I woke up neither happy nor sad, just in the middle, merely a
state of motion. I know the things I had to do and commenced doing them. No
feeling of happy like that child running down the road right now meeting up
with a friend after school. Nor sad like a lover leaving the house for a long
trip away from home and all she knows. Just motion, forward and due to
tiredness, some repetitive motion; going back and forth trying to remember the
nothingness that was forgotten.
It was not like university days when there was always an
adventure; Like little lanterns floating down the river, each person a light,
each light shone like a beacon to new ideas and new adventures; each day a
million lanterns in the night.
I woke up from dreams, and nightmares, of doors opening. I
woke up a few times after a front door, a hallway door, a door I had never seen
before, opened and someone, something began to enter. Each time I woke up. I
understood that doors opening were a good thing but so many bad feelings came
along with it.
It was not like university when everything was light. Now
people have faces and hair and pasts that push them forward and hold them down.
So opening a new door is both exhilarating and frightening at the same time. A
lover becomes beautiful and evil. There are no beacons, nothing to say this is
right or this is wrong, only the present only the movement forward.
I woke up and went to work, there were other people going
through the motions, some happy some sad, some so sad they’re happy, some so
happy they’re sad. We seemed to meet by the coffee maker and wish each other a
good morning, and pump another cup of caffeine into our souls, waiting for five
o clock, waiting for that sound of our own swipe tag sending us home to happy.
I came home and had another cup of coffee, and for a moment
there was a feeling; I was tired and then happy to be home. I was happy that I
had found a place that was so perfect and so wrong at the same time, and like
the dreams where doors open, I had seen another door open that day, and enter
something both beautiful and evil and began a new phase of my life.
There’s a chill in the air this morning. Can you feel it? It’s
early enough that the dew is still fresh on the grass. Breathing makes the
widows in the sun room steam up, and I put my favorite wool sweater on over my
There’s a little girl who has just learned to open the door
on her own. She’s the independent type, she has to reach up a bit over her head
to get the door knob. Once or twice gets her morning hair tangled in her hand
and around the knob.
She gets herself outside while her mother is making coffee
in the kitchen down the hall.
Outside she ran across
the grass to a patch of yellow flowers. “Dandelions” she whispered to herself.
Her tiny finger reached out and pressed down on one of the Dandelions leaves.
The dew, like a diver in a competition jumped off the leaf and splashed her
face. She giggled and looks up at her mom.
Her mother is frightened at this new turn of her daughters
growing up, and doesn’t know whether or not to set down rules. Should she be
allowed to go outside on her own, or should she be punished for not asking
Mother takes her coffee out on the front step and watches
her daughter. The Sunday morning ritual seems to change a bit again as she
watches her daughter grow up.
I have given myself permission to write more than journals
and morning pages. It’s exciting and frightening at the same time.
A______ and I were walking across the river. We were each
heading to a different grocery store after being at the hug and slug, I needed
chocolate and she needed chicken wings. I’m next door to the hug and slug
(tavern) and 10 minutes from 3 of the grocery stores.
I may have been a little
intoxicated heading across the river.
She said “See Paris we have a river too, and it’s nicer than
yours.” That made my heart long for someplace else; anyplace and I would be a
different person, a better person.
A place with more
And then I thought about it tonight, it doesn’t matter where
you put me, I spend most of my hours by myself writing or talking to cats. A
city would have more opportunities but what I need is to sit my butt down and
write and read.
So there’s a confession to make. I’m not a vegetarian, or a
vegan. I was a vegan for a month and got so hungry I was referred to as a Goth heroin
addict. Yep I guess I looked sweet. I did the hemp seed, the brewers yeast the
salad the tofu the nuts I have Ellens cook book I have Alicia Silverstones
Vegan for intelligent Dummies I have so many things with Neal Bernards and Sarah Kramers name on it and still I
couldn’t do it. SO I broke down and had eggs which led to fish which led to
bacon which led to chicken. And you know what, I could get up the next morning
and function. And in the past when I
made plans during the weekend “Write an hour every night” I could do it on
Monday but after that I was too tired, here it is Wednesday and I have enough
focus to spend an hour writing.
And that was after a bad day.
I’ll still only post vegan food, but I’m not a vegan L
So Now what is my excuse not to sit and write and apply
myself and get shit done? I don’t have one. I am able to write every night. And
I don’t have to be in Paris to write. I can be in here and apply myself. It’ll
start with an hour of writing and lead to an hour of editing and going through
books and teaching myself to write better; Confidence Frosty Confidence and commitment
And Hey if I want paris I'll read julia childs life in france.
There was a human that showed up outside my door. They are
very rare this far out in the ‘verse not only because they nearly obliterated
themselves by polluting the planet but because they have so much trouble
adapting to life this far out.
