Saturday, May 25, 2013

Jane Erye Workshop



There was no possibility of a friend coming over that night. The distance between the three of us had grown like a river flooded by a hurricane. We each went in our own direction and sat in different places around the centre and let ourselves take different paths; no longer all three thinking the same, doing the same, breathing the same.

We had decided to speak our minds, to say when we didn’t like something or weren't interested or didn’t have enough money.  We all have cats and exersize patterns and passion that keep us apart rather than together.

We had been wondering in unhappiness ever since. Missing that law of threes, those times when three people laugh at the same time, just by a glance, a thought, a smile, when we all know what’s going on; When we know each other that well.

What do I do? I keep going like that’s the way it has to be, like that’s the path that we have to go down. like there’s nothing you can do about it. I have one of them over at a time, for chicken wings, or to watch the great Gatsby or other such movie, but it’s been so long since the three of us sat and talked about life.

 I know it won’t last forever or will it. We stand unsure of what to say to each other, afraid of the positivity, afraid of the negativity. I do know I miss those chats and that time and hope we can find a way back together as our new selves.

Was that our time? Or will something happen that will pull the three of us back together again?

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Before Sunrise

After the sleep
Comes the Awake
The budding eyes
The dreamy glance
 
Cloudy with the past
And the future
Like the sunrise
Two worlds one mind
 
Slowly coffee is brewed
Slow motion
And bitter sweet
Sugar and milk
 
To want more
Than just the dream
Of the running night
And take instead reality
 
Slowly hand in hand
A lover on the sand
And run ahead
And stay behind
 
Meet side by side
See eye to eye
Start small
Laugh with the moment
 
It’s not the way I dreamed it
Honest and small
It’s really me
This sunrise of reality

Saturday, May 11, 2013

Mariska The Gypsy

I may be able to use this in the written version but not in the version I tell outloud, not yet

 
He traced his fingers
Across my back
In the shape of
The rose and thorns
The tattoo of his ancestors
 
There’s a silence between us
I know what he means
He wants me to be
A Gypsy too

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Motions

 not my photo

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.

Sunday, May 5, 2013

Adventure in Dew


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 pj’s.

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 permission first?

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.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

60 minutes in B town


not a picture of paris
 
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 opportunities.

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 health.
 
And Hey if I want paris I'll read julia childs life in france.