it’s easy enough

he says, looking around the car
i crack another cider
he avoids eye contact
as he lights his third cigarette

“haven’t you ever been disappointed
once you really get to know someone?
once you discover they’re not
who you thought they were.”

i pass him the bowl
he smiles, so sweetly
i think about his question
and light my second smoke

we have fifteen minutes
before the movie starts
and 2 cans to get through
before we can leave

we sit in silence
maybe awkward, maybe comfortable
we both avoid eye contact
and i think about his question

i take a slow sip and
i wonder if he means me
it would be so much easier
if i were a mind reader

the trick to no disappointment,
i tell him
is to have no expectation

he calls me a pessimest
but
i’m not the one disappointed in everyone i meet

Yesterday’s Harlot

Back in the black and white days of typewriters and bowties, days of broads and dames, butt slaps, black butlers who called their bosses ‘boss’, chain-smoking hard talking coffee drinking gold digging housewives, cloak and dagger schemes, football dreams for Jimmy the eldest.  Back in the days when a woman’s worth was measured by how squeaky clean her floors, counters, dishes, hair is.  Pearls and heels, remnants of prohibition, women who drank whiskey were rough and tumbled, uncultured.  They smoked and they cussed, and they swore that no man would define who they were, no man would choke them down or stifle them with ideals he had, ideas of lady-like behaviour decided by someone with no lady-like attributes of his own.  Liberation through libation, undulation, it became a revolution of the genital kind, revolution through the power of feminine wiles which include the unclothed kind.  While a woman gyrates around a pole a man watches the tv behind her, one cigarette in his mouth and another behind his ear.  On the screen two women wore tight dresses, big brimmed hats, and smoked one black and white cigarette after another, the new one lit with the last.  She tossed it away and the white sailor beat the coloured man to the burning filter.

When she was young

she was sure the moon
followed her, staring intently
through the car window.

She was sure the words
were already on the paper,
merely helped along by the pen.

She was sure her toys
came to life at night, and
danced wildly across her room.

She was sure her dad
was infallible, as wise
as he was handsome and kind.

She was sure her mom
made the stars rise and fall,
a goddess that fell to earth.

She was sure until one day
she reached the magic age
when reason kicks in
and flaws come screaming
around every corner turned.

House

Echo of Carol Ann Duffy’s “Ink on Paper”

1.

The mind is vacant.  The wind blows
a soft breeze that whispers unheard.
Across the grass, trees spike the horizon;
they rise and fall like ancient empires, forgotten
kings and warriors.  The glass separates us.  Crickets
keep chirping as they always have.  A cup
of coffee cools on the counter, forgotten.

2.

An empty washer waits yawning for the
next load.  Workboots sit in dried mud,
hosting families of spiders.  The television
drones on in the next room, promising relief
of all personal problems.  Someone drops a
glass and swears.  A cat lays curled on the
dryer, purring gently under her breath.

3.

This sink filled with dishes calls for
procrastination one more time.  Muddied white
ceramics gleam in the light through the
window, which also dances blue through the
bottle of dish soap.  In the mug, knives and forks
mingle politely, making small talk about
work last night, and what they’ll do this weekend.

Thanks, tanks, and spanks

The rain has started again.

I had planned on going to the movies tonight, maybe with someone, probably on my own, but my back has twinged again and I am lazy and cozy and ready for bed.

As I type this it’s not even 3:30 in the afternoon yet.

Clearly I need to get a job.

My mom is currently on the floor with the contractor ripping up “subflooring” in the kitchen.  It’s noisy and it smells like wood.  I would offer to help but you know, injured back and all.  She’s banging away enthusiastically with a giant mallet.  This morning she raked gravel in the driveway.  I’m fairly certain that by 5 this evening she will be doped up and on her way to bed in an immense amount of pain.  She’s more fragile than she likes to let on, but she has this incredible stubborn streak that will have her work until she is crippled, and she won’t complain once the entire time.  It’s almost inspiring, but sometimes it just feels… counterproductive.

My dog is also currently on the floor, giving me the sad eyes because I haven’t invited him up to the couch.  I would if I could, because there are few things I love more than a good dog snuggle, but rules are rules and the rules here state no dogs on the furniture.  He does have such a rough life.

Life is hard…

I have such a hard time saying no to that face.

This afternoon I caught up on some reading.  I have been reading lately, books though, and have been neglecting reading my subscribed bloggers.  I absolutely love how this works.  I find one person I enjoy reading, and then look at who they read.  Then I find someone in that pile I enjoy reading, and look at who they read, so on and so forth.  What a lovely way to expand your horizons.  I’ve discovered some hilarious people, some incredibly inspirational writing, some amazing art and photography.  And it just feels like everyone’s so supportive, even with something as impersonal and simple as clicking the “like” button.

I feel blessed that I am able to work through so many things with my writing.  I’ve always been comfortable with words, which comes through very clearly if you have any sort of a communicative relationship with me (I tend to bombard with information and thoughts and musings and…words…).  When I was younger I was convinced that the words were always there on the paper, it just took going over them with a pen to bring them to the surface; some form of predetermined destiny, I suppose.

Anyhow, I’d like to thank everyone that’s taken the time to read what I’ve written and rambled about, and those who have commented and subscribed.  It’s wonderful to be part of such an inventive and creative community.

So yeah.  Thanks!

oh the anticipation

the slow
delicious
anticipation
waiting to hear the
words
uncertain
uneasy
but
oh
so
eager

nocturne, opus 72, number 1

note:

chopin and gin go together well
until the notes start to blur
and the fingers are too slow
beethoven is far too cumbersome
trudging up and down the keyboard.

but back to chopin
some of those nocturnes
can break your heart
dancing up the scales
and falling back down
how amazing that such emotion
can come from 8 simple notes
9 if you count the sharp

chopin, i cannot walk through this smoothly
or be connected
your jumps across the octaves
inspire me
stretch me across the keys.

some of these nocturnes
break my heart.

