All of them bumps and bones, beautiful boulders, all of them stones. The sleet and slab, the crunch & munch, all of these crackheads near our homes. Scars and scabs, shit and spit, I’ve seen the dance plenty of times before: the swaying, the pulling, the grasping, the scratching—the glare of those red-capped eyes. To me it’s mid-afternoon…to him it’s still the dead of night. I aimed to avoid any type of confrontation with this nontoucher staggering up the centre of the back-alley’s path—his mind, no doubt, choking on the white clouds in the sky. The beamers are all over this city. We’re no strangers to that. Perhaps he’d just been back to back with his bag bride in the underground garage…who knew? The twitching of his tweak he can keep to himself.
White ball white ghost white sugar white tornado, the groaning the moaning the retching the screaming, eyes closed head tilted mouth open, home at long last from his interplanetary mission.
Prior to this I had been irritated to tears by all the crazed aliens in the local grocery store. Never cross Broadway, I keep telling myself, but there are mornings one tends to get lazy. There is a hefty price for that free parking spot.
He dipped suddenly to the concrete, distracted by a pebble, or filter of a cigarette. Henpicking for whatever they might have dropped the night before. I was able to pass unnoticed, relieved no johns had occupied the spot in my absence. I parked and began my struggle with all seven bags to the back door. Mere caution added haste to my steps. There was a diver in my dumpster and I did not want to share. But like a raccoon scrounging in the bushes he grunted his acknowledgment, and with one swooping motion out of the bin he started directly at me.
With bags of food and drink hanging off my wrists, panic crept upwards as the handle to the door would not turn. The lock was stuck and the diver staggered his dance my way. His eyes were fixated on me, his teeth were showing, his hands stretched out front. This was, indeed, the same dope fiend I thought I had left behind. And he was on a mission.
The door gave just in time and I stumbled through with my entire stash. Wanting to be nowhere near the next crack attack, I kicked the door shut to no avail—there is no house fee here. It bounced off his shoulders. The chase was on. He was hefty, strong, a lot bigger than me, purging a lifetime of unforgivable memories, introducing me to his nightmare. I climbed up the three flights, as fast as I could, careful not to drop anything—him right behind me, zombified, tripping on the steps, slamming against the walls.
He followed me to my front door. My heart pounding against my chest, sweat on my chin. I dropped the bags, fumbled with my keys, him just a couple feet away. He then fell straight to the floor and lay there. Motionless. I threw the groceries into my suite and watched for a moment before he finally stirred, lifted himself and began to crawl.
Carpet patrol right at my front door.
He picked himself up with one big heave, leveled himself against the wall. Drool oozed from his mouth. I straightened myself, no longer afraid, prepared to take him on. The binger teetered right past me.
“The devil made me blind.”
Beam me up Scottie.
All of those crumbs on the welcome mat, all of those apple jacks and French fries, the biscuits, the rocks of hell, all the beautiful boulders in the halls. The latest addition to our building had just made his entrance. Meet your new neighbor. Crackhead Bob. Now living directly next door.
Ldm
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Just the Luck of the Draw
Just the other night, Jo, a once-was shy girl in her late 20s, decided to bleach her hair platinum so it would resemble the fur of her beloved poodle, Carl. The next morning, she added a bright pink faux-hawk to the mix, and with the leftover dye she gave the unsuspecting pup a similar bright pink pooch-hawk. Together they meandered up the drive and ‘never-minded’ all the people around them. The people were nothing but distraction. Her and Carl were the only two that mattered. Just a girl and her boy walking side by side, water and biscuits in tow, sun in their eyes.
Frustrated from a horrible date and eager to get home one evening, Jo found an abandoned Carl as she took a shortcut over the railroad tracks. She stuck him in her basket and peddled him to suite 712, his secret new home in the Wylland Estates. Upon giving him a bath, Jo had made the important distinction that not one man in this city deserves her. “All any girl wants from a male is appreciation,” she told the lathered dog before spraying him with warm water. His ears pricked up in response and later that night he took guard at the foot of her bed and instantly won over her adoration.
Jo had tried everything. She’d frequented countless singles-nights at countless bars with countless girlfriends. She had placed several profiles on several websites with several pictures. She had gone out with the brother of so-and-so’s brothers’ stepbrother’s brother-in-law’s wife’s brother on a few occasions too many. She had picked apart each man she met. Some were already engaged. Some men spat obsessively; others matched her one beer with five of their own. She had met men who had just been released from prison, were just about to enter prison, or had just escaped from, most likely, the same prison. One man brought his mother with him. Another arrived at the restaurant wearing diapers. It was just the luck of the draw. Dating had become an exhausting chore.
Men were now no longer a priority and Jo took immediate action to reconnect. She designed two more tattoos, one for her shoulder the other for her forearm. She stopped starving herself and rediscovered food. She took piano lessons and wrote songs about freedom. And she took Carl on long Sunday afternoon walks during which he would lead her to a park of his choice where she would read out-loud to the pup as he napped. Today was no different, and it was upon finishing a chapter in her book about Richard Dawkins that she finally noticed Carl was not laying at her side as usual. Instead he was sitting in the lap of the man who sat cross-legged before her. Where he had come from did not matter, what intrigued her was his dyed-blue hair and orange-flamed faux-hawk.
He introduced himself as Merv and asked if Carl was Darwin’s Rottweiler. She offered mercy with a slight chuckle, but the poodle, with a strange whimper, rolled over and exposed his tummy. Merv responded with his fingers and palm and it dawned on Jo that the dog was possibly trying to communicate and so she politely, although reluctantly, accepted the offer for a glass of wine. Nothing more. Just one glass.
So they sat in the sun at a patio with a glass of red each and watched as the crowds passed by. Somebody somewhere was strumming for coin at a storefront and his song traveled over all the conversations it longed to silence. A glass of Spanish, as per her request, and when he asked why it was because when she was a little girl her dad flew her to a winery outside of Seville to meet her grandparents. A memory she’ll always hold dear.
It was at this point that he brought up his favourite hobby. He was even bold enough to stroke her hand as he joyfully explained his enjoyment of parking nearby the airport for hours on end, sometimes in the evenings directly after work. Just him, some Patsy Cline, a large sandwich and his trusty little video camera, bonding night after night in anticipation of something wonderful to happen.
He wasn’t chasing UFOs. He didn’t believe in such nonsense. He was looking to be a hero! It is bound to happen, he explained. Eventually a plane will have a faulty landing. It’ll veer off the runway, straight into the sea, or it will crash into another object, catch on fire. Or maybe even blow up before it reaches the tarmac! Eventually a disaster will capture the nation’s attention and he will be there, just him and Patsy—the only two attentive to the tragedy, and he will have caught it all on tape. On digital! And all the newspapers and all the news stations, as well as the authorities and investigators and government officials—they will all know his name! He will be awarded for his dedication. He will march in the city’s parade. People on the street will recognize and follow him with television cameras. He will be a celebrity. They will invite him on talk shows and he’ll portray his image as an enigma. An artist. And there will be books written about him. Movies made about him. In schools students will study him. Was he a prophet? Did he see it in a dream? Or was he part of a well-entwined conspiracy? Oh yes, he’d been planning this for years now! How much longer does he have to wait? How will he spend his money? What islands will he buy? And most importantly, is Jo willing to come along for the ride?
