Nothing left

I wrote a huge post about how frustrated and disappointed with myself I was for my complete inability to make anyone, myself included, happy, and accidently deleted it.
The irony is reaching critical levels.
I'm going to bed.

futuere stercus

What awkwardness caught

What strange awkwardness, caught in my throat; this cough is never enough to pluck it, steaming in the cold air, from the bottoms of my lungs. It was transplanted, as am I, into a place it did not belong in; I wonder if it feels as I, my mouth far too wide, too open, the glitter of my necklace heavy on my clavicle, the scents in the air all merge like the sepia on antiue photos. I am surprised to find I am old enough for them.

Last night, while fetal in the cold, fingers sticks of lead, back a curving branch of beef on the butcher's slab, I dreamt beneath my fluttering lashes; my work partner and I, there was fear, a puddle of urine, and a sensation I wish I was not familiar with, of standing on one's head, surrounded by a honeycomb (but not sweet) of metal that sacrifices itself around me. Now we, four who are loved, dearly, deeply, travel home in this tiny precarious aspect, at speed our ancestors never dreamt of, in a tiny pool of lamplight, on this round globe of earth that cannot even acknowledge us, how much we need it, it's tiny passengers.

Mental invading forces

It has been a long time since I have had a sleep-over in someone else's house like this, I suppose. It is a strange feeling, crashing
(ooh yes crashing, since I have already broken something, the washer, damn knobs. Now I must glue it, and wrestle with the confession. What an awkward situation to be in, the strange complete familiarity of living in someone else's house but not even knowing how to address them.)
in a new house, no, a new home.
Many times I have stayed with family, even lately house-sat, but I adopted those area with such complete ease, having seen them many times, usually with the comfort provided by the aura of someone who has known me since diapers were haute couture.
Yet now?
These stairs are unknown to me, the noises all alien.
I'm moving through it like a tourist at a museum.
Staring at things like the consumers in Ikea, my fingers itching to touch everything, even the chairs I can't pronounce.

All this strangeness has done one good thing; The added adrenalin has spurred me to do some things I've been meaning to get done, so far I've completed three loads of laundry and read half-way through a book I've stared at for a week.
And now I'm surfing through garbage on the internet.
Perhaps this could be good for me?

Excuse me mister, I'd like to borrow some of your time.

I'm living on illicit time. I make silver tounged promises, compromises that wish for wings. 2 more minutes, 3 more hours, 1 more day, anything.
Time still confuses me. What possible effect could such a untangible, relative, vague concept have? More and more I find it standing in my way, or even behind me. Sometimes it trips me, sometimes it carries me. The hardest thing is to court it. Learn to dance with it, the proper seduction that changes daily; slow, sweet, furiously panicked, he is never the same twice, and because of that;
I may never be the same again.

Summer mournings

Staring through the bus window glass at a man staring out his car window at a Tim Hortens cup that is miraculously still upright in the road, summer waves goodbye, opens the way for a loving fall, the trees tentative in their yellow, but a million leaves on the ground already, washing through my steps toward my connecting bus, wishing I was camping in this perfection, with the yawning blue sky and the wind, staring at the woman staring at me staring at her wondering if I could overpower her and steal her double-double...

I am not awake today, wandering blearily in the sun through my kitchen windows. Instinct dresses me, I catch my bus on time, but this day has not even started, oh no, not even started not yet. I have a million hearts to break yet, and a million hearts to be broken. Possibility cradles me easing me into the cavernous bowl like an underground lake, so black it has no bottom, making me aware of my feet, standing on a thousand miles of nothing, perhaps watched, in their pink vunerability, by slick eyes with clear eyelids.
Every movement squeezes my heart; I am a sleepy ninja.

More work

Heavy, scarred man with a diamond earring like a gypsy's eye by campfire tells me he's never met anyone who wanted to join the army. Tells me how he takes his three year old son, rain or shine, to stand by the Highway of Heros in Toronto, waving a flag fo the fallen soliders. His voice is wistful, he starts for a a moment (such a big man stumbling?) saying he thought about it for a while, but with his son...no, not with such a young son. His voice stops for a moment, and suddenly my hands are far too awkward and I don't know what to do with them.

Says he would support his son if he wants to. Wants to give him the chance others said he didn't have.

