"it’s on but

i don’t know

whether i want

to be

her, fuck her

or borrow

her clothes."

from “the frightening truth about desire” by Daphne Gottlieb

winter never ceases

march 8 or 9th (i don't know)

i am feeling like im paused again

only after a time of constant going

i am still now, trapped in longings of ideas

and all encompassing stillness

when i'm spattering the smears of colours i don't realize

what i am saying and

when i say i am going what I mean is:

Usually, it doesn't last for longer than a few moments at a time.

But, when my limbs are rocking and my body is

buzzing

and the waves of the beef

are swelling my drums

i can hold it for much longer.

i never considered needing it but when i had it,

i was present and going

moving faster than i ever could have thought

and once it left i hadn't been

able to fill

it the same

and

my limbs aren't happy without a hand to hold

and my drums can't live without the laughter when it ended

i want to move again. for some reason, no matter how much i am aware of the doom of the grey when the sun tires of its north, i am always slammed into oblivion or a place that is so blatantly still, i can't even think of anything else to call it. I just know that I'm deep down under everywhere I want to be -- I don't even want to try and claw myself out.

And, Here at the bottom of still the last thing I'd like to do is knife a fucking rainbow.

What do you most miss about childhood?

"Knowing the world was limitless."

july 13 2010

amazing how the best times

are never recorded

at least not in the way

of scribbled placement;

pen to paper

little pilots and their fine black tips

i never used to write like this

rusty, wobbled shapes

remember when i was

the two

(do you?)

feelings of placement

feeling myself living

rather than watching

myself exist

so naturally stimulating

we literally felt high

and if i'd looked down

i may have seen myself

floating

explosions

erosions

and he hasn't come back

A/word

the pokings of the chives from last summer
are drenched with nicotine’d roots
and the incessant blow of the force
Of their arms

Just being.

Just Hi.
Just Hello.
Just resting.
Just enjoying.

Honesty is a hard one
And like I answered earlier
with that table-talk game
kindness is easier

(for me at least)

i have to go home
but i love you
and will see you soon

If you told me you could only love a lover i would understand you

I can only love a lover or
A brother
some people can take in so many
they are filled over
the brim

and i am not
one of those people

i am an often-constant
he could attest to this
fire ants in the 6th month
plaid hats in the 7th
shuttering and finding more hats
thereafter
truth

Just Hi.
Just Hello.
Just resting.
Just enjoying.

Just being.

i've lost it

and i know i'm not getting it back

i've lost you

and i know i'm not getting you back

one not to know (revised)

I've always been one to know

what the truth may be
but moreover I tend

to avoid confrontation.

Though maybe
my fault is that i simply
just can't handle
tangibility,

and i'm grasping

to remain the right-brained

wanderer i was

my dead tonkinese cat

in her basket in the car

Wrapped in the blanket y knitted for her time.

So sure we were she'd go before
she'd have to,

yet y's hands gave up

the needles long before

her fur cased the rock

that lay atop of it

I opened the van door to the wicker

covered in her scent,
if death is supposed

to smell then
it smelled a lot

like wood

the basket itself

held together

with frayed twist-ties
yet i couldn't stop thinking

about the noisy car-door

I touched the red yarn she was kept in and

I thought she may be stiff,

though I pondered her lively

it wasn't long before i was asked

to say goodbye

a ball of joints and fur,

and her cloudy left eye

(blinded she was from birth, or a scratch,

my mom's first pet,
I've always had a thought it was the reason she chose her)

I knew that she was gone anyway,

and "Forever" is how i answered

when

the younger neighbour had asked

for how long

she was going to be sleeping

Perhaps she thought the reason

we bury them in blankets

was to render her a kitten

once more, or twice or forever,

how magical to think we could keep

such friends

by every once and again

putting them to sleep
in their beds

(and

putting them to sleep

really meant

putting them to sleep)

I knew she wasn't there
anymore,
and that's the first time
i've felt Forever
and
when it happens now
it feels
just like
that.