The guitarist on the sidewalk must have torn his string as the only sound that anyone on the patio heard came from underneath the table. Carl, who had been hiding in the shade, obviously ate too much grass and gagged all over Merv’s shoes.
Jo excused herself and picked up the pace a bit on the way home. She stopped to get a movie and a donair and didn’t share a single piece with her dog. Instead, she curled her lip at him with each sideways glance. Carl lagged a bit behind, head held low to the concrete, ashamed by his awful judgment at his first attempt to reconnect his mom with the men of their city.
Ldm
Frustrated from a horrible date and eager to get home one evening, Jo found an abandoned Carl as she took a shortcut over the railroad tracks. She stuck him in her basket and peddled him to suite 712, his secret new home in the Wylland Estates. Upon giving him a bath, Jo had made the important distinction that not one man in this city deserves her. “All any girl wants from a male is appreciation,” she told the lathered dog before spraying him with warm water. His ears pricked up in response and later that night he took guard at the foot of her bed and instantly won over her adoration.
Jo had tried everything. She’d frequented countless singles-nights at countless bars with countless girlfriends. She had placed several profiles on several websites with several pictures. She had gone out with the brother of so-and-so’s brothers’ stepbrother’s brother-in-law’s wife’s brother on a few occasions too many. She had picked apart each man she met. Some were already engaged. Some men spat obsessively; others matched her one beer with five of their own. She had met men who had just been released from prison, were just about to enter prison, or had just escaped from, most likely, the same prison. One man brought his mother with him. Another arrived at the restaurant wearing diapers. It was just the luck of the draw. Dating had become an exhausting chore.
Men were now no longer a priority and Jo took immediate action to reconnect. She designed two more tattoos, one for her shoulder the other for her forearm. She stopped starving herself and rediscovered food. She took piano lessons and wrote songs about freedom. And she took Carl on long Sunday afternoon walks during which he would lead her to a park of his choice where she would read out-loud to the pup as he napped. Today was no different, and it was upon finishing a chapter in her book about Richard Dawkins that she finally noticed Carl was not laying at her side as usual. Instead he was sitting in the lap of the man who sat cross-legged before her. Where he had come from did not matter, what intrigued her was his dyed-blue hair and orange-flamed faux-hawk.
He introduced himself as Merv and asked if Carl was Darwin’s Rottweiler. She offered mercy with a slight chuckle, but the poodle, with a strange whimper, rolled over and exposed his tummy. Merv responded with his fingers and palm and it dawned on Jo that the dog was possibly trying to communicate and so she politely, although reluctantly, accepted the offer for a glass of wine. Nothing more. Just one glass.
So they sat in the sun at a patio with a glass of red each and watched as the crowds passed by. Somebody somewhere was strumming for coin at a storefront and his song traveled over all the conversations it longed to silence. A glass of Spanish, as per her request, and when he asked why it was because when she was a little girl her dad flew her to a winery outside of Seville to meet her grandparents. A memory she’ll always hold dear.
It was at this point that he brought up his favourite hobby. He was even bold enough to stroke her hand as he joyfully explained his enjoyment of parking nearby the airport for hours on end, sometimes in the evenings directly after work. Just him, some Patsy Cline, a large sandwich and his trusty little video camera, bonding night after night in anticipation of something wonderful to happen.
He wasn’t chasing UFOs. He didn’t believe in such nonsense. He was looking to be a hero! It is bound to happen, he explained. Eventually a plane will have a faulty landing. It’ll veer off the runway, straight into the sea, or it will crash into another object, catch on fire. Or maybe even blow up before it reaches the tarmac! Eventually a disaster will capture the nation’s attention and he will be there, just him and Patsy—the only two attentive to the tragedy, and he will have caught it all on tape. On digital! And all the newspapers and all the news stations, as well as the authorities and investigators and government officials—they will all know his name! He will be awarded for his dedication. He will march in the city’s parade. People on the street will recognize and follow him with television cameras. He will be a celebrity. They will invite him on talk shows and he’ll portray his image as an enigma. An artist. And there will be books written about him. Movies made about him. In schools students will study him. Was he a prophet? Did he see it in a dream? Or was he part of a well-entwined conspiracy? Oh yes, he’d been planning this for years now! How much longer does he have to wait? How will he spend his money? What islands will he buy? And most importantly, is Jo willing to come along for the ride?
The guitarist on the sidewalk must have torn his string as the only sound that anyone on the patio heard came from underneath the table. Carl, who had been hiding in the shade, obviously ate too much grass and gagged all over Merv’s shoes.
Jo excused herself and picked up the pace a bit on the way home. She stopped to get a movie and a donair and didn’t share a single piece with her dog. Instead, she curled her lip at him with each sideways glance. Carl lagged a bit behind, head held low to the concrete, ashamed by his awful judgment at his first attempt to reconnect his mom with the men of their city.
Ldm
Monday, July 30, 2007
how hard had he hit
Such a sad guy here in the shop, lined up for coffee with the rest of us lot, quiet and handsome and lonely at his lips, acknowledging rejection with a sigh before he sips. We see him each day crossing from the Estates, as we holler of politics and slam their hands on our plates. We watched as he fell on his face on the walk. We salute as he stands and picks himself up from the block. His heart has been torn his mind has been worn… His passion was loud for the man who had bound his love at the wrists--those feelings--he took them risks! And he wouldn’t dare try to ever deny that there was nothing to gain, even though from Her he must now abstain.
Sheer desperation as he imagines him in the crowds--in the line-ups--at the bicycle mounds. All around there are others, but…they don’t walk the same…they don’t speak his name…they don’t melt the rain. They don’t scorch his flame. The heart is still creaking—full of love and ache; he obsesses of that moment; that hunger one could never fake: that very first kiss which spoke of stories from afar, spinning volumes, burning down your door!
He was served with the book of changes—brought together to reconnect with their minds. Such a short time and meant to inform of so many stages—quite the treasure this excellent find.
Those tiny Ts, the big arms bulging, the tight ripped jeans, the blue eyes indulging and black n’ white and gray all around, nobody came so close to poetry with each muttered sound. And so lined up for coffee with the rest of us lot, our sad guy here in our lovely little shop, quiet and handsome and lonely as he sips, suddenly forms a smile with those tenderly chapped lips. As a friend and once lover, as a buddy-turned-brother, his bittersweet pleasure upon conceding that: Love--She is endless… and Love--She’s a treasure… allows his soul to drift—to lift—to infinity, the universe’s indomitable gift.
Ldm
Sheer desperation as he imagines him in the crowds--in the line-ups--at the bicycle mounds. All around there are others, but…they don’t walk the same…they don’t speak his name…they don’t melt the rain. They don’t scorch his flame. The heart is still creaking—full of love and ache; he obsesses of that moment; that hunger one could never fake: that very first kiss which spoke of stories from afar, spinning volumes, burning down your door!
He was served with the book of changes—brought together to reconnect with their minds. Such a short time and meant to inform of so many stages—quite the treasure this excellent find.