Isn't that what the army's for?
To give a chance when others say you may not?

Kirkie

I'm so happy.
Sitting here, adding things to the internet with my decaf coffee in hand.

I love myself so much, they gave me a special jacket so I can hug myself all day.

Notes on the hitchhiker's guide

It's been so long, so very long since anyone came to fulfill my purpose. To give meaning to my hollow existence. I feel so lost, barren. Without my purpose, who am I?
The most cruel fate is remembering what it felt like to be used,, but not feel it.

Doesn't anyone need into this storage closet?

Fiction work

I can feel my hair stand up. holding this tiny rectangle in my sweaty hand. What do I do with it now? To keep it would be unthinkable. To throw it away, less so. It is funny that this stupid piece of plastic-y cardboard has stapled itself into my life.

This morning was dull. I made my bed, smoothing the comforter to the corners, drank a coffee, greeted my boyfriend with a kiss, and stepped out in cute pink flips flops for a relaxing day off in the park.

We had been out about an hour, my shorts were starting to chafe, and our hands were sticky with cotton candy, when we noticed a magician doing card tricks on a street corner. I've always loved card tricks, so I dragged my man over, and joined the throng.

He had on tight purple and black striped pants, old fashioned buckle shoes, and a jacket with an outrageously boring flower. He had a mustache that had seen better day, but well manicured nails. I suppose he caught me blushing with excitement because he pulled me into the center and announced I would be his "Lah-verly Asseesstahnt." (rolled his head and his tongue, hanging out,in a strange pivot as he spoke) I was delighted.

He instructed me to remain patient as he ran to his velvet- lined trunk to grab his special cards, so I stood awkwardly, trying to decide what to do with my hands while the crowd stared at me. Soon, he had returned, brandishing a deck of ordinary cards, well worn, however.

With the same tongue and head roll that made me begin to wonder if he was deranged, he instructed me to pick a card, any card, and replace it in the deck without showing me. I pulled out the seven of clubs, vaguely saying it to myself a few times before replacing it smoothly inside the deck. while I was thus engaged he roamed the crowd, making fashion commentary that seemed completely arbitrary.

When he returned, I handed him the deck, again reminding myself of the card. He seized it from my grasp with both hands, then, scarcely looking, pulled one out and yelled, "Is THIS your card?"
I looked at it and, after reassuring myself, told him it was not. He turned it to his face in surprise, that I had assumed was theatrical.

The crowd giggled as he straightened his arms in his sleeves, and tried again. His hand shook slightly as he waved it over the deck, muttering vague words. The crowd ooh-ed like obedient children and he whipped put a card, "Is THIS your card?"
Again I shook my head, and the crowd drew in, smelling suspense.

The magician grinned and wrapped both hands around the deck, then began to squeeze. His grin became a clenched tooth-ed grimace as his knuckles whitened and his fingers went blue. I backed up, unsure, and the crowd began to mutter nervously, no one seemed sure what to do.

I became aware of my boyfriend moving up behind me at t the same moment the magician first cut himself. A thin eddy of blood ran from his finger to the ground, and people began to move, some in to stop him, some away, disturbed. Two big men pulled at his elbows, trying to stop him as more and more blood appeared, but his face and arms remained unmoving. His eyes had not left mine.

Suddenly, he released and, pulling out one final card, "Is THIS your card?"

I thought about lying, but I hesitated, and in that moment he read it in my face,

"Oh. Oh well."

and moved to clean up his stage props.

My boyfriend put his hand on my arm and we walked away.
The day was obviously over, but we tried not to talk about it as we said goodbye. I unpacked my stuff, a few interesting market finds, and shuffled around the kitchen, craving coffee.

In the cupboard, in the sugar bowl, is the seven of clubs.

I have in my head

I have in my head a tearful admission from a young girl. She had gone to see the doctors and they have pronounced (labelled?) her fat. "but you're so tall!" I had insisted, but to no avail. She told me they had charts. Had measured, evaluated her, and had found her not wanting, but ample. I recall her stature, tall, curved, perfect. She is, in my head, the original amazon I now aspire to be.
I wonder if she knew. Knows now, how beautiful I remember her.

