the m E p
august 31st in the morning
is this a period of silence?
when i say silence, i mean on the 'outside'
can i encapsulate what is going on, now?
everything that is changing within me?
my firm buns and the mountain-biking
excursion have made me old-but-young
there is nothing that will forget
my 34 years. too many photographs,
too heavy a bored mind that wants,
wants, wants. a thirst for knowledge that
is young but the depletion of subjects
has aged. trying old tricks,
to learn new things, i read, i read.
concepts fly by yet only the
of the fresh catch my feelers. and the
freshest are the wildest; the most daring.
a 43 year old mother describes her
experience on a trapeze and i am frozen,
thinking about something that was in the
margins before. somehow, that parachute
jump doesn't seem so impossible...
yet (bow head), mostly those
about us, settle. slowly dissolving into
crooks and crannies, fit or not.
and then one more thing, i keep
tauting - 'be yourself! listen to
your heart and soul! - perhaps God
knows! call it what you want! but
DO IT! know it! break free!
T H I S IS N O T
and if it was...?
tonight it's August 30th
there's alot of this going
my head these days and some of that
too. i'm wondering how cyndik is
and thinking about globalization.
tommorrow is the last August
of the century and probably no one
will mention it. the
e-mail flow will continue as normal,
danny will try to make the cluster
restore work, and i will sit around
wondering once again, what's it all
these bright orange letters;
the results of my digitization.
there is a banana bread in
washing in the washer, and some old
music on the cd player.
what can be done about parents
who give birth and raise non-free
humans? the ones who then make
choices based on media and signals
which are now coming at them from
way too many directions? listening
to their hearts is impossible with
all that noise. they may not even
know what their hearts are for...
this is a tragedy which brings
tears to my eyes: far more trist
than those who may not have comforts
of life but have their own souls in
their own hands. i live in such a
world now and touching people is
few and far between. this is what
i miss. this is what i crave.
mcWorld, i just read that
i don't want to live there.
do i want to give birth to
children who will?
millions can only read that
article: as millions will.
i know it.
August 29th 1999
the syrupy remnants of tepid italian
espresso follows thickly the ridges
at the bottom of my clay mug.
the weather outside says to
"i'm fresh and i'm clean and it's
safe to play out here"
the crappy local newspaper says:
"we don't really want to be here
any more than you do/ but we're
all stuck here ain't we?"
our hearts say: "whatever"
our husbands say, 'you know
i just figured it out. this paper
is written for our aging population'
i look around and give thanks
but still thirst for more;
my dream-mind worries
my physical self aches mostly
with remnants of keeping itself
and i feel like i am growing,
reaching, past them.
i need the challenges to come
from most directions, not all.
direction for myself;
and support from a select few.
i'm still chewing,
the inside of my cheek bleeds
the french chirping of the old
ladies outside my second-story
window doesn't sound like the city.
August 27th 1999
i'm going to write a documentary.
sitting there, in that seat with a view
on greene avenue; it looked more like
october than late august. a dead tree
outside the window as he snip snip snip
whittled and weeded my unruly mop. stuff
was blowing around out there as i sat and
idly watched the daylight disappear at
roughly the same rate as my hair.
pms still lingering, i used all known
abilities to speak polite things and smile
as prettily as possible. the darker my
view, the fewer pedestrians in the
'Westmount Square' square, and the more
mezmerizing the new-age music became and
blowdryers competed along.
but it's none of that my documentary
will be about. well not sort of, anyways.
the stark room does have large mirrors,
of course-as is only fitting in a place
of vanity.mirrors that reflect more than
images, as i listened to many a conversation
during my one and a half hour session there.
dispite that fact; it was still just one image
that i came home with. just one picture in
my mind's eye that can form an entire film.
or at least the beginnings of one.
and something crept into me at that moment
a calling of sorts-piecing together the
blaseness that comes with working for some-
one else; the words of a dear and intelligent
friend who has decided that i am a writer,
and this feeling i have deep deep down inside
that tells me that i have something to say
to the world.
