the    m E p

        . . . . . . . . . . . .. september 98

      the colder months are arriving, yet one by one

      the sky outside my window, just there above the crispy clear outline of the waving tops of the campground trees, is that dreamy-washed-blue with the sun's orange hue clinging to that last light of the day...
      -for td

      september 30 1998

      at eight-thirty the flickering glow outside the front window is the neighbors tv.
      it becomes ours, this place. another set of rooms slowly becomes us.
      i watched myself from the other room, with a pen in my hand
      but i still had to transform the sentances.

      as i watch myself growing away from my center, it feels as though i am.
      i'm accepting get-rich quick schemes for my soul food, and my arms tire
      from the endless grasping of the centrifugal.

      angst, angst, and more angst.
      i can't wait until tomorrow ends.

      september 28 1998

      inspired by Rose's hamper, i have aimed at the bottom of the barrel. could it be explained, the magnitude of differences at work? or perhaps all i see is her inability to understand the disorder in which we call our lifestream.and yet i have no proof of this.

      no, no proof. for this nor any of what i believe in deeply.
      i needn't proof unless i question it.
      but i do.

      my illness notwithstanding,
      this inertia is what i need.
      it hasn't left my brow less wrinkled;
      my cropped hair still rough as my hands attempt to move it where it will not stay.
      pretty pink orange and blue things are mine;
      i was not conscious of accumulating them;
      nor all the objects in this place.
      they are merely part of me.

      i cannot keep a wrapped towel around my chest.

      i'm reaching; with the minute self respect and energy remaining, i'm reaching out. few can hear me.
      me included.

      chips ahoy and throat coat do not compliment one another. the dicotomy there shan't surprise me. the rot i feel is real. spray that windex; load that load;
      scrub until there's nothing left to call dirt.
      the anger is there still. her shoulders tight
      she reaches toward a whole new world,
      but has become someone who cannot let go;

      september 26 1998

      what is this santa monica

      where seashells sparkle and dreams are made of

      where only the lonely really know

      and the ashphalt, sweating with exhaust

      survives the illusions;

      what is this ship

      which we humans built of chains and toil

      breathed life for but a moment

      in time;

      we plow ahead

      as life only knows how to do

      as creatures of survival


      and eternal hope

      are all that drive us now.

      are all we have ever known,

      is not what it is

      when you know it

      and only our dreams are real

      o n l y     our      d r e a m s

      september 23 1998

      songs outmode themselves
      (insert song here)
      or they were never true-
      (why can't every day be just like christmas)

      but they always remain true in someone's heart -
      and mine.

      teetering between happy and headachey
      i'm avoiding the obvious,
      feeling extremely angst in the shoulders;
      and basically trying to keep the death fears away.

      file save
      file save
      file save

      september 22 1998

      "you'll never know just how"

      caring in the shadows of surviving,of late,
      i will form some sentances dispite any real ability to sink into a feeling. numbed by who knows what, some might blame the rays from this very box, and i'm quite convinced that what i refer to is caused by me. that part i know. no one likes it; and in the process, i am left feeling less than alive.

      odd dreams following me around; the both in the woods, one less disturbing. in a shelter of sorts, laying beside chantal to my left and ? on my right, we weren't actually cold, but it was night at times.

      centrally PMSing, there isn't much i see that pleases me. the kitchen is cleaner than clean, dispite a very whirlwind dinner for six of four courses and lots of wild mushrooms, and the only comfort i take is how i will feel when it is over. i'm never a man hater, but what modern medicine puts up with is clearly governed by men. if only pms was constructive, instead.

      let's wish it so; and finish the bancha.

      september 13 1998

      just sitting here juxtaposing the 'mundane and the metaphyscial', watching what is around me go up and down. my own self, still managing to find things to regret regretting; or shall i say learn lessons about. i don't ever think i wanted to hurt anyone but being too self-imposed can end up causing the same results. ultimately, i have very little understanding of what it's like to be someone else. i may have problems with it, but i'm still the best me i know.

      being me and watching out for me being me are a handful.

      don a sunny september morn, the whrr of the CPU is louder than the closed door. louder than the the twinkling leaves of the maples, and louder than my heartburn, but not extinguished by my regret.

      yes, it's a fine line we travel; the road that takes us straight to where we are going and the path which meanders under the light of a God. when it's all you can do to stop trying to be yourself; that wonderful combination of Xs we all can dispise, or adore. and when, oh when, will the great birth of day come that allows me my laurels and affords me my faults in a way that instantly i can re-ice the prize-winning cake and nobody even notices.

      here, i reboot.