Santa Claus at the bottom of the stairs,

On the eve when I'd hear

the hoof-prints on the roof

scrambled out of bed after hearing the chimney doors closing

(or opening),
Hearing a

Cough like my dad's.

He Coughs like my dad!

I thought.

Waiting at the top of the balcony

covered in pink carpet; trimmed with

stained wood
hiding behind a poinsettia

the moment to glance

I knew I had it,

Knowing I'll know the truth

if I choose to want it

Thinking the most i'd get from

a moment like this is

not that I'd know one way

or the other,

But that I may be the only child in the world

who gets to see; six year old

bragging rights

and six year old

pretension

i thought i was the only one

who still believed

anyway

After the cough and

the absence on the right side of the bed,

it should have been enough
to draw, but I chose to listen
to him anyway,

ruffling around,
throat-clearing uncanny and
nibbling on cookies
(carrots for the reindeer)
i didn't look, and i still believed
i didn't want to betray
him i think,
out his secret
or perhaps i just didn't

want to be wrong,

or perhaps i just

wanted to keep

believing.

much later
when i saw her

hide
the elf on the top of the fridge,
i jumped back around the corner,
watched my mirrored chin
tremble,
and then (even still)
i went
to

go find it.

and that's the first time
i've felt that

i'm losing my green

and
when it happens now
it feels
nothing

like that

my reaction to people

is not unlike my reaction to insects

when the sheer inkling of another beating heart,

when overcome with a sense

of sharing the air,

the sight of

scurried bodies or stock still

silhouettes

sends me off my feet

screaming my way into

the other direction

unbroken heart (cookie)

We walked out the door to the brisk, blueness of wintered sidewalk, carrying on our morning routine. When we got to the bakery, I walked in first while he lagged behind, smoking outside. Normally he fetches our coffee in the morning; he's able to jump out of the warmth faster than I can on most days, but for some reason today the trend was different. If He's there, they know our order, (a Large and Medium, please!) but because I'm usually two steps behind, how could they translate I was the Large Coffee drinker. While I was cream-and-sugaring the coffees, He walked in, offering a hand as he passed me a lid for my cup. We've been working well together, lately, a friend told us. We hadn't thought about it, but I guess thats the beauty of Content. You only have time for retrospect when you're feeling shafted. They're right though, we hadn't noticed that we stopped treading water and were now surfing steadily along side eachother. Choosing the right battles, embracing everyday. We were about to leave when the Barista behind the counter asked Him if he would like anything else.

"No thank you," he replied, "We're good with just the coffees."

"How about a broken sugar cookie?"

"Sure!"

That night we got home after work and sprawled ourselves along the cushions, emptying the stuff that we accumulated in our bags that day.

"Here's that broken cookie," He said, as he lifted a crumpled white paper bag out of his backpack. He laid it on the ottoman, and I picked it up, carefully removing it from its wrapping, inspecting it.

"This sure doesn't look broken,"

"Hey, yeah, its not." He replied.

"Maybe she gave it to you because she has a crush on you!"

"Or, maybe she gave it to me to give to you!"

"Awwwwwwww!"

Deciding we should share the cookie, i broke it down the middle and handed the big half to Him (just to be nice).

"Nah, I'm good," He said halfheartedly as He motioned for me to eat it.

"Don't mind if i do." We resumed our places on the cushions while i picked at the heart shaped cookie, flipping through channels mindlessly until we retired for the night. We fell asleep that evening sprawled in our respective positions, barely touching eachother but definitely touching eachother, like every night. And then, drifting in and out of consciousness on the brink of tomorrow, He whispered to me matter-of-factly, "Hey, it was Valentines day."