a documentary about women.
but what would i tell the girls with the
bouffon hairdo once i was done?
tuesday, August 24
the rice commercial says
"think out of the box"
IT'S A DREAM FOR MOST
ONLY A DREAM...
what reminds me i'm alive
is raw meat on my plate
and how i connect with the world
is of my own choice;
at my frantic pace
in my PMS-clean place
what thoughts can i think
could free them
those placidly pacing
rhymthmically defining death
not choosing what's wrong,
not choosing at all;
what reminds me but nothing
and how they disturb me
let me count the ways-
half of what i write here,
my oposing their living death
which has come too soon
i just want for everyone to think out of the box;
perhaps even act it once in a while,
loosen the possible chains
don't expect me to smile sweetly
if i feel, if i'm strong,
don't expect me at all
watch me fall
watch me fall
friday, August 20
this svelty little head is groggy
this space between the cranial bones
thick - thick with wanting
with bordom; twice as heavy now.
what would be the point,
of seeing those two men as strangers
one tall, with reddish locks blown
about at the helm, the other stout
with an Atlanta-something grin
and a belt his wife chose before they
left for the office early this morning
staring out to sea, two,
pondering what? bound together
by merely time, and factors that
are lost between these lines,
perhaps a sort of coming home
each time they meet:
whose parents all sailed sea them-
selves for waters richer,
we sailed into the night,
each doing our own version
of wynken and blyken
as the dark horizon shone upwards to the moon
and the streaks of beaken lights shimmered
over the depths;
setting sail for the other side of the quai
we traversed many miles to get exactly to
this point, and we didn't even know the way.
"we are going
heaven knows where we are going
we will get there
heaven knows when we will get there
we know we will
it will be hard and long
and the road will be muddy and rough
but we'll get there
heaven knows how we will get there
we know we will"
learn to love for a reason,
not because she has the right hairstyle
or wants the right amount of children.
her strengths are as tall as yours;
her desires as important
and learn to seek a mate because what connects
you is out of your control; learn that just because he
prefers to take the trash out, does not mean that
he has no fears, no connection with himself
all these are possible - in fact they are all true.
the products that we see - the goatee and the
polished toe nails, these are the outside, the crust.
these are not what you shoudl be counting;
they will add up to nothing.
let love be the only guide
let passion steer your soul
throw away what separates
and hold onto what is whole
someone's got to tell them that we're all human;
caregivers, wrestlers, and politicians alike.
someone guided us to where we are now
and someone can guide us from it still
it's just difficult to be a lucky one;
and everyone else thinks that i should have
no problems. comparitively i suppose,
i might erase all of this tomorrow;
the one with the sveltly legs
something about a tan seems loving;
a bit of extra life-force blown into my skin
and here it comes, dripping out my mouth
where are we in this period of our lives,
sit, think, try to know. grab but not too hard
because looking closely makes it big
we're just being; and i say just because
being content isn't enough for us anymore
contentment went out in the seventies;
leaving us all wanting for more,
stretching ourselves into things we are not
wanting that rollarcoaster ride at every turn;
expecting the glory of childhood to return,
any moment now, it will return and all our
wordly goods won't matter anymore
and every moment will be like playing with
rodney smiley under the cherry tree
but what's up with that eh?
i cant decide if that makes me feel foolish;
angry; passionate; or complacent.
it just puts me in a space that i don't like being
makes me feel like the big child that i am.
and if i am
like i said,
i may delete some of this just as some of my thoughts
are conflicting with the postiion of the sun
and the status of the world...
buddhists appearing: in this library.
yes today is sunday, August 15
but what am i supposed to learn;
once the patterns have been set,
the integration complete, protogenes studied,
software applications specialized;
html mastered, principles of reiki administered
and rijstaffels cooked for a crowd?
which important lessons are coming,
how shall i apply, impart my knowledge now?
crossword puzzles become dull
websites fuzzy about the edges;
and laziness sets in for the long haul.
