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Come over and see me?
Here is where I live, with the prerequisite rooms which many stuffs inhabit.
Adding to what you already know.
I sleep here. I sit there.
My sweetest face.
Those I have read. Those I have not.
Five make it all go.
Seductive, isn't it?
There are play things and other amusements.
Stacks and stacks, for listening and for watching.
Picture me earlier. Picture others never known.
Here is where I am learning to live.
Colours here. Whiteness there.
I'm striping myself for you.
Longingly I would have done it sooner.
Where to take you next?
Thunder rumbles. Out of nowhere a storm blows in. My umbrella turns inside out, as usual. I take cover with others in a bus shelter. Rain and winds rock the tempered glass panels. Barely holding together in the tempest.
A break in the storm, I make for the building across the street. Safety from violent nature.
I stop mid way to my destination.
Not one like the others, made of the winds, clouds and debris. It is a pillar of fire, swirling, twisting, almost Biblical.
It consumes others in its funnel. Drawing near to me, it passes me over.
Hi! Good luck.
Hello. Good luck 2 U 2.
No profile? M/F?
R U married?
Yes, just recently. Got married in the summer. U?
Divorced 7 years now. Kids?
None yet. U?
4, but I'd love to have 4 more.
Haven't made up my mind to have kids yet.
U must be young.
47. Kids change everything.
Never been sure I wanted them. Still not sure.
U must be nice looking.
I look alright.
U must look much better than alright.
Nice game. Another?
No I have to go.
Dear travel log,
This year will be a wonderful year of adventures. Kansas City, where I'll be prim, proper and professional. Can't forget to put my glasses on a chain. Must also remember to pack all my cardigans.
Just after the beginning of the new year it is off to Las Vegas. A wonderful land of adult amusements. While I can't do the quickie wedding at the drive-in chapel, I'll have to remember my pasties and g-string.
My other trip, dear log, is to the world of childhood amusements, Disney World. Must remember to pack my maillot and mouse ears.
In my bag, which I refuse to call a purse, there are many essentials including one wallet, prescription glasses, non-prescription sunglasses, lip balm, several pens, three small candies and one battered black sketch book held together with two thick blue rubber bands.
Please note the terminology used as sketch book, not note book. Several months ago, I wrote a couple of pages of text in this book. Some ideas that had to be kept. What was were they? Here's the kicker, it isn't legible any more. I should know better, by now, not to use pencil when writing things down.
Small kiosk serving coffee and treats. Background noise local radio station. Coffee woman (CW) pours coffee, takes out change and coffee card. Cashier doing paper work, facing the other way. CW jingles keys or clears throat to get Cashier's attention.
And now the latest on Toronto boy Lukas Rossi...
I like that Lukas Rossi.
Yeah, he's hot!
He deserved to win that show.
For sure. He was good.
Cashier takes money, stamps coffee card of CW.
Did I just say that?
Love is just another word.
I love you is three single syllable words that I infrequently say to you.
I don't want to have to qualify the middle word, yet, after all that has passed between us, I feel that I must.
I love you, doesn't mean I'm in love with you. Please don't interpret it that way. Though, once I would have meant it with that meaning.
I love you because you are important to my life in many ways. Another word just doesn't express the depth of what I feel.
I do love you and all, you know.
I meet you while walking down a twisting and turning country road, on the other side of the escarpment. There are tall hills in fog off in the distance. It is a place where we could never possibly meet.
We sit down in the green grass to take in the quiet of the scene. I hug you from behind, burying my face in your curly red hair. Innately I know that you need comforting for something you'll never tell me about. You turn your head towards me with a slight smile on your face, moving a hand to my shoulder.
At this time of year there is a tradition gift giving. As an adult, I know when presented with any present, it is the thought that counts. The person took a good deal of time to pick out something for me.
When the two of you are constantly on the outs, the gift should mean more, an apology. Today those gifts can't and don't have those positive feelings.
They are beautifully wrapped, but they might as well be garbage picked out of some dumpster. All I can see is shitty the way you have treated me through out the year.
You can't see the subtlety and beauty before your eyes. You see a simple composition, a rose. You tell me it is something anyone could do. "Here, I could buy you a real one," you joke.
My argument to you is this, not everyone can make pretty pictures with a camera. There is a level of technical skill that needs to be obtained. But, you can't translate what you see me do, the hours put in to the mediocre things I produce, in to what you are seeing before you.
In this moment, I know you will never understand.
Speaking with you today, I thought I felt none my anger. Some was hidden, perhaps because I'm mellow, on vacation.