Those tiny Ts, the big arms bulging, the tight ripped jeans, the blue eyes indulging and black n’ white and gray all around, nobody came so close to poetry with each muttered sound. And so lined up for coffee with the rest of us lot, our sad guy here in our lovely little shop, quiet and handsome and lonely as he sips, suddenly forms a smile with those tenderly chapped lips. As a friend and once lover, as a buddy-turned-brother, his bittersweet pleasure upon conceding that: Love--She is endless… and Love--She’s a treasure… allows his soul to drift—to lift—to infinity, the universe’s indomitable gift.
Ldm
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Fire the Grid
Around the corner, just a few blocks north of 1st, I met a woman outside my favourite deli. I had taken my time strolling up the drive, stepping my feet to the rhythm of the various beats, when my headphone suddenly slipped out of its ear just in time for her words to resonate above the city noise I drowned out.
“It is my intention to speak the truth!”
She referred to my headphones—that my smile was what grabbed her intrigue. That the music was contributing to my happiness—that I’ve already accomplished step three!
I hadn’t noticed there was a smile on my face. Normally when I walk I am fairly subdued. However, I did investigate the tattoo on her forearm of a snake eating its own tail. It is a return to an ancient tribal mentality, she explained, where nobody goes hungry and everybody gets cared for. She told me we must return to our ancient knowledge in order to move forward.
Move forward!
Her name was Simoa and a few years back she had drowned with her son in her car when it veered into a lake. Messengers came to her and gave her a plan and in turn she became our catalyst for change.
I listened intently as she spoke clearly and confidently of angels and aliens, science and medicine, God and the Self… She spoke of her child; cradling him underwater in her car, spoke of the voices and the life she helped save. She gave word to the three ways each of us can fire our grid: random acts of kindness, gratitude, and the music that makes us heal! “Write down the cause of your joy! Embrace it as you own the right to do!” She reassured us there are enough resources in the world for everyone to share. That the global council will oversee the building of communities getting what they need. She asked: what do you have to lose on taking the chance of finding your joy for just one hour? The energy will be showered on top of us all. Millions and millions of us blazing the way to change! What do you have to lose when you realize there is no suffering! No more pain! That sin is a concept created by man.
Her story was power that dozens of us were drawn forth to hear. No longer just a self-proclaimed prophet with a doubtful spiel, the longer she spoke the more the message became clear. Energy. For centuries now we have been living in misery brought on by fear. State and religion both had chewed us up and taught us to forget to embrace pleasure…love…gratitude…. Positive thought.
Make no room for negativity. Positive thought is powerful thought!
Here I assumed it’d be another ordinary day, but soon realized that nothing is ever boring on the street on which I live. Mothers and their small children, men with their dogs, twenty-somethings on their bikes or skateboards, elderly couples and teenagers alike, men and women on motorcycles, tourists with coffee cups, more people stood and nodded their heads while Simoa reminded us all that we still have free will to think.
“Be the change you want to see. Change it! A new earth. A new frequency. A new humanity! Do you want to change things?”
Channel the positive and only that, so easy and primal, influential and in desperate need.
Trust only self-empowerment! Bury sin in its own womb. Spread the word and repeat: I am going to help make change. I want the world to improve.
I am going to help make change.
I want the world to improve.
www.firethegrid.org
Ldm
“It is my intention to speak the truth!”
She referred to my headphones—that my smile was what grabbed her intrigue. That the music was contributing to my happiness—that I’ve already accomplished step three!
I hadn’t noticed there was a smile on my face. Normally when I walk I am fairly subdued. However, I did investigate the tattoo on her forearm of a snake eating its own tail. It is a return to an ancient tribal mentality, she explained, where nobody goes hungry and everybody gets cared for. She told me we must return to our ancient knowledge in order to move forward.
Move forward!
Her name was Simoa and a few years back she had drowned with her son in her car when it veered into a lake. Messengers came to her and gave her a plan and in turn she became our catalyst for change.
I listened intently as she spoke clearly and confidently of angels and aliens, science and medicine, God and the Self… She spoke of her child; cradling him underwater in her car, spoke of the voices and the life she helped save. She gave word to the three ways each of us can fire our grid: random acts of kindness, gratitude, and the music that makes us heal! “Write down the cause of your joy! Embrace it as you own the right to do!” She reassured us there are enough resources in the world for everyone to share. That the global council will oversee the building of communities getting what they need. She asked: what do you have to lose on taking the chance of finding your joy for just one hour? The energy will be showered on top of us all. Millions and millions of us blazing the way to change! What do you have to lose when you realize there is no suffering! No more pain! That sin is a concept created by man.
Her story was power that dozens of us were drawn forth to hear. No longer just a self-proclaimed prophet with a doubtful spiel, the longer she spoke the more the message became clear. Energy. For centuries now we have been living in misery brought on by fear. State and religion both had chewed us up and taught us to forget to embrace pleasure…love…gratitude…. Positive thought.
Make no room for negativity. Positive thought is powerful thought!
Here I assumed it’d be another ordinary day, but soon realized that nothing is ever boring on the street on which I live. Mothers and their small children, men with their dogs, twenty-somethings on their bikes or skateboards, elderly couples and teenagers alike, men and women on motorcycles, tourists with coffee cups, more people stood and nodded their heads while Simoa reminded us all that we still have free will to think.
“Be the change you want to see. Change it! A new earth. A new frequency. A new humanity! Do you want to change things?”
Channel the positive and only that, so easy and primal, influential and in desperate need.
Trust only self-empowerment! Bury sin in its own womb. Spread the word and repeat: I am going to help make change. I want the world to improve.
I am going to help make change.
I want the world to improve.
www.firethegrid.org
Ldm
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
tuesday
In suite 513, a man named Gordon sat at his dining room table opening that day’s mail. Without checking the envelope he began reading aloud a letter to his captive audience, a ten-week old boxer named Monty. The puppy sat in the middle of the room, ears perked up, listening attentively. Immediately, Gordon realized that the letter was delivered to him accidentally and should have gone to a neighbor instead, but as he had nothing else to read, he carried on regardless, amused by the scribble.
This is what Monty heard:
Hi Jake,
It’s been a weird day. I couldn’t have predicted this. Initially, I wanted to spend the evening having dinner then checking out that flick with Alan, since he’s in town, but… he never got back to me. I guess he’s busy with his dad. So then I figured since I had the evening free I’d just go to the gym, come home and watch my meditation tapes…two months behind… Well! Talking to Jack earlier in the day, he brought up that we should drink wine and finally get working on our project! That sounded perfect! Move forward…no matter what! So. I get home, eager to get stared, and what happens? I have a flat tire. How irritating! I know how to change my tire and I try, but my iron seems too small. I bike it to the hardware store and the guy argues with me then tries to sell me some ninety-dollar wrench! Not what I want. Finally it occurs to me that I should have called the roadside assistance program I pay for each month!! He comes and pulls my hubcap off with no effort and turns my bolts. Damn it. I could’ve done that! I felt foolish. But in the end Jack and I finally worked on the project! This truly was the beginning of everything we’ve talked about for months now…in one of the most fucked up days of the year. It seems it’s meant to be that way. Emotionally, I’ve been all over the place today. In my last letter I mentioned that… guy to you… We are sort of in a limbo state and I don’t know what I should be feeling. Grief? Or hope? Either way, I know in my gut it will work out for the best, but like I said…I’m not done with him. Can him and I be ‘just’ friends? I don’t know. This is a first for me.
