L(y)earning

"Don't you ever learn?"
Oh but yes, yes I learn.
I learn in the quiet ways, the side ways, the hidden ways. You are angry with me, impatient; what are you doing now?
I willing leap into my mistakes again, ("You think something different will happen? It's exactly the same!") but oh, you don't see. Something has changed. I have. This new me hasn't made the same mistake. It needs to learn. To science this mistake. After the error, I devour my mistakes like creme bruille, so sweet, breaking the crispy crust.

Watch me learn.

Now available in a smelley box on wheels!

In self-defence against my driving I have decided to start jumping (i.e. NOT drving) all of my runs.
The positive? More time to write, think, and relax my overstrained forearms.
The negative? Not everyone in the shop is a better driver than me. It just means I won't be pegged with anymore accidents.
In other news I have broken down and purchased a car.
Angels weep.

My roommate Jared's anti-depressing advice

"Well, I've been feeling kinda bummed out lately..."
"You should stop eating cactuses."
"I...uh...Yah. Yah that might work."

Stolen Recollection

Trees flip past like the legs of a million soliders marching. Fields carefully tended iced in frost. A steel silo stands like a bugle call beacon.
Remembering, by this little red smile, what was given up for me. Young boys, older men, left home, hearth, hearts, to travel far away to the cold and fear, to fight for me. Plans left off, opportunities sacrificed, lives cut short.
In the morning and at the going down of the sun,
We will remember them.

As the poet says

Transformed utterly, a terrible beauty is born.
For once I am reminded of the power of my sex. The launching of a thousand ships from the look in her eyes, curves of a graceful arm shatter an empire, her tears salting the ground.
My motherly grief denied I turn to my other soltice; the avenging fury of a lost angel, wielding my rage like a scythe, laying waste, ravaging in my despair. Full aware of my childish actions, I am as powerless to stop them as those in my path.
I, Hiroshima.
I am a woman scorned.
Hell hath no fury.

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.