This is why I write

I'm so full right now. My ears full of bass, orchastrating my heart to the rhythm of my songs, my eye of the sunset, safety and sherbet orange, my lungs with oxygen, my arms of blood, my legs tingle with lactic buildup, trying desperately to push myself another inch further, my nose of the smell of cut grass, under my toes, my hair of sweat, my tounge thick in my mouth I want to pull the world into this open grass field in front of me, into my heart, show them the hunter we came from in the passion of fatigue, the hope of one more step under the pave...meant of my sneakers.

Need Goldbond

It's late at night, I'm bussing to work and I'm in one of the worst moods I've had in recent memory. I'm not sure why, but I think it's exaserbated by the fact that I have had no time for the gym or friends this wek due to my work schedule.

With some time on the company range, in the gym, on the sparring mats, and in the dark field with airsoft equipment all coming up, my mood promises to imprve, but I can only hope to do no damage to my close relationships with my grumpyness until it does.

Since my phone has become my mobile computor, I can promise some updates to my ongoing writing, with some interesting directions . Reflections on my own life within the writing has led to answers in both.

La Clare de la Lune

Never before have I fallen in love in stillness.
There has been love in passion
in the crazy heat
hands clasped in a tornado
in a hurricane

It is so easy to be in love
when your heart is already pounding


But never before have I fallen in love in stillness

La Trivia-ta

Bahahaha! You are reading what is the fruits of my heartened three day pursuit of a mobile blog post! Rejoice, for I am finally posting this from my phone!

Go listen to Forest City Lover's "Orphans" to rejoice with me. I shall post more anon.

The day of my Father

I'm so embarassed it's been so long since I updated, but life has been mobile, and this is the first day completely off I've had in a while. Not to say that it hasn't been fun.

I have been training for my armored car job for the past few weeks, and it was surprisingly tough. I found myself hiding in the bathroom crying in frustration at one point because I could no longer force my shoulders to hold the revolver up and steady in order to fire the last few shots I needed to pass the course. I went back and tried again, and passed, but I can say that I would not have, were it not for the encouragement and patience of the instructors. I owe them so much.

Despite the frustrations and the struggle, I discovered many things; recoil is all comparative (something you think has a lot only has a lot when you haven't fired anything BIGGER...yet) I hate firing around barracades, preferring to stand and draw like a twit, which is still remarkably successful even when being fired at, and that I am a surgeon with a shotgun.

My first few days of work have been idyllic; I enjoy the sensation of wandering around with a gun and a bullet-resistant vest, and I don't think I'll ever tire of telling people what I do, and seeing their faces.

My coffee this morning, on Father's day, I like to think I'm drinking in honor of him. True, I woke him up with a phone-call this morning, but he did get many more hours than he would have, had we all been small obnoxious children still.

This past weekend, I travelled home to see my brother graduated, and (Omg, he's so tall and he's such a grown-up! I'm so proud of him!!) see the family home again, given that it had been two years since I had been back. Other than finally recharging, and re-discovering where I came from (It has changed completely and yet remains the same.), I took something back home with me. An old family rifle that belonged to my dad, and to his dad before him. It's old, but it's in incredible shape, and still works perfectly.

The coffee and pancakes I made today taste better than usual.

the Leviathan sleeps....

I wish I could say I've been neglecting my blog because I have been asleep, but unfortunately, sleep is one of the aspects of my life that must suffer in order to accommodate other things.

So is my blog. I have been thinking of interesting posts, but unable to find the time to post them. So I'm going to make a commitment. I shall attempt to write every half hour before bed!
This is, of course, after I come back from two weeks of "vacation" read: intense training that requires an athletic cup.

I have much excitement to relate, but two scenes ought to suffice for now;
I'm sitting in a shower, literally, of money. Twenties falling around me gently.
and two
I'm realizing how difficult it is to tie your shoes with a bullet-proof vest on.