Now it’s pushing midnight. I’m trying to take your advice to sleep more, but it never seems the case. Jack’s left and I am drunk and trying to get my laundry done, but it seems everyone in the building has decided to wash their clothes tonight. Maybe it’s some sort of purge brought on by the moon? Saturn? By Jupiter, that wonderful planet which keeps promising such exciting things…? Who knows? Sometimes I wish I really could place responsibility on astrology, or outer space…for the things I feel, and the things I say, and the things I do….
…the thoughts that fuck up my mind.
In the morning, I now must take my car in to get the tire repaired. Once again I have to get up early and be at the shop before work. This is something I definitely could not have foreseen, and definitely something that cuts into my plan of getting a sound sleep, something that seems to have been lacking for weeks now. How am I ever to make sense of anything this way? Times like this, I really wish I had a good cuss in our foreign tongue! Fuck! What am I to do? I can’t tell you, Jake, how much I am looking forward to unemployment….
And all I really want, of course, is for a certain someone to call. Just to say ‘hi.’ Just to shoot the breeze for a bit and show me he does actually think of me in the middle of the night.
Alas! Such is not so. I know he’s busy tonight anyway. I must dry these wine-stained tears and sign my name before those voices leave me convinced love is nothing but a tragic curse.
I’ll never get any sleep then!
Till next time,
Your ‘wounded’ cousin…
Gordon looked up from the letter and stared straight ahead. Only after a few minutes was he interrupted from his thoughts by the buzzer. Someone was at the door and he rose to find out whom.
Ldm
This is what Monty heard:
Hi Jake,
It’s been a weird day. I couldn’t have predicted this. Initially, I wanted to spend the evening having dinner then checking out that flick with Alan, since he’s in town, but… he never got back to me. I guess he’s busy with his dad. So then I figured since I had the evening free I’d just go to the gym, come home and watch my meditation tapes…two months behind… Well! Talking to Jack earlier in the day, he brought up that we should drink wine and finally get working on our project! That sounded perfect! Move forward…no matter what! So. I get home, eager to get stared, and what happens? I have a flat tire. How irritating! I know how to change my tire and I try, but my iron seems too small. I bike it to the hardware store and the guy argues with me then tries to sell me some ninety-dollar wrench! Not what I want. Finally it occurs to me that I should have called the roadside assistance program I pay for each month!! He comes and pulls my hubcap off with no effort and turns my bolts. Damn it. I could’ve done that! I felt foolish. But in the end Jack and I finally worked on the project! This truly was the beginning of everything we’ve talked about for months now…in one of the most fucked up days of the year. It seems it’s meant to be that way. Emotionally, I’ve been all over the place today. In my last letter I mentioned that… guy to you… We are sort of in a limbo state and I don’t know what I should be feeling. Grief? Or hope? Either way, I know in my gut it will work out for the best, but like I said…I’m not done with him. Can him and I be ‘just’ friends? I don’t know. This is a first for me.
Now it’s pushing midnight. I’m trying to take your advice to sleep more, but it never seems the case. Jack’s left and I am drunk and trying to get my laundry done, but it seems everyone in the building has decided to wash their clothes tonight. Maybe it’s some sort of purge brought on by the moon? Saturn? By Jupiter, that wonderful planet which keeps promising such exciting things…? Who knows? Sometimes I wish I really could place responsibility on astrology, or outer space…for the things I feel, and the things I say, and the things I do….
…the thoughts that fuck up my mind.
In the morning, I now must take my car in to get the tire repaired. Once again I have to get up early and be at the shop before work. This is something I definitely could not have foreseen, and definitely something that cuts into my plan of getting a sound sleep, something that seems to have been lacking for weeks now. How am I ever to make sense of anything this way? Times like this, I really wish I had a good cuss in our foreign tongue! Fuck! What am I to do? I can’t tell you, Jake, how much I am looking forward to unemployment….
And all I really want, of course, is for a certain someone to call. Just to say ‘hi.’ Just to shoot the breeze for a bit and show me he does actually think of me in the middle of the night.
Alas! Such is not so. I know he’s busy tonight anyway. I must dry these wine-stained tears and sign my name before those voices leave me convinced love is nothing but a tragic curse.
I’ll never get any sleep then!
Till next time,
Your ‘wounded’ cousin…
Gordon looked up from the letter and stared straight ahead. Only after a few minutes was he interrupted from his thoughts by the buzzer. Someone was at the door and he rose to find out whom.
Ldm
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Celeb
The many suites across the hall and their scattered balconies all hover above the Wylland Estates’ main entrance which, itself, resides just a few steps above the pavement of the street with the big, looming trees. On the second floor, just left of the entrance, at a window darkened by the reflection of early dawn, sits a man at his desk and in front of a typewriter given to him over five decades ago as a graduation gift from his grandfather. As regular mornings go, today started off the same as most. An early rise, a hot shower and a pot of coffee patiently awaited his return from the stroll-about with the dog. Soon after, his hand hanging onto both his cane and squished pack of cigarettes, he led himself into the office and has now sat for over an hour with the pristine sheet of paper still rolled up in the platen, eagerly awaiting the morning’s dance to begin.
He has smoked plenty already, almost triple the amount of this time yesterday, but he has not typed a single letter. In fact, today, he’s all but abandoned the project in its entirety. Whatever wonderful thoughts and insights were to be recorded this particular overcast morning had all but vanished from mind the moment he sat down at the window. The paper remains undisturbed, bored and restless.
He can’t think, can’t concentrate, can’t form a single sentence for all he can anticipate, all he can consume himself with is the anticipation of her.
Finishing his cigarette, he puts it out, reaches for another and lights it with a match he got from the restaurant the wife insists on frequenting every Wednesday night. A nice place, warm and cozy, not a far walk. They go not for the food, but for the live pianist who reminds her not just of youth, but also of the smoky lounge in Montreal they met at. Love upon first pint. She was his waitress and her smile alone enticed a sudden desire to sail the Mediterranean, an adventure that has unfortunately remained only in his heart. The west coast beckoned instead and slowly her smile hardened with each sleeve he downed. These days, the wife is almost dead to him and the girl who lives somewhere within the concrete, wood and glass of the building across his own, has become the woman he has thought of impulsively since he first watched her move in two summers prior to the most recent.
Like the drug he was very fond of in those days, she entices his senses each morning he watches her, most mornings from his window, some mornings from the sidewalk as the mutt sniffs at the bushes. On a few occasions she had walked right past him, her shoulder bag had brushed against his arm, a smile or nod of ‘good morning’ from her eyes reached his…. She has, unwittingly, become his silent secret; a muse based solely on possession of youth and legs that demand attention in the busiest of markets. Her, a woman he has never spoken a single word to—oh no, he dare never speak to her—has taken shape in his mind of the woman he married and sailed around southern Europe with.
This particular mid-autumn morning her car remains parked directly below his window.
He strums his fingers on his desk repetitively. He waits as guys on bicycles zoom by, juggling their coffees and back-packs, waits as cats chase the squirrels who taunt them, waits and watches the big looming trees drip sticky tears onto the half-dozen windshields below.