August 10 - - - was a tuesday
sometimes, i'm listening so deeply, so indiscriminately,
with so much of myself; that i think the music is mine.
it takes me where art should take you-places you didn't
know exist, places that are only real as true passion and love;
like maybe it were written for me, heck, even by me.
it's a nice feeling - but lonely in a sad way
yet private; real; and fulfilling too.
i'm just sitting here thinking peaceful thoughts.
knowing peaceful things.
sure, some discrepancies are around;
nothing is perfect,
i'm at one now. at one with you, with me,
i'm not sure everyone ever gets this feeling.
but i am sure that i'd like to share it.
to have this time is money:
to have this rest, this repose,
is pure freedom; away from racing towards more
more anything and nothing,
more of what doesn't exist.
i like it here; it reminds me of the olden days
it reminds me of Prudhomme street;
of my gold watch at the bottom of the river;
i can put love into my cauliflower soup;
into this prose;
into this song;
what would wash this freedom away,
why would i want it so?
maybe i wasn't looking,
maybe i forgot for a time,
well just maybe i'm not always perfect.
how does everyone else know when they're not
being perfect? of course; perfect for themselves,
as i feel now.
and maybe that's nothing that no richness can bring.
and maybe through tears,
that woman in the photograph also feels this;
who am i to know?
extremes bring extremes
and money flattens everything out,
flat, flat like your head.
Pat Conroy wrote:
"I alternated between cooking and weeping and I prayed
for the repose
of the soul of my sad, hurt wife. I suffered, I grieved, I broke down, and I
cooked fabulous meals for those who came to comfort me.
It was only a short time after we buried Shyla that her parents sued me
for custody of my child, Leah, and their lawsuit brought me running back
into the real world. I spent a dispiriting year in court trying to prove my
fitness as a father. It was a time when I met a series of reptilian lawyers
so unscrupulous that I would not have used their marrow to feed wild
dogs or their wiry flesh to bait a crab pot. Shyla's mother and father had
gone crazy with grief and I learned much about the power of scapegoating
by watching their quiet hatred of me as they grimaced through the testimony
regarding my sanity, my finances, my reputation in the community, and my
sexual life with their eldest child."
-Beach Music copyright 1995
On August 7th it is raining and i am writing this...
gray hazy skies above dreamydreams inside; some badones some good;
the new coffee is creamier today; rich as it's nutty and chocolate overtones
slip passed the three different types of taste buds and into the undulating
folds of the HCL-lined stomach
slowly clarity comes to this little poot's brain
slowly images of a dreamworld slip by - one half dreamlike; the other
i suppose when i'm asleep i'm just as much me as when i'm awake; so the pretty
dream doesn't worry me but the ugly one really does... i'll let the caffeine take over now...
the grey shaped mug is empty.
the creamy substance, only a few millilitres left, is swirled about and covers the
bottom of the hand-made mug like paint now. paint that is the color of nothing,
really; save coffee, that rich rich substance we sell and trade like gold, naturally
containing a substance which alerts our senses, but wait just a secoond...
i don't feel alert just now. my fingers are moving but my brain is still lost in dream-
land.... but one doesn't pour seconds of t h i s stuff... little grin
when i was a 'child' i recorded stuff; everything i could,
actually, for a few brief
moments each day. i did not have my own radio, but sat next to my sister's
clock radio, with a small beige plastic box that someone had given me,
containing blank index cards, from the days
when people used index cards. and each
night, i sat, listening to my favorite radio
station and DJ whom i all- but idolized,
and stamped an index card with my date-stamper,
and wrote in my little paper diaries. i don't know
how long i actually sat there; or what else i did
while sitting. perhaps no one will ever know,
but there i sat, collecting with all my senses,
and recording for a moment in time, exactly
that second, that song playing on the radio, those feelings and sensations
i had for those few moments..... i did not know why i did that, i did not know
for whom.... but i am still doing it and still without knowing for whom or for why...