Notes on an Unnatural habitat

I've learned the new site well enough to write again and still achieve all the patrol objectives, but it still takes every ounce of self-control I posses to refrain from sending a message that runs thusly:
"Dear Boss
Whatever I did, I'm sorry.
I can change, just please take me back! (to Dell)"
Perhaps I simply dislike change, but it seems the only benefit to this new site is the classical music playing on the loudspeaker.
In a few areas there are alarms that go off constantly while you patrol them; my partner says you get used to them, a process I call "aggravated hearing loss".
So far I've evicted 7 vagrants, found one pile of human fececs, and yelled, "No, I don't have a heart! I'm on duty!"
It smells of plastic and a life-size picture of a lady gives me a heart-attack every four minutes. I'm so short on sleep I think my hair is giving me a headache.
There are a dozen tiny delights, nestled for the dedicated observer, though. The incredibly lush greenery, verdant leaves and coral-hued blossoms, are real and lovingly tended by a flock of young women that look like flowers themselves, and cradle the leaves like baby birds. The old fashioned street lamp tucked ina corner, shining merrily, aching for a man in a trench to sing in the rain. Where Dell was like an infant child, sometimes crying and needy, but soft and loving, here is more like a high maintenance girlfriend, expensive and contrived, shrill and grating, but also full of breathtaking beauty. Probably a girlfriend all messed up on coke, though, since she's banged up inside and frequently smells of human urine. Since I spend several hours a night roaming her innards, does that make me a lesbian? Since my partner doesn't (at all), what does that make him?
Sixty-odd floors a night (walking); my legs should be sick, but really it's my stomach. This place doesn't love me, I can feel it. Dell and I loved each other, she talked to me, I cared for her. I am ashamed to say, I stay at the place for the money. Perhaps it can feel that, does not love me because it knows I will leave, here to go, as they say. I apologize to her, lay my hand on the granite stonework; they're warm, I think she understands.
I also think if my partner mentions his girlfriend on more time, I may jeopardize my police career.
A new song is playing, it's an organ piece, and all I can think is, "songs to wear a flowing, skimpy nightdress to".
Every time I crouch and then stand up I want to pass out because of the heat, but I know the building and I are getting along now; she lets me open her doors with one hang, a feat that thrills me more than it should.
Someone is growing a plant in a folger's can.
To properly experience this building, lie on your back on hot cement, with your feet on a cement wall, wrap your hands around some fresh plants, and listen to the sound of church bells. (the church bells come from not only the music, but also because if you tap your fingernails on the ever present handrails in the depths of the service tunnels, they sound exactly like huge bells)

I'm happy again?

Captain Bucher's Confession

The U.S. ship PUEBLO was captured by North Korean soliders on January 23rd
and held until the United States apologized for spying on North Korea. The crew,
by all accounts, were treated civilily, but the Captain was forced to write a
confession, which was sent to the United States. In order to maintain good
spirits and send a secret message to the government, this is what he wrote. The
North Koreans never realized the humor behind it, and sent it as a sincere
missive.


A final confession in anticipation of leniency for my crew and myself for the heinous crimes perpetrated by ourselves while conducting horrible outrages against the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea for the purpose of provocating and annoying those stalwarts of peace-loving humanity. The absolute truth of this bowel wrenching confession is attested to by my fervent desire to paean the Korean People’s Army Navy, and their government and to beseech the Korean people to forgive our dastardly deeds unmatched since Attila. I therefore swear the following account to be true on the sacred honor of the Great Speckled Bird.
Following rigorous training in provacation and intrusion wherein each of my officers had to meet the overly high standards I had set for them we emerged from the bowels of San Diego harbor bent on setting records for the highest yardage gained in intrusions ever set in the standard patrol. Our first stop was Hawaii where I visited the kingpin of all provocateurs, including spies. None other than Fleet General Barney Google. He was all I had been told, sly, cunning, closed mouthed, bulbous nosed, smelling of musty top secrets and some foul smelling medicine that kept him going twenty hours a day in pursuit of the perfect spy mission. He talked haltingly with me but persuasively about our forthcoming mission. "By God, Bucher, I want you to get in there and be elusive, spy them out, spy out their water, look sharp for signs of electronic saline water traps. You will be going to spy out the DPRK. By the sainted General Bullmoose we must learn why they are so advanced in the art of people’s defense."
We entered into our assigned operating areas along the Eastern Korean Sea at latitude 39N and boldly steamed in a northerly direction to the farthest point we could. In so doing we had traversed Operation Areas Mars, Venus, and Pluto so named because like the planets, the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea is really far out. We knew that the lackeys of the Bowery Street Billionaires would never be satiated until we had found out all there was to know about the huge successes that the noble peace loving peoples of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea had made in the recent past. Surely we had to find out how come such a newly created government could lead its peoples so quickly into the number one position. As we went about detecting this valuable information, particularly the oceanic salinity, density, ionic dispersion rate, humpback whale counts, both low and high protoplasmic unicellular uglena and plankton counts. This information was of the highest value to our own scientists for the development of war mongering at sea when no one was looking.
Now we have come to realize just how great our crimes were and we seek the leniency of the Korean people even though we are criminals of the basest variety and deserve only swift punishment of the just Korean law. Further, we know that our crimes are greater than those of any criminals discovered this century, nevertheless we ask forgiveness and promise never to engage in such naughty acts ever again if we are forgiven. We know that our crime is merely a reflection of the dastardly policies of the Bowery Street Billionaires and we can only hope they will realize their own responsibilities for our actions; because who else could have dreamed up such a heinous and foul playing ship as Pueblo and then searched out enough arch criminals such as we to operate it. Yea, we feel it is time indeed for those really responsible for us to step forward and accept their own roles and Admit, Apologize and give Assurances that they will never again prepare another spy bag to be filled with goodies.
In summation, we who have been rotating upon the fickle finger of fate for such long languid months give our word to the Great Speckled Bird that we will heretofor in all sincerity cleanse ourselves of rottenness and vituperations. We solemnly await our return to our loved ones so that the fickle finger can be replaced by the rosy fingers of dawn and salvation. So help me, Hanna.
S/L.M. Bucher