He taps at the space bar and springs the typewriter to life, taps repeatedly until it reaches the end of the page with an excitable ding. He hits return and does it again. The story does not matter this morning. What matters is that he hasn’t seen her in over a week, and this morning he’ll be closer to her than in months.
Once in awhile she makes herself visible coming home in the evening from work. By then it is dark and harder to see. Occasionally a man escorts her…that guy, yes, him…he’s been coming around a lot lately. This irritates him. He hears a quiet shuffle from the hallway. She’s finally woken up, stirred—the lady stirs and heads into the washroom where she no doubt will pluck a few hairs from the mole that’s invaded the right side of her face. She mutters a sound, directed at him, most likely wondering what the weather’s like, and he responds by hitting a few random letters, pulling the paper out, crumpling it, tossing it, rolling in another sheet and typing the phrase ‘patience is as patience does I am ready ready ready!’ He makes noise. She will leave him alone if he makes noise, and soon enough she will dress and head out, into the daylight, up the street, to play cards with all the other dismissed wives in the park.
He stops his strumming. She’s there! At her front entrance, struggling with an umbrella that is much bigger than needed. She steps forward, tugs her jacket closed, and allows the door to slam shut behind her. She steps towards the road, sliding her hand through her damp hair like she does each time, adjusting the strap of her bag directly after—as she does each time. He whispers out loud her steps until she reaches the sidewalk. One. Two. Three. Four. He can hear the heels echo up to his window. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. He never misses a beat, never steps out of line, never slows down or speeds up until she steps out into the open. He sits straight up, uses his sleeve to wipe his breath off the window.
She is now exposed to the world, and so early in the morning, so pretty and so vulnerable in her skirt, the same one he’s grown very fond of, the one that bounces off each step like a flamenco dancer in mid-move. Her unbuttoned autumn coat reaches down to her knees. Exposed. He likes to think of her that way. Exposed. This is usually where she stops to light her cigarette—usually—but not today. He exhales and crushes out his own, half way before its end. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. He sees she’s scanning her pockets, furiously, for a lighter, and he is tempted to toss his box of matches out at her, tempted to race down with his unreliable leg and be her saviour, if only for this moment.
She waits for a truck to pass before crossing to her car and he sees her face clearly now; so smooth, untouched by stress or worry of yesterday’s mistakes or what tomorrow may visualize. She’s found her lighter and pulls it out of her over-sized pocket—or not, it’s not a lighter, but her car keys. Maybe she’s quit smoking? That would be the smart thing to do. Her skin needs to remain delicate, desirable, or his fascination—his memoirs, will have been tarnished. She is directly under his window now, unlocking the driver’s side door, opening it, completely unaware he is watching, oblivious of the flash as he snaps yet another picture to add to his collection.
Flipping the camera for inspection he is immediately mesmerized. She had tilted her head up, momentarily, as if looking up directly at him, as if acknowledging his infatuation with another nod. He whispers to the picture, ‘What could it mean?’ Perhaps, she admires the attention? Perhaps, he types away, she is privately asking for more. Could it be she is granting me permission? The car’s engine slaps him back to reality. He looks out just as she pulls away.
And just like that, she is gone. Off with the rest of her day.
Ldm
He has smoked plenty already, almost triple the amount of this time yesterday, but he has not typed a single letter. In fact, today, he’s all but abandoned the project in its entirety. Whatever wonderful thoughts and insights were to be recorded this particular overcast morning had all but vanished from mind the moment he sat down at the window. The paper remains undisturbed, bored and restless.
He can’t think, can’t concentrate, can’t form a single sentence for all he can anticipate, all he can consume himself with is the anticipation of her.
Finishing his cigarette, he puts it out, reaches for another and lights it with a match he got from the restaurant the wife insists on frequenting every Wednesday night. A nice place, warm and cozy, not a far walk. They go not for the food, but for the live pianist who reminds her not just of youth, but also of the smoky lounge in Montreal they met at. Love upon first pint. She was his waitress and her smile alone enticed a sudden desire to sail the Mediterranean, an adventure that has unfortunately remained only in his heart. The west coast beckoned instead and slowly her smile hardened with each sleeve he downed. These days, the wife is almost dead to him and the girl who lives somewhere within the concrete, wood and glass of the building across his own, has become the woman he has thought of impulsively since he first watched her move in two summers prior to the most recent.
Like the drug he was very fond of in those days, she entices his senses each morning he watches her, most mornings from his window, some mornings from the sidewalk as the mutt sniffs at the bushes. On a few occasions she had walked right past him, her shoulder bag had brushed against his arm, a smile or nod of ‘good morning’ from her eyes reached his…. She has, unwittingly, become his silent secret; a muse based solely on possession of youth and legs that demand attention in the busiest of markets. Her, a woman he has never spoken a single word to—oh no, he dare never speak to her—has taken shape in his mind of the woman he married and sailed around southern Europe with.
This particular mid-autumn morning her car remains parked directly below his window.
He strums his fingers on his desk repetitively. He waits as guys on bicycles zoom by, juggling their coffees and back-packs, waits as cats chase the squirrels who taunt them, waits and watches the big looming trees drip sticky tears onto the half-dozen windshields below.
He taps at the space bar and springs the typewriter to life, taps repeatedly until it reaches the end of the page with an excitable ding. He hits return and does it again. The story does not matter this morning. What matters is that he hasn’t seen her in over a week, and this morning he’ll be closer to her than in months.
Once in awhile she makes herself visible coming home in the evening from work. By then it is dark and harder to see. Occasionally a man escorts her…that guy, yes, him…he’s been coming around a lot lately. This irritates him. He hears a quiet shuffle from the hallway. She’s finally woken up, stirred—the lady stirs and heads into the washroom where she no doubt will pluck a few hairs from the mole that’s invaded the right side of her face. She mutters a sound, directed at him, most likely wondering what the weather’s like, and he responds by hitting a few random letters, pulling the paper out, crumpling it, tossing it, rolling in another sheet and typing the phrase ‘patience is as patience does I am ready ready ready!’ He makes noise. She will leave him alone if he makes noise, and soon enough she will dress and head out, into the daylight, up the street, to play cards with all the other dismissed wives in the park.
He stops his strumming. She’s there! At her front entrance, struggling with an umbrella that is much bigger than needed. She steps forward, tugs her jacket closed, and allows the door to slam shut behind her. She steps towards the road, sliding her hand through her damp hair like she does each time, adjusting the strap of her bag directly after—as she does each time. He whispers out loud her steps until she reaches the sidewalk. One. Two. Three. Four. He can hear the heels echo up to his window. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. He never misses a beat, never steps out of line, never slows down or speeds up until she steps out into the open. He sits straight up, uses his sleeve to wipe his breath off the window.
She is now exposed to the world, and so early in the morning, so pretty and so vulnerable in her skirt, the same one he’s grown very fond of, the one that bounces off each step like a flamenco dancer in mid-move. Her unbuttoned autumn coat reaches down to her knees. Exposed. He likes to think of her that way. Exposed. This is usually where she stops to light her cigarette—usually—but not today. He exhales and crushes out his own, half way before its end. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. He sees she’s scanning her pockets, furiously, for a lighter, and he is tempted to toss his box of matches out at her, tempted to race down with his unreliable leg and be her saviour, if only for this moment.