I know much of what you will say is bullshit to cover the truth. Life is not that smooth. No real problems here. You called to keep me informed, yet, I knew all of what you were going to say.
You say you don't live the collar any more. It is only your work, not your life, though you say "God bless" at the end of the call. Those words have no meaning to me. They give me no comfort.
Hello? (female voice 1)
Is this the girls only cell? (female voice 2)
What are you talking about? (female voice 1)
I saw this phone number on the garbage can at corner of my block. (female voice 2)
Is this some-kinda joke? (female voice 1)
No. It said girls only cell with this number. (female voice 2)
I can't believe he did that! (female voice 1)
Huh? (female voice 2)
I can't believe he wrote it on a garbage can. (female voice 1)
Brutal break-up? (female voice 2)
The worst. Fuckin' shithead! (female voice 1)
Men! (female voice 2)
Hello? (male voice)
Hey. This the girls only cell? (female voice)
Oh my god. I can't believe it worked. You're the first girl to actually call. (male voice)
Mmm. (female voice)
You are not some transvestite?(male voice)
I'm not a transvestite! (female voice)
How old are you? Are you cute? (male voice)
I just turned 18. I love to party. I love a good fuck.(female voice)
Holy shit! Can I meet you? (male voice)
What kind of a sick twisted fuck are you? You're really mental! Who puts their cell number on a garbage can? (female voice)
A dark forest. Black trees silhouetted against a dark grey night sky. There are no stars in this scene. In the middle of the forest is a child. A male child, naked and curled in the foetal position. His white skin is the only thing glowing in this clearing in the forest.
"He is Damien," says a deep voice.
All I can do is stand there, looking at him. My heart beats so rapidly in fear. The child named Damien isn't mine. He doesn't move, nor does he appear to even breathe.
The voice says nothing more to me.
Standing naked before the mirror this morning thinking my father is afraid of women. The ones he can control, those who are weak, they are the females that he feels he can safely be with.
Such a simplistic analysis.
I look at my female body. The breasts, the triangle of pubic hair, the wide hips all identify me as female. Even if I cut my hair short, those tits would identify me as female. There is no hiding them.
My body is part of this issue. My personality and mentality the other factors.
I will never be accepted by him.
Don't forget to lock the bathroom cubicle.
No wild parties while I am away.
Keep your pecker up.
Nice girls don't wear black.
Always try to be a gracious hostess.
You have a very physical relationship with that boy, don't you?
Don't sit on the cold concrete you'll get hemorrhoids.
Sleep is the best medicine when you are sick.
What would people think if they saw you like that?
Leave your sister alone!
He's controlling you.
Just pray to God. He'll give you the answers in time.
You always hated being dirty.
Does your friend want a beer?
A large window with an eastern view provides light as needed during the day. While the standing light in the corner keep me seeing when the daylight disappears.
Here are the plants I water once a week. See my knitting and my easel. Please don't look too closely at the unfinished painting.
You will find my cat here when the door is open. He'll stretch out and nap on the love-seat. I hide here when I need to, with the television, computer and CD player to keep me company.
It is a room that holds most of my worldly pleasures.
What is with this floor? It slants up at an angle I swear is steeper than forty-five degrees. I grab the round metal hand railing and start to make the long climb upwards. Upwards to what?
Hand over hand, my progress is slow. Words of encouragement, in my mother's voice, come from behind me. My ambition to reach the top is stoked. Yet, as I get closer to the top, to my goal, the more my feet start to slip out from under me. I slip, then catch myself just before I fall.
I can't see ahead. The end unknown.
Walking through the parking lot, back to our car, after checking out the downtown shops, I ask you a question about some generic piece of trivia or popular culture reference, which I thought you wouldn't know. After responding correctly you retort "So what do I win?"
In a voice much louder that intended I say "I lovely shot to the head!"
We both chuckle.
I notice laughter, not ours, just within my range of hearing. I look over to see a man getting in to his truck> He makes eye contact with me. He's laughing along with us.
The hat is yellow with brown embroidered stripes, small eyes and mouth. It resembles a Japanese cartoon feline's face. What really sets it off are the pointed ears at each corner. On one ear is a white flower replete with pink centre.
It ain't your brother's baseball cap. It ain't your Dad's toque. Mom wouldn't wear it to church on Sunday.
The young cashier shyly says, "I love your hat."
"Quite outrageous," said one woman to another. The other responded, after a pause, "I wondered what you were looking at... (chuckle) Would you look at her hat?!"