I had a human once before as a child. It followed me home, I
couldn’t tell if it was male or female, with all it cloths and bashfulness.
There’s only one way to tell if a human is male or female they don’t want you
to know. They all look so much alike.
Humans are a lot of work. They get stinky so fast and have
to be cleaned almost every day. They need utensils to eat and this imagination
and worship of the Devine takes up so much time. Plus they get lonely so
easily. I had to give mine up because I couldn’t afford to get another one and
mine just moped all the time and played with its self. Mom said that meant it
needed a friend.
I went out in the back yard to see what this human wanted
now. Its cloths were all tattered and it was trying to rip blankets off my
clothes line. It had its dirty paws on my clean silk sheets. I tried to chase
it away, perhaps it would get on a ship and go to someone else’s planet.
But is sat on the lawn and made a horrible sound, it was
what my friend who breeds humans, on a planet with more oxygen, calls sad; such
a simple word for such an annoying sound. I just wanted it to stop that noise
I reached for its hand and brought it inside I took it to
the dinner room and offered it some human food I had from the time I looked
after a friends pair about a month ago. It was a little stale, but humans eat
anything. On their own planet they eat animals. Bacon?
This one ate what I gave it and it burped a bit, for a
moment I remembered why humans could be so cute, that little burp after they
eat. I went over to the neighbours to get some cloths and let the human soak in
the tub. This one insisted on bubble bath so the neighbor guessed I had a
female on my hands, said they could be moody and gave me and extra box of
My neigbour’s human, that just passed away, they have such a
short life span, was quite overweight, but she said until we find something
better these cloths will do in a pinch.
At home I cracked the door open slightly and threw in the
cloths, it squeaked a bit and then made the laughter sound, and started to
babble to itself. You either get the really quiet ones or the talkie ones, and
I assumed I had a talkie one on my hands.
Our friends and I go
out to the bar and spend hours guessing whether or not human chatter means
anything. They have a whole world they created cities and towns so their
squeaks and hen scratch must mean something.
It came downstairs and looked at the TV. It seemed to have
no idea how to turn it on. So I walked over to the wall and pressed a code that
picks up old TV signals from earth and it fell asleep on the floor watching a
show where they bite each other in the neck. They’re such a violent kind.
There was something cute and simple about it sleeping on the
floor so I decided for now that I would keep it and call it Misha.
I must have a daughter To take my place As I age To rule this queendom
I must have a daughter to Teach the world peace I must have a daughter To teach the world strength
She will be Perseverance
And rather than look for Any man who breaths I must look for the father
Of my daughter
That I dreamed of
I’ve dismissed her Until now
But she’s always
In the dream.
Just a little poem I wrote 5 minutes ago, I’m reading Mists
of Avalon and they’re going on about having a son. And I thought I’d write
about having a daughter. There’s a daughter in my dreams. Maybe I should listen
to what she says.
The chairs of the theatre are red. I walk out, it’s another
movie I don’t want to watch until the end.
I do that leave
movies half way through, especially when I go to see them alone. When I reach
the exit sign I turn around to look behind me.
On the screen there is a fire, there is something wrong in
the projection room and the fire burns in slow motion and I can see the
different lines of the film, each square of picture. Sometimes you I hear the
director’s voice end the scene. Cut and Print.
There is dirt and dust on the projector.
No one in the theatre seems to notice, everyone is quiet. A
couple in the front row are pointing at what’s in the fire, covering their
mouths from the smoke, wiping the heat from their brow. The start to look at me
and point at what needs to come be salvaged. I went to university with them,
they fell in love there and have been together ever since. I hardly recognized
There’s a whole past burning in the fire.
I decide walk back down the aisle. I decide to walk into the
fire. I find I can pull up a tray of canapés and have a snack, the catering
boss gives me a note that reminds me all that I have learned being there, the
people who were my friends. He said it’s ok that you ran away, I forgive you,
karma is looking you in the face telling you how it could have been done.
That’s what I did I ran away, rather than stop and see what
we could do I ran away. As I realized I ran away a fireman came and put out the
fire around the kitchen and there was a kitchen where I could make my own
canapés. Do my own cooking.
Beside the kitchen is the bathroom, the same one I cleaned
every day for 3 years. My boss and I walk in and look at the fire. He takes a
canapé. We are very relaxed. Said it never should have gone down the way it
did, it was all backwards, but this is a piece of you, the piece you ran away
I ran away.
It’s time to bring these scattered pieces home.
The fire fighters put out the fire, so much of it is ashes, that’s
what happens when you let your past burn, but there are scattered pieces to
bring home and set in my new house my new life. I clean the tarnish off the
copper of the old ship and the artifacts of the old museums. I remember that
who I was is part of who I am.
I am catering staff I am an actor a reader a writer a
houseperson a museum guide. They are all pieces of me, I need to accept them all in my life so
that I can move on with being me.