yaya

There is a box upstairs at the bottom of my bed. M tells me its filed with old notes, and photographs from her childhood. She left it there because she knows I have an excruciating fixation for old dialogue; lost mementos. She knows I wish I could touch the 60's like she did, feel the breeze of the next decade wrap its locks around my shoulders, tube topped bikinis and a pool filled with blue so fresh in hindsight its waddings seemed new despite being filled over a month before. I flip through square, matted photographs the size of my palm. Fresh faces of family friends attached to little tan bodies, forming themselves into cannonballs, mouths on brown bottles, wooden lawn chairs sprawled next to a spread of chips and cheese, and M. She's thrown over the shoulder of a handsome, longhaired being. His smile speaks to me as he smirks at the lens holding her over his shoulder; her left hand twisted behind her to keep the bottom of her white bathing suit up. I can hear this image. The tiles of the patio looked the same then as they did as far back as I can remember. I feel the grains of sand on my shoeless foot and smell the anthills around the dandelions. I can look beyond the pool, see the clothesline collapsed in the far corner of the yard. I've never been over there. I'm amazed at how large the yard is, and how little of it my hands have touched. There was never any need.
I find a stack of letters and open the first one. Y is speaking of the kitchen renovation and the colour of the new carpeting. Shag Green. They're building a sauna, too. Like the Yard, I've never seen inside the sauna. I could tell you the number of creases in the wood, the number of nails in the pane, but I have no idea what its like to step inside, look out from in. I can see inside the kitchen window stained with years, look onto the stove and remember that it is newer than the walls that surround it. I can see the stacks of papers piled onto the table next to the bricked divider. I can remember when I discovered it was olive green. Beyond the olive table is the Room, the bane of our imaginations, filled with treasures only a childish mind could relish. It'd been nearly ten years since we were at the house, but when we finally did go, we congregated in the Room. Sure enough, A found a typewriter beside an old photograph of Y which he was promptly encouraged to keep. Beyond the Room, there is another Room. Padlocked and dusted (perhaps more so than the rest of the house), I'm fairly convinced that door hadn't been opened since I attempted as a child. I can recall opening its hinges many years before, hearing its creak, and its cobwebs so mature they draped like stuff only made to look like them. In its blackness hung a lamp, to the corner of the wooden stairs void of footsteps for over a decade. This time, we decsended. More cobwebs. Mason Jars filled with tobacco liquid. A bicycle nearly consumed with rust, knitting needles. Canned food. Photographs. Frames. Camera equipment.
I read dozens of letters, most are addressed to her, and I'm shocked at her age in them. She's younger than me. The rest of them are addressed to A, and It dawns on me how little I could have known her. It makes me wish I believed in an After, makes me remember sheepishly considering her a life without her (Just to see how i'd imagine it), and I couldn't. At the time, I even laughed, it was so preposterous! I prided my young self on my ability to represent feelings I'd never before felt, imagine scenarios I'd expect to react - but this, I couldn't. I remember the moment I did. She'd just been with me in the living room, talking to me. I can't recall our conversation, only her back leaving me. Walking from the sunken pink carpet, onto the squared hardwood, to the detailed linoleum floor of the kitchen, I tried (and failed) to imagine it, but I could only get as far as her sitting above me, repeating, "Oh, Sweetheart," as she looked down at me trying to communicate with her grandmother who just wasn't there.
I sat on Her couch - barely gaping like his on the right - in front of the fishtank, now dry and void of any life - except bacteria - a far cry from the ocean'd microcosm that housed the plecostumus' and the red tailed shark. I wondered if he ever sits on this side, wondered if he ever has the curious mind like I do when thinking of the four walls of the sauna I've never seen from inside. Living someone's eyes for a moment, or - trying to- is he eager to see even the box from that angle? Pretend for a moment she is playfully rolling cigarettes over on his side? Does he imagine her print on the dolls on the chesterfield, along the banister? Can he even look at a cartooned green frog without succumbing to his lumped throat? Does he run the tap in the bathroom after he's gone? Does it hurt too much for him to even try?
Through the letters and photographs I find a keychain. Plastic, lettered, hearted and cauterized. It spells my name but doesn't feel like it belongs to me. I hold it, rolling its letters around the twine, inspect its blemishes - its heart now a circle; its D practically squared.