She waits for a truck to pass before crossing to her car and he sees her face clearly now; so smooth, untouched by stress or worry of yesterday’s mistakes or what tomorrow may visualize. She’s found her lighter and pulls it out of her over-sized pocket—or not, it’s not a lighter, but her car keys. Maybe she’s quit smoking? That would be the smart thing to do. Her skin needs to remain delicate, desirable, or his fascination—his memoirs, will have been tarnished. She is directly under his window now, unlocking the driver’s side door, opening it, completely unaware he is watching, oblivious of the flash as he snaps yet another picture to add to his collection.
Flipping the camera for inspection he is immediately mesmerized. She had tilted her head up, momentarily, as if looking up directly at him, as if acknowledging his infatuation with another nod. He whispers to the picture, ‘What could it mean?’ Perhaps, she admires the attention? Perhaps, he types away, she is privately asking for more. Could it be she is granting me permission? The car’s engine slaps him back to reality. He looks out just as she pulls away.
And just like that, she is gone. Off with the rest of her day.
Ldm
Friday, May 25, 2007
springfever
My friend from college, Shelley, and her identical twin Sheila, just last month moved in together to the other end of the building with their fiancé, Stanley. Just a few weeks before, he had taken them both to dinner at CeeShee’s, in the west side of our city, and in front of stunned diners, proposed his unconditional love to each of them. Apparently, he couldn’t live with just one or the other. The two sisters giggled at each other, knowingly. They exchanged a look and a smirk. Finally! He had finally understood! They formed a triangle and he was the bottom layer of their pyramid.
Down on one knee and in between the two, and with a chuckle and a tilted head, Stanley recalled that unusually cold November morning the three of them met…
As always he woke early, but with the distinct impression that no matter what he did to get to work that day, his tardiness would be inevitable. He climbed out of bed, could feel the frost on the window, looked out and realized the black sky was white with snow. Underneath his balcony, the snow stretched far and wide, and up about three to five inches. This being Vancouver, Stanley knew the city by now was completely shut down.
The Skytrain only being a few blocks away, he braved the slippy sidewalk and entered the platform at Broadway to absolute chaos. People were scattered everywhere, shivering impatiently, cursing the white stuff, waiting for trains that had shut down miles before they rolled into the station. Typically, the staff struggled as to how to respond. No one seemed to be prepared; few gloves, no scarves, sneakers and barely any toques were worn. Stanley, who wouldn’t set foot far out his door without his morning coffee, kept his hands warm with his overheated cup. People were yelling people were wailing and people were screaming, but there was some laughter as well, and fortunately, Stanley’s ears pricked up at the sound of his siren’s giddiness.
When his eyes met hers the snow in his sneakers suddenly warmed his toes. She smiled and asked if he was aware that the bottom of his coffee cup somehow soaked through and spilled down his pants. All he could do was nod, as he noticed she spoke but he did not understand--as by the sight of her, he was completely entranced.
She introduced herself as Shelley, and upon doing so, she made a beckoning call that reached behind Stanley and wrapped its way around him until Sheila stood right next to her sister. They were on route to their culinary arts program at the Art College downtown but somehow found themselves in the midst of all the morning chaos. It’s too bad because that day they were to spend designing desserts. Sweet, creamy and mouthwatering crumpets that would have thawed the entire school.
Stanley didn’t say anything because his jaw seemed to be broken. A voice out of nowhere, possibly a man walking by, mentioned something about breakfast, and thirty digits later, plus a few more to direct some voice box extensions, and the three of them sat at one of the coffee shops up the drive—the furthest from the trains.
They used flimsy napkins to dry the snowballs from their hair. Stanley, ever the former class clown, at one point threw himself down to the sidewalk for a dawn filled angel delight. To his surprise, Shelley and Sheila followed his lead, laughing all the while. In between feigned coughs—the odd sneeze or two to carry along their bluff, they exchanged stories well into the afternoon, of snowmen and snow forts from their pasts…
My friend from college, Shelley, and her identical twin, Sheila, invited me in for tea as I knocked on their door the day after they settled, the first week of spring. They told me that sometimes they face scrutiny in public, as strangers tend to jump to judgment. Stanley does not come in between them. They do not need to take sides. Instead he nurtures the equal sides of them he adores. To them, this is all they require in a partner, and if they have to take turns--while the other takes five, then life is just that.
We see them wander down the halls these days, the three of them, arm in arm, hand in hand, and we smile and wonder if their version of love will ultimately last.
Ldm
Down on one knee and in between the two, and with a chuckle and a tilted head, Stanley recalled that unusually cold November morning the three of them met…
As always he woke early, but with the distinct impression that no matter what he did to get to work that day, his tardiness would be inevitable. He climbed out of bed, could feel the frost on the window, looked out and realized the black sky was white with snow. Underneath his balcony, the snow stretched far and wide, and up about three to five inches. This being Vancouver, Stanley knew the city by now was completely shut down.
The Skytrain only being a few blocks away, he braved the slippy sidewalk and entered the platform at Broadway to absolute chaos. People were scattered everywhere, shivering impatiently, cursing the white stuff, waiting for trains that had shut down miles before they rolled into the station. Typically, the staff struggled as to how to respond. No one seemed to be prepared; few gloves, no scarves, sneakers and barely any toques were worn. Stanley, who wouldn’t set foot far out his door without his morning coffee, kept his hands warm with his overheated cup. People were yelling people were wailing and people were screaming, but there was some laughter as well, and fortunately, Stanley’s ears pricked up at the sound of his siren’s giddiness.
When his eyes met hers the snow in his sneakers suddenly warmed his toes. She smiled and asked if he was aware that the bottom of his coffee cup somehow soaked through and spilled down his pants. All he could do was nod, as he noticed she spoke but he did not understand--as by the sight of her, he was completely entranced.
She introduced herself as Shelley, and upon doing so, she made a beckoning call that reached behind Stanley and wrapped its way around him until Sheila stood right next to her sister. They were on route to their culinary arts program at the Art College downtown but somehow found themselves in the midst of all the morning chaos. It’s too bad because that day they were to spend designing desserts. Sweet, creamy and mouthwatering crumpets that would have thawed the entire school.
Stanley didn’t say anything because his jaw seemed to be broken. A voice out of nowhere, possibly a man walking by, mentioned something about breakfast, and thirty digits later, plus a few more to direct some voice box extensions, and the three of them sat at one of the coffee shops up the drive—the furthest from the trains.
They used flimsy napkins to dry the snowballs from their hair. Stanley, ever the former class clown, at one point threw himself down to the sidewalk for a dawn filled angel delight. To his surprise, Shelley and Sheila followed his lead, laughing all the while. In between feigned coughs—the odd sneeze or two to carry along their bluff, they exchanged stories well into the afternoon, of snowmen and snow forts from their pasts…
My friend from college, Shelley, and her identical twin, Sheila, invited me in for tea as I knocked on their door the day after they settled, the first week of spring. They told me that sometimes they face scrutiny in public, as strangers tend to jump to judgment. Stanley does not come in between them. They do not need to take sides. Instead he nurtures the equal sides of them he adores. To them, this is all they require in a partner, and if they have to take turns--while the other takes five, then life is just that.