On August 5, 1999, this is what I am writing right now:
so although i merely w a d e thru
life; really, it's true, wading only-
for my own standards ... i now e n j o y the level of security i face
each day and i still f a n t a s i z e about being reckless, eccentric
and even l o n e l y ...
of course maybe i really am these things/who will ever tell....
I DID NOT THINK OF ANYTHING TO WRITE ON THE WAY TO WORK TODAY
OR DID I
i think i hit the caps lock there... by mistake ... did i get sleepy
cause now i'm yawning and thinking of cyndik again - i'm thinking of cyndik
again is it because she has the same name as cindy-wee-wee-whyte?
or BBBecause she thinks she lives she gets happy she gets angry
hurt bruised even scarred - or because she makes me feel like living like
getting angry too and and and makes us look at things makes us LOOK
thank you for making us look cyndik
"i think i love you"
I think I love you so what am I so afraid of?
I'm afraid that I'm not sure of
a love there is no cure for.
I think I love you -
isn't that what life is made of?
On August 3, 1999, this is what I wrote:
"There are some extremes on television. There are extremely romatic
made of Titanic Juices, appealing to any romatic from any time or place -
a proper girl jumps of a carriage into the mud in defiance of her 'supposing'
to be catching the eye of a proper man; when it was really the boot-shiner s
he's after - since afterall, love knows no bounds...
and then , and then television takes a one-eighty
when the laugh track has been architected in such a way as to force people to
continue laughing, long after the laugh. digitally mastering the thing so as to define
what is funny, and not merely to emulate it. searching through the other 'real' life,
looking for signs of what happens when something is really funny; crafty, really,
and then designing the laugh track and placing it into a section of the program
which might have mustered a chuckle; now made hilarious and even changing
peolpe's ideas of what is funny, as they'll discuss it over their cubicles the next day...
"did you see..."
both of these practices; brilliant in their own right and highly telling of this tool.
and since when does a sitcom know so well what goes on in the bedrooms
of regular people-people in love? and you think i'm being sarcastic but
i'm not. they really do
know, and i don't know how. again - perhaps this is the brilliance that shines through
and these romantic country-side scenes in a rolling farmland with the
clip-clop of the
carraige? do they make me feel warm all over because i have ever known such a
life? i don't think so; of course, i haven't, nor have most of you. is tv merely tapping
into some primitive desire we all have to live in the countryside? i don't think so.
so what's up with that, anyways, she was thinking as she watched this made-for-tv
movie? . . . the movies have told me that that scenario is lovely and peaceful and
therefore desirable... the movies have created that place and those feelings and
even the emotions they evoke...and does the movie care why i feel this way?
heck no, that's why it's a movie. that is what movies do silly, they create the fairytale:
they create the setting; the idyllic scenery; they don't care why or how it makes me
feel mushy inside and warm all over... and then, there is the idea that the warm all
over feeling i get when i watch this opening scene of this movie was actually
created by the movies. and that is the part that people accept. and perhaps rightly
so, who am i to say that is not right. it's just a little scary, that's all.
i'm off to the beach today. i'll try to put these late-night thoughts
i'll mingle and maybe even hit a volleyball;
i'm happy that i don't have to stare a server in the face today,
wasn't in the mood anyways.
the sun is shining brightly now, and the dishes scattered in the kitchen.
an important conversation passed last night - sometimes, at those crucial
moments, we just meld on a topic more than he knows how much.
there seems to be tragedies in this summer, so i'm praying and really doing so,
since my parents confirmed how prayer works. and maybe as we sit around with
more time to pray, things will come into focus again as they have begun to do since,
well since, that's all.
because i really wonder things like - well crazy things, i guess. not
crazy. i guess we all wonder cray things every now and then.