Lovely Words Loving Lovingly

I’m nearing the end of my second week of being off work.  Technically I was laid off, so I’m patiently awaiting EI and a phone call for a new assignment.  I’ve cleaned.  A lot.  And I’ve read, drawn, dusted off my synthesizer, taken my bike in for a tune-up, walked the dog, done several dump/salvation army runs, and reorganized my kitchen.  And now, I’m bored.

So today I decided to get out of the house.  After waking at 7am and then lounging in bed til 10:30am (so decadent!) I got up, got dressed, and packed the dog in the car.  We did another salvation army run and then I took the mutt for a walk around a lake.  And then I took the long way home, through the countryside.  As I was driving and the dog was panting furiously in my ear, slobber running down my shoulder, I started thinking about losing contact with people.

Years and years ago, when I lived in a different country, I made a very good friend.  I was hopelessly in love with him, and he knew it, and he was very sweet about letting me down without letting on that he knew (I was betrayed by an errant note passed in class.  The gossip got her hands on it and then everybody in the entire 9th grade class knew I thought he had a “mighty sweet butt.”  I guess class notes were kind of like the original text messages, hey?).  Anyway, after a year I moved to Canada and we stayed in touch via the email.  Through the years our friendship grew into best friendship, and then sort of blossomed into a very sweet, often dark, kind of twisted soulmate love, the kind that you can only have when you’re 19.  Eventually I decided to go and visit.  I went for 2 weeks over a summer and stayed with him and his college roommates, and it was a lot of fun, except for the part where I realized that I wasn’t actually as madly in love with him as I had originally thought.  He drank a lot, and he was kind of sickly, and very broody a lot of the time.  With his words it was intense and romantic; with his actions it was kind of irritating.  I was also seeing another boy at the time, one who ended up breaking my heart (twice no less) but whom I was very much infatuated with.  Anyway, the Very Good Friend made his move and I went along with it the first time, and then sort of tried to avoid it.  On the last night I was there they threw a party, and I remember sitting in the bathtub being absolutely hammered, with him sitting on the toilet next to me asking me if I saw him in my life at all.  And because I was oh so drunk I worded my response incredibly poorly, and a month after I got home he stopped talking to me.  I broke his heart, and I didn’t even mean to, and it cost me the closest friend I had ever had.  I still think about him all the time.  A while ago I did some research and googled him, and sent letters out to every address I could find attached to his name.  I got one response from someone telling me I had the wrong person.  And as shitty as that story is, it came from us falling in love not with each other, but with each others’ words.

A couple of years ago I joined an online anxiety forum, and started emailing with someone in the area.  We had a lot of similar symptoms for our panic attacks, and it turned out that we had very similar taste in music as well.  Our communication was very sporadic, and there would be months between emails sometimes.  It was always friendly, encouraging, engaging.  Nothing romantic, no flirting.  We hadn’t spoken in a while and a few months ago I sent him an email telling him I was going to be spending some time up near his neighbourhood at my mom’s, and he should let me know when his band’s playing because I’ll finally come and check them out.  He asked why I was going to be there, I told him about the separation, he expressed his regrets and asked how my anxiety was about it, I thanked him and told him I was managing it just fine.  And then two days later he declared his intentions.  He had always had a thing for me and hadn’t said anything out of respect for my marriage but now he had to let me know.  And then he let me know again.  And again.  Through a series of drunk texts.  I had to tell him while it was very flattering and incredibly sweet, I’m still married and not looking and besides, he couldn’t say “without a doubt” that I was the one for him because the fact of the matter is we’ve never met in real life.  And for the love of god, stop texting me at 2 in the morning.  And now I’ve had to stop talking to him, which bums me out because he’s a really nice guy.  I guess my words were just too much for him.

Anyway, the point of this ridiculous and aimless diatribe is this:

This is a book I remember reading in elementary school.  It’s also a book that’s made a profound impact on my life.  If you’ve never had the pleasure of being exposed to it, Griffin & Sabine is the first book in a trilogy that’s a romantic (gasp, I know) mystery portrayed through postcards and letters.  This isn’t going to be a book review, so I’m not going to bother running down the gripping plot for you, I’m just going to show you what the inside of the book looks like.

 

And what some of the artwork in the book looks like.

And tell you that you should go and find it and read it and buy it and love it.  You’re welcome.

I’ve managed to collect all three books in the series over the years, and it’s definitely one of my proudest displays on my bookshelf.  It’s trite but words really are so powerful.  It’s amazing how much you can evoke from a person through a few paragraphs.  I’ve already fallen for several writers I’ve read on this grand WordPressosphere based purely on the images they’ve created for me with their writing.

That’s it. No snappy ending to tie this one together.

Jitterbug

           And she cries, big salty
          alligator tears running through
          the cracks around her eyes
          and down her cheeks, pooling
          just before dripping off her
          pock-marked chin.

And she cries, nervous fingers
scratching at her neck,
collarbone, elbows, feet,
needle holes marching like
footprints down her
skeletal forearms.

          And she cries, eyebrows raising
          as he reaches for his pocket,
          rehearsed words about daughters
          and new starts on the lips
          of her mouth used for begging,
          and for other things, for her money.

And she cries, pupils scanning
across the street, down
the alley, eyes out but
mouth tumbling praises
and gratitude for one
more chance at the day.

Conversation #2

he cries
on her shoulder
wets her sleeve and
breaks her heart
soft kisses in the dark
lead to danger
muddy intentions
unspoken expectations
falling back into the trap

stupid girl
should have learned
your lesson
the last time