We see them wander down the halls these days, the three of them, arm in arm, hand in hand, and we smile and wonder if their version of love will ultimately last.
Ldm
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Just East Off Main
4 a.m. and the cat belts out another ballad on the balcony for whoever is coming home late from work. It pleases him, his voice—his audience of unsuspecting east end dwellers. It’s the full-moon fueled spring-tour. Sausage sings the blues! He perches himself atop the railing outside my bedroom and if his latest love song doesn’t drag me out of slumber, perhaps the early bird rummaging through the bin below will. I slide open the window and throw a growl at him which only resembles his medley. He stops, looks at me with irritation. I have interrupted his show--his worldly expression. I turn back…and he waits…waits…until that moment when I am almost back…just about there…and he starts up again. Renewed vigor.
These days I live on the other end of the neighborhood to which I initially moved. I only lasted a year. My neighbors there scared me to death. Their domestic disputes were as in vogue as the johns parked out back. Never really a stranger to the city, nor sheltered enough to think monsters only exist in fairytales, each night in bed I still anticipated their attack. They would scratch their way through my walls. I’d wake to the lot of them, all staring down at me with their black eyes--claws as hands, lifeless smiles--a carefully inserted rubber tube draining me silently of blood….
Fate had it I survived, and now dwell in a…humble building, some twenty-odd years old, just east off Main St. There are four of us: my roommate, her Kitty, and good ole’ Jezebel--always eager, and always so giving! Just down the stairs and outside the front door awaits a haven of markets, restaurants, bars (just one worthy of mention; of course) and coffee shops… so much coffee that it will rot your gut until you give birth to your very own bean farmer. Those smoking crack in the alleys add to the finish and are there to fulfill whichever addiction hasn’t yet been satisfied. It is eclectic in nature. All the countries of the world on one eighteen block stretch.
Six stories tall, mine is the fifth. The top floor consists of two penthouse suites, both with huge patios overlooking the distant downtown core. We are not far. Ten minutes away? Once you cross the bridge, any one of them, just a left on Broadway and east for a bit until you pass Main. You will see it…The Wylland Estates. On your right… the street with all the big, looming trees.
Suite 527. We are the corner-end, one of those big trees hanging above our balcony, above the garbage directly below. In the evening, we get the last bit of the sun’s rays… stretching out as far as they can to give us some loving. This is the end of the building where most noise complaints are directed. If we are home, chances are our music is loud and echoing past all the other apartments. The boys and their girlfriends above us, the constantly exchanging occupants to the left of us, the karaoke crazed couple one floor down and to the right of us, the sports enthusiasts across from us, and, of course, us two plus the cat…all compete for ownership of the corner. Jezebel remains a silent witness. Together we all share an understanding. If the party keeps you up, it acts as an open invitation to join...your first beer on the house. Sometimes the parties will merge and the cat will run away and hide.
Somehow though, Suite 527 has not once received a single complaint. Ours have always been re-routed around us, perhaps to the hot deck above us, which by now has been hit with dozens of eviction warnings. We, as far as our landladies are concerned, have a halo protecting our 990 square feet. We are angels, of course--pure and innocent (and holier than thou!)
I have heard many things…. Raccoons fight the alley cats and once in awhile the skunks. The homeless converse about our garbage. The thirsty beg for water. The drunk beg for mouthwash. The children race on their bikes. The man runs after them for his wallet. The police scream surrender in the middle of the night. There have been fights and quarrels. There have been screams, people laughing, people cheering, people crying, people banging and people banging around. One man in the building across serenades us neighbors with a loud burp each night, routinely timed to go off just before the 9pm cannon.
And then there’s Chichu… a lone being on the quietest of nights, breaking the peace with his gabble. The sound travels throughout the neighborhood, in between the buildings; down the alleys and past the other cats perched atop their balconies, rehearsing their very own songs. It finds me, and I follow my muse up the drive. It leads me home--crawling, in a drunken stupor, overworked daze, or just relentless anticipation for the future.
Ldm
These days I live on the other end of the neighborhood to which I initially moved. I only lasted a year. My neighbors there scared me to death. Their domestic disputes were as in vogue as the johns parked out back. Never really a stranger to the city, nor sheltered enough to think monsters only exist in fairytales, each night in bed I still anticipated their attack. They would scratch their way through my walls. I’d wake to the lot of them, all staring down at me with their black eyes--claws as hands, lifeless smiles--a carefully inserted rubber tube draining me silently of blood….
Fate had it I survived, and now dwell in a…humble building, some twenty-odd years old, just east off Main St. There are four of us: my roommate, her Kitty, and good ole’ Jezebel--always eager, and always so giving! Just down the stairs and outside the front door awaits a haven of markets, restaurants, bars (just one worthy of mention; of course) and coffee shops… so much coffee that it will rot your gut until you give birth to your very own bean farmer. Those smoking crack in the alleys add to the finish and are there to fulfill whichever addiction hasn’t yet been satisfied. It is eclectic in nature. All the countries of the world on one eighteen block stretch.
Six stories tall, mine is the fifth. The top floor consists of two penthouse suites, both with huge patios overlooking the distant downtown core. We are not far. Ten minutes away? Once you cross the bridge, any one of them, just a left on Broadway and east for a bit until you pass Main. You will see it…The Wylland Estates. On your right… the street with all the big, looming trees.
Suite 527. We are the corner-end, one of those big trees hanging above our balcony, above the garbage directly below. In the evening, we get the last bit of the sun’s rays… stretching out as far as they can to give us some loving. This is the end of the building where most noise complaints are directed. If we are home, chances are our music is loud and echoing past all the other apartments. The boys and their girlfriends above us, the constantly exchanging occupants to the left of us, the karaoke crazed couple one floor down and to the right of us, the sports enthusiasts across from us, and, of course, us two plus the cat…all compete for ownership of the corner. Jezebel remains a silent witness. Together we all share an understanding. If the party keeps you up, it acts as an open invitation to join...your first beer on the house. Sometimes the parties will merge and the cat will run away and hide.
Somehow though, Suite 527 has not once received a single complaint. Ours have always been re-routed around us, perhaps to the hot deck above us, which by now has been hit with dozens of eviction warnings. We, as far as our landladies are concerned, have a halo protecting our 990 square feet. We are angels, of course--pure and innocent (and holier than thou!)
I have heard many things…. Raccoons fight the alley cats and once in awhile the skunks. The homeless converse about our garbage. The thirsty beg for water. The drunk beg for mouthwash. The children race on their bikes. The man runs after them for his wallet. The police scream surrender in the middle of the night. There have been fights and quarrels. There have been screams, people laughing, people cheering, people crying, people banging and people banging around. One man in the building across serenades us neighbors with a loud burp each night, routinely timed to go off just before the 9pm cannon.
And then there’s Chichu… a lone being on the quietest of nights, breaking the peace with his gabble. The sound travels throughout the neighborhood, in between the buildings; down the alleys and past the other cats perched atop their balconies, rehearsing their very own songs. It finds me, and I follow my muse up the drive. It leads me home--crawling, in a drunken stupor, overworked daze, or just relentless anticipation for the future.
