take in oxygen
asphixiation
That tree was there before I was born
and I knew it all through my life
there were things I would tell the tree
that I've never told another living soul.
The tree breathed gently, lived gently
in the grace of god and
She told me always, quietly, gently
that I needed to do what was right for me.
One day I walked into the forest and
the tree was no longer standing.
She had fallen. Shifted. Redirected.
She lay broken on the forest floor, shattered remnants
of her beautiful branches
scattered
I did not try to pick her up.
I knew I could not. I knew in the deepest part of my soul that this was her broken end.
I asked her spirit to leave in peace
because I knew it was the right thing to do
I felt in my heart that my request was true
Yet no mortal coil shuffling
hurts more than one we've blessed
I have not been back to the forest
in over a month
to see her wood overgrown with new spring life.
I do not know what she looks like now
or even for sure where she rests. Perhaps she has been collected.
All I know is that my dear dear friend
is missing from my life.
I know a void. It has a certain shape, a certain size.
A certain voice and a way of certain embrace.
I am left believing it was hard for her to go.
The wind tugged at her weak roots and
her leaves had trouble
taking in oxygen
I did not want her to stay like that.
I am angry that we could not have fixed it.
In my grief all I have to give
is my hair
all I have is to live
my life
All I know are the words
to a prayer.
Friday, March 09, 2007
independance day
Gold and beaded jewellery
don't make it up to me
but I know you would
if you could
oh you would if you could
concrete floor cold beneath my feet
something is wrong but I
can't admit defeat
it's noting tangible and I know
you'd make it disappear
with your kisses
if you'd kiss me
any day above ground is a good day
but today is too much
I need to liberate
this mortal coil
who do you think I am?
Who do you want me to be?
because
I would if I could
you know it
if I could make everyting alright
with a simple hug
it would be so.
I don't know
anymore
maybe I never knew
anything
maybe for once I'm
wrong
or wronged?
don't make it up to me
but I know you would
if you could
oh you would if you could
concrete floor cold beneath my feet
something is wrong but I
can't admit defeat
it's noting tangible and I know
you'd make it disappear
with your kisses
if you'd kiss me
any day above ground is a good day
but today is too much
I need to liberate
this mortal coil
who do you think I am?
Who do you want me to be?
because
I would if I could
you know it
if I could make everyting alright
with a simple hug
it would be so.
I don't know
anymore
maybe I never knew
anything
maybe for once I'm
wrong
or wronged?
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
breaking in a Moleskine
It's 1 a.m.
I'm a writer and an insomniac
I can't find my pen
does that mean you're sleeping
with the enemy
I'm doing it again
it's a compulsion
it's like treachery
stuff to do
piling up in my room
but I can't seem to detach
long enough
the written world
that which cannot be heard
fills my head, consumes
the minutes tick by
into hours that fly
I've stopped asking why I
don't sleep
it's not the company I keep or
the companionship I seek
when there's pen put to paper
I grow weak
Are you still up?
I'm a writer and an insomniac
I can't find my pen
does that mean you're sleeping
with the enemy
I'm doing it again
it's a compulsion
it's like treachery
stuff to do
piling up in my room
but I can't seem to detach
long enough
the written world
that which cannot be heard
fills my head, consumes
the minutes tick by
into hours that fly
I've stopped asking why I
don't sleep
it's not the company I keep or
the companionship I seek
when there's pen put to paper
I grow weak
Are you still up?
Monday, March 05, 2007
I'm Irish. (for Bill Barrett, R.I.P.)
Do you want to know me? I asked you a question. Are you going to answer or are you too busy staring at my eyes? Yeah that's what I am. Blue eyes, black hair. I colour the hair. Sure I do shave it clean off too. You ask me, long hair only brings a woman trouble but you didn't ask me. Nobody asked me. Nobody asked me what I wanted to be. My ancestors didn't give me a fucking choice. Nobody ever handed us anything on a silver platter. We wouldn't've accepted it anyway. But that's how it goes. Take it. Nothing I have in this world I didn't make for myself. You heard me. Don't need a university education to be somebody. But being somebody won't get you through the hard times. God gets you through the hard times. Hard times? Not just people dying, stuff like that, but family things. You know what I mean. Church got us feeling so shameful we're scared to try to change the bad things because we're not good enough. So we distance ourselves from the problem, anger as a shield. You want to know where my passion comes from, my anger? Ask my ancestors. Ask why the county's not named after us anymore. Ask why we drink like fish out of water, struggling to breath. Ask why we struggle our whole lives trying to BE somebody only to find (shame shame) that it's not good enough either, it doesn't measure up. Want out of the cycle? You have to be somebody. But fame and notoriety go hand in fucking hand. My grandfather killed himself. He had it all. He made pictures of famous people. My silence in the family is his blood on my hands. You want me to suck it up? Aw princess, whatsamatter? You don't like it when I sound like this? Don't worry baby, I can handle it, I'm Irish, remember? Sit down and eat your potatoes. I made them just for you. No, really, it's fine. I'll just go wash my hands. I'm fine, really. Eat before it gets cold.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
So Many Skeletons, Not Enough Closets
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.
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.
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.
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