I don't know my age, but I'm younger than ten, and older than five. There's an event going on at school. Track and Field. It feels different. I'm frantic, running around the building, searching. Never one to step out of line, I start to cry when the bell rings realizing I'm without something I started my day with. I can't speak. I'm afraid of being seen while I sob. I notice E's hair next to the window in the classroom. It reaches her hips, sandy blonde, thick. Not a hair out of place. She's concerned.
"She needs to find something," she volunteered to the teachers worried look. "It means a lot to her and she lost it."
This is the beginning of what I can only describe as My Ailment. I lose things every day. I may find them again later, after I've stopped panicking, and, given up on searching, and most of the time these things are small. But on this day, I'd really done it.
"What's it look like?" Mrs. N asks me.
"It's a keychain.... its got... letters on it....and a heart....it says, 'Yaya'."
"Yaya...whats that?" She asked, forgetting I was about to implode.
"Can i please go look for it?" I pleaded with her.
Mrs. N conducted her class like she did her life, I'm guessing, because she let us do whatever we want all year. "You like art? You can paint all day! You like math? Here's the textbook." The only thing she ever insisted was that we were doing something, and she was keen on Australia so we seemed to gravitate toward that anytime there was a need for formal instruction. She also liked math games and flashcards, which is I think why my math skills are limited to the first eleven times tables.
I scoured the school. Perimeter'd the grass of the field. Our school was noted for its generous outdoors; unlike our intown counterparts whose playtime consisted of a cemented chain link recess, we had a lush yard filled with organized soccer, several monkey bars, and designated ball hockey/hackey sack areas. Normally i was glad to be able to find a spot in the yard where no one on earth could see me, but now, I berated this area for having even more space to lose this precious trinket.
"Don't worry, we'll find it. I'll help you." E reiterates, and I believe she is as hopeful as she seems. I'd always instinctively surrounded myself around less-than-scattered brains; and I'm not ashamed to say they've pulled me out of my self inflicted ruts too many times to count. I remember thinking she looked so angelic; her freckles bouncing off her face in the sun formed a new pattern every day, and her blue eyes matched her golden hair so perfectly, standing next to her I didn't have to tell anyone I didn't share her bewitching aura. I've always felt a strange inkling to embrace those willing to help me, and never let go. I could kiss their lips for as long as they'd let me. There have been times when I've felt True Love, sprouting from a circumstance that showed me kindness isn't always so hard to come by.

I never found it, and at the time I thought I would never forget the feeling. I haven't, because I still lose things, and I've lost things that are as irreplaceable and priceless as that. I remember things, but not until I discovered my own etched seven piece ornament in the box of forgotten mementos did I realize how lost these memories indeed were. In that box of paper and knick knacks, that keychain was the only memory I can remember suppressing, the only memory I'd created for myself. My mother and I bought Y that keychain from a place and time I don't recall, for no particular reason that I remember. It was pay-by-the-charm, and we kept it small with just the letters and the hearts. Friendship bracelets were big in those days, and after she was gone I remember thinking she wore out long before the chain could gradually slip away like it was supposed to. I remember thinking I had nothing else tangible her hands had touched, forgetting the polish she painted on my nails, forgetting that every moment of mine slumbered or awake in my own existence is a simple, extraordinary reaction to her's.

Coat tales

This jacket isn't warm by any means but it's soaked in the streets of praha
Each block patterned uniquely with each hand laid stone
The pocket still has the bonbon the stranger gave me
Lost in translation and lost from his room
Viennas courtyard terraces held up by white goddesses and their dust left on the shoulders of my jacket when I perched
Protected by serpents and bulgy eyed men
The pickled smell of the christkindlmarkt and
Its giant sour creamed potatoes
He and I agree we remember the sidewalks of Berlin blanketed in snow
But the only white we were seeing was the streamline of clouds and the paleness of their beautiful faces in the autumn light
The spirals of Amsterdam and the colour of it's constant-- like looking through a blue glass while under a canopy
That could also be the level at which we stood below the sea and that I was
Looking through my lashes
Most of the time
In London's stoned gates I didn't need it's use
The sun shone so brightly we sweat through our first layers
We were so high on new we didn't feel the rain either
I wish i could feel it again
Like I can smell it in this jacket