Samuel Johnson

The student who would build his knowledge on solid foundations, and proceed by just degrees to the pinnacles of truth, is directed by the great philosopher of France to begin by doubting of his own existence. In like manner, whoever would complete any arduous and intricate enterprise, should, as soon as his imagination can cool after the first blaze of hope, place before his own eyes every possible embarrassment that may retard or defeat him. He should first question the probability of success, and then endeavour to remove the objections that he has raised.

I hate a fellow whom pride or cowardice or laziness drives into a corner, and who does nothing when he is there but sit and growl. Let him come out as I do, and bark.

A woman's preaching is like a dog's walking on his hinder legs. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.

It is more from carelessness about truth than from intentional lying, that there is so much falsehood in the world.

I would rather be attacked than unnoticed. For the worst thing you can do to an author is to be silent as to his works.

Sir, I have found you an argument; but I am not obliged to find you an understanding.

Wednesday

What the hell am I going to write about?
Maybe that funny site my friend sent me? I am bitter, but despite effort, still non-asian. Probably not a man either. So what could I write about better than him?

There's a debate raging about whether polar bears are a threatened species or not. That's neat. Also kind of sad to realize one day we may have to contend with trying to convince our children that white bears existed ("Yah, right, Dad. Hands off my brownie."). Come to think of it, they are weird, aren't they? Maybe this is nature fixing a mistake? Moving on.

Apparantly the phrase, "Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo." is a complete and gramatically correct sentance. The meaning behind it is, "Bison from Buffalo, New York that harass other bison from Buffalo, are themselves harrased by other Buffalo Bison." Now buffalo looks like gibberish. You're welcome.

I have a recipe for steak sauce.
1 clove garlic
6 Tbsp Tahini
1/2 c vegetable oil
1/2 c soy sauce
1 Tbsp Mustard
Blender.

Other good recipies include; Gnocchi, cottage cheese, and shredded chedder (Microwave, drain off excess water, eat) bananas chopped, mixed with cottage cheese, and my special smoothie; Bananas, blueberries, milk, and soy protein powder. I distrust eating things I can't microwave or blender.

Perhaps I could tell riddles?
What is interesting about this request;
"May I have a large container of coffee? Thank you."
other than, as one friend suggested, it is unusually polite for a coffee drinker.
Once you find the key, it's easy as pi.

Maybe writing about Kung fu? Last night we learned, "Badass Elbow Attack with bonus 'Dignity-Remover' Backfist". We followed that exercise with "Steps to make your legs go 'Euwww'". I am now convinced someone snuck into my room and sewed sandbags into my thighs.

Work is fairly exciting. I was being trained for a new site this past tuesday when "drama" occured. Interested parties can phone me for further details that probably shouldn't go on a public blog.

This marks the point where I really lose all my ideas for writing today. Thanks for reading!