Ldm
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
All Apologies
Okay. I apologize. My humblest, most sincere, and whole-hearted of apologies. Please, somewhere deep down, you must find in your heart—and aim toward me: forgiveness. Stab me with it or just pound it over my head! Forgive me! Granted, I should probably know better than to be so presumptuous to think we still all have a heart. These days, with the state of the planet, or the state or our lives, or the state of my city/your city, your government/my government, the state of schools, the state of media, or just the state of my car or my home, or the alley my balcony overlooks and the guy sleeping in the bin…. The state of my world. Your world. The state of our minds? My mind? Your mind? The state of our consciousness? Our combined consciousness! Our thoughts—my thoughts—your thoughts! The state of our realities! Our children’s realities, my roommate’s reality, our pets and their thoughts! The state of our enemies. And especially… the state of our only Queen: Mother Nature herself… Oh… what was I getting at!? I don’t remember anymore. The state of my memory is shocking these days. Oh yes, I am sorry. Really sorry…to assume you have no heart? Was that what I was digressing over?
Of course you have a heart! How else would you breathe? How else would you function? You would be a robot. A machine. Although, a machine still has a heart…it’s just mechanical. That’s all. Really. We are not (yet) mechanical, right? Sure, we all have our days when we wake, dress, chug our lattesmochasteasorvodkas, get into our cars, sit through rush hour, tap our fingers to the crap on the radio, curse the weather along with any given politician, watch from the bus windows as the idiots drive into each other, arrive at work, plop down at our desks, turn our computers on, and suddenly realize we have no idea how we got there. Mechanical? Heartless? No. Just boring.
So. Let me go on. Without a heart, we wouldn’t be putting so much effort into saving our environment. Right? Without a heart, we wouldn’t be putting so much effort into saving our nations from war. Right? Without a heart, we wouldn’t stop for the elderly woman trying to cross the street with her walker…even as we are running late for that movie we’ve been waiting weeks to see! Right? At least slow down for her? Um…? Without a heart, we wouldn’t be trying to figure how to budge our way onto Noah’s shuttle and get the hell-off-this-planet-before-she-offs-us-to-hell! Right.
Anyway. That’s not the reason I sat down and started typing. I did begin with an apology for a reason. If we always just started our sentences with a plea for forgiveness…well, after a while life would be that much prettier! I’m sorry I cut in front of you and pushed you off the road. I’m sorry I elected a loser. I’m sorry you are so annoying I had a line of voodoo dolls designed after you. I’m sorry that your girlfriend is so loud that the entire city can hear it when she gives it to you. “I’m sorry, what was your name…” works a lot better than “Who the fuck are you?” Together you can kick the empties off the bed, get dressed, maybe have breakfast--or at least coffee, and feign seeing each other again rationally, as opposed to regrettably. The birds will sing, the sun will shine, and your hangover will melt away. The apology has worked like magic! When a regret needs to be acknowledged, one must rise to the occasion and get it over with immediately! It reminds us that we are responsible, and in our hearts, we can admit that we all make mistakes.
Don’t be afraid to apologize.
Stand in front of a mirror. Open the mouth wide. Bring it down and let the lips touch. With the tongue make like a snake, and prepare the word for take-off. Practice until perfect.
I’m sorry for wasting (your) time? It’s been a while since motivation blinked open her illustrious ebony eyes, for real-life--as was beckoned--bullied itself into the spaces reserved for all those exceptional moments of beauty that knock us off our feet. Yep. It’s like a parking lot of SUVs, each resting crooked over the white line and taking up way more space than worth…and blocking our tulip gardens to boot! Like so many people I know, I am just looking for inspiration, a purpose to keep dreaming. So if an apology is in order, then it will be for taking so long to sit and write this down. Well, suck it up, I say! Honestly. Better late than pregnant! A neighbor this past Christmas slapped me in the face with the words we all sometimes need to hear: There is only time. As long as your heart is still beating, and you can still sense that there is room in there to breathe, there will always be time to get all of this right.
Forget that they tell you otherwise. In fact, forget everything they tell you. It’s all part of someone else’s state of mind.
Ldm
Of course you have a heart! How else would you breathe? How else would you function? You would be a robot. A machine. Although, a machine still has a heart…it’s just mechanical. That’s all. Really. We are not (yet) mechanical, right? Sure, we all have our days when we wake, dress, chug our lattesmochasteasorvodkas, get into our cars, sit through rush hour, tap our fingers to the crap on the radio, curse the weather along with any given politician, watch from the bus windows as the idiots drive into each other, arrive at work, plop down at our desks, turn our computers on, and suddenly realize we have no idea how we got there. Mechanical? Heartless? No. Just boring.
So. Let me go on. Without a heart, we wouldn’t be putting so much effort into saving our environment. Right? Without a heart, we wouldn’t be putting so much effort into saving our nations from war. Right? Without a heart, we wouldn’t stop for the elderly woman trying to cross the street with her walker…even as we are running late for that movie we’ve been waiting weeks to see! Right? At least slow down for her? Um…? Without a heart, we wouldn’t be trying to figure how to budge our way onto Noah’s shuttle and get the hell-off-this-planet-before-she-offs-us-to-hell! Right.
Anyway. That’s not the reason I sat down and started typing. I did begin with an apology for a reason. If we always just started our sentences with a plea for forgiveness…well, after a while life would be that much prettier! I’m sorry I cut in front of you and pushed you off the road. I’m sorry I elected a loser. I’m sorry you are so annoying I had a line of voodoo dolls designed after you. I’m sorry that your girlfriend is so loud that the entire city can hear it when she gives it to you. “I’m sorry, what was your name…” works a lot better than “Who the fuck are you?” Together you can kick the empties off the bed, get dressed, maybe have breakfast--or at least coffee, and feign seeing each other again rationally, as opposed to regrettably. The birds will sing, the sun will shine, and your hangover will melt away. The apology has worked like magic! When a regret needs to be acknowledged, one must rise to the occasion and get it over with immediately! It reminds us that we are responsible, and in our hearts, we can admit that we all make mistakes.
Don’t be afraid to apologize.
Stand in front of a mirror. Open the mouth wide. Bring it down and let the lips touch. With the tongue make like a snake, and prepare the word for take-off. Practice until perfect.
I’m sorry for wasting (your) time? It’s been a while since motivation blinked open her illustrious ebony eyes, for real-life--as was beckoned--bullied itself into the spaces reserved for all those exceptional moments of beauty that knock us off our feet. Yep. It’s like a parking lot of SUVs, each resting crooked over the white line and taking up way more space than worth…and blocking our tulip gardens to boot! Like so many people I know, I am just looking for inspiration, a purpose to keep dreaming. So if an apology is in order, then it will be for taking so long to sit and write this down. Well, suck it up, I say! Honestly. Better late than pregnant! A neighbor this past Christmas slapped me in the face with the words we all sometimes need to hear: There is only time. As long as your heart is still beating, and you can still sense that there is room in there to breathe, there will always be time to get all of this right.
Forget that they tell you otherwise. In fact, forget everything they tell you. It’s all part of someone else’s state of mind.
Ldm
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