          "oh i don't love anybody else
          when i think about you
          i touch myself-"
          B.Steinberg, T.Kelly, C.Amphlett, M.McEntee

      later sept.9th

      dealing with things as i drive the decarie. going over in my mind, how real or not are these web-friends. we've been through this once before. flesh and bone yes, and also maybe very twice-removed in mindstates. as in the zero to one perspective; but staring into this monitor makes it worse; i know it does. i get to face everything now.
      the small red car turns left through two valid lanes;
      the old grey car cuts quickly in front of the shiny green mercedez;
      funky music on the CBC;
      a blue jetta wants out of the parking lane and the good looking guy in the black sportscar rolls his eyes before she cuts in front of me with a 'thank you nod' although i did nothing;
      there's a man in a spiffy suit running for all he's worth;
      and then two more pushing a stalled car off to one side;
      finally a woman in a long straight beige skirt runs again, in the same direction as the funky music drifts away...
      this is life around me on a 3 kilometer stretch home.
      if i couldn't observe it, i couldn't be.
      if i had a movie camera, i would make a film.
      our lives, our days, either part of, or outside of, what is around us.
      dealing on the decarie.

      i suppose you could say that without this box i am left with myself; facing music a mite discordant. you might also say with it i hold a selectively reflective and somewhat broken mirror. those are the untouched secrets - what graeme would call 'darkest deepest', of which some people have none. in this case the time spent here is reflective, open, and lying. to that i will attest.

      "in horoscopes in true romance and playboy magazine
      we lie in bed at night and search the pages for our dreams

      why do we stay together
      we can't wait forever
      ever's too late
      only heaven can wait

      waiting for love won't make it happen
      crying for love don't mean you care
      only when love has ended,
      can our heart be mended
      ever's to late
      only heaven can wait for love"

      -r.flack and e. mercury

      september 9 1998

      i sit and relish a last few moments - freedom? not really. hearty exchanges, and the memory of them, warming my soul.
      a friend of ours, truly a kindred spirit, or for some other reason, his presence a gift.

      monday for me
      wednesday for you
      shall i bull in or wane through the doors?

      to Russia with love, let's look at what we have here. i suppose one could call it embarrassing. i will hang my head, and spend a few pensive moments looking around herself;
      does this machine haunt or help me
      i have but no comparison.

      september 8 1998

      i ran 3 kilometers.

      reminicsing over the weekend about a skiing accident in 1981 where i broke my collarbone, i realize now that i broke something else that day. rampant lack of fear.

      there have been other lessons taught to me, some recent others more distant now. i did learn from these, each incident changing me forever. yes, my life has been relatively easy, but who's to say not without pitfalls any?

      assuming life is easy, can be hard.

      september 7 1998

      after you go, your surroundings are viewed more objectively. reading the LCBO FREE food and wine magazine after shopping in their cheaper store, i am infuriated that this province has such little accountability. only 'we' put up with a comparatively inferior quality of so many things. a populus seemingly apathetic, and ignorant to the 'normal' offshoots of real commercialism. uninterested? or other things on our minds? i doubt it. bucking the trend by bucking the trend? unlikely.

      are we missing something? is there enough beauty in buying beer at every corner store? (i kid not here nor is that question rhetorical)

      it doesn't matter how much we complain about our license plates, though. we may very well be the only ones who see what we do. that is the crucial painfulness of it all, stuck inside of this home together, alone.

      september 1 1998

      pervade what you can with 'you'.
      let enough energy surround you
      and stop, once or twice, to think.

      nearly tiny tears this morning;
      the nostalgia from that place builds. it was real. the street names which now are only words on the web, so close but so far. and the faces i remember still face,

      but a crisp newness is in the air,
      the decarie rumbles in the morning still, and japanese things begin to surround me now. pleasantly i float around over and above my new static mapping.
      *polite smile*

      happy september, blessed be you.
      "you are the only you
      you are the best you
      you will always be the second best anyone else"
      -Leo Buscaglia, rest his soul.

      again, quoting;

      "and this is precisely what the way of tea has to offer the world, namely, how to transform daily tasks which most people consider drudgery into beautiful expressions of concern for others. In the way of tea this type of transformation is not restricted just to the making or serving of tea, but it can spill over into all of one's daily actions and transform the entire day. The making of a bed, the folding of laundry, walking down stairs, driving a car to work -- instead of racing through these actions with the mind -- set of simply getting them done, savor them as present moments which contain hidden riches, and do them in the most beautiful way. Do them not from egotistical motives of self fulfillment, but rather as gifts to the world that express to those you meet that you really want to present the best to them."

            -Brother Joseph Keenan, Ph.D.,FSC

      and that, is what the mEp is all about.


The Afternoon Glow  is   b i r g h t e n i n g   the  b a m b o o s
the   f o u n t a i n s   are   b u b b l i n g  with d e l i g h t;
the   s o u g h i n g  of   the  p i n e s   is   heard  in  our  k e t t le
Let   us   d r e a m   of   e v a n s c e n c e
and L i n g e r  in the   b e a u t i f u l   f o o l i s h n e s s  of  t h i n g s

-taken from 'The Cup of Humanity'