This is a beautiful Christmas tree. It is ten feet of white lights and sparkling decorations on green. In amongst all the glitz and tinsel, there is one string of lights that isnít working. Why is it the one string that is just beyond my reach?
The blue light is the one I have to fix. As I unscrew it all the other lights go out. I slip the blue one in to my pocket. I replace it with another white bulb. All the lights go back on.
I caress the bulb in my pocket. No one will miss it.
I get off the train dressed in my favourite grey dress. You know the one I mean. No one is there to meet me, so I start off from the station, walking to town. I take the small dirt lane on the left. My bare feet are soon coated in mud. I lift the hem of my dress up past my knees, to avoid getting it dirty, but it is already muddy.
Passing the hedge my friend falls in beside me. He looks passed my muddied knees and hem. His longing look at my body beneath my dress says everything.
Dear child of the computer revolution, you never used a typewriter, did you? One of the lucky few born at the right time, who made the transition from the juvenilia of pen and ink on paper to the mature digital world.
On holiday you thought youíd be lost without your high tech gadgets. How easily you unplugged from your digital world. You picked up that low-tech pen and notebook to write for your high-tech monthly project. For someone who isnít a writer, you barely missed a beat, when away from your computer.
Do worry your secret is safe with me.
The family was gathered around the table. Dinner was dished out to the fine china. Glasses sparkled with wines and waters. Just below these were the paper crackers.
This year they were covered in silver and gold foil paper. The Mom pulled with the grandfather. Pop! The father pulled with the grandmother. Pop! The maiden aunt pulled with the son. Pop! Pop! Crinkle! It was heard, as all were putting on the goofy paper hats, ďoh dear, there is a man in my Christmas cracker!Ē
Replacing the cheap plastic toys was this small man, neatly dressed in a three-piece suit.
Even on Christmas day, with almost every store closed, there were two schmucks out in their mini-van. Was it unwanted Christmas presents they had just received, which they felt the need to recycle? There they were at the local Value Town store where others would repurchase them on Boxing day, after they had been sorted and tagged with appropriate prices.
These two were the only others out that day. As I walked by I thought, perhaps they donít celebrate Christmas. Was it just that they had some free time and decided to clean out the house on that particular day?
Looking out my kitchen window on Sunday morning I see her. As usual, she is loading things into the trunk of her car. And as usual, I'm checking out her ass in those army-like pants she often wears. She turns towards me and I duck behind the curtain.
She heads inside. I pull the venetian blinds. This time I think it is laundry which she is putting in the trunk. This time when she turns towards me I see her fly is down. Shocked she is sans panties, exposing creamy skin and reddish hair to the coldness of the day.
A mad woman lives in my head. She is kept at bay by a plain yet heavy wooden door with a large metal lock. Like Mrs. Rochester, she is a prisoner that few know about. The insanity in my attic.
She feasts on my anger, my loneliness, my insecurities and my sadness. Though I have discovered that drink keeps her quiet better than any tranquilizer, anti-depressant or therapist.
The other night she gently she picked the lock while I slept. Standing in the hall naked, crying, she rhythmically caressed her shoulders rather than yelling at the top of her lungs.
The moonstone fell out of my ring. I'm down on my hands and knees in the middle of the busy hotel lobby searching for it. Heart pounding, I find the first piece. Oh god, it has shattered! The three pieces, when fit together no longer make a circle, but a triangle much larger than the original stone.
A big yellow school bus, the kind I use to ride on to high school, is inside this elevator, headed to the fourteenth floor? I leave the elevator on my knees, out a little door, barely big enough for me to fit through.
Green, blue, red
A giant toy bug
Five to six pounds of fun
Where would we put it?
On top of the shelves
In the bedroom
Anywhere we can
No. Again I say no
Three feet of stuffed caterpillar
Too much for me
It is a bargain
Worth double the cost
No. Again I say no.
You aren't six years old any more.
I don't want to play the parent.
Feel the softness of it.
How fun it would be to own.
No. Again I say no.
You are 34 years old.
Much too old for such a big toy.
I really think she hates me. So few people truly hate me. It is very refreshing.
How can I tell? Today, she could barely look at me. Only two words passed her lips when I was in her presence.
Hate from her is nothing.
Why does she hate me? The simple answer is, I get what I want. I'm not afraid of her and she knows it! Sure, I play a game, but I don't let her get away with the mind games she plays.
Am I smug about it? Yes. I have every reason to be. I'm that good.
The best sound in the world tonight is the sound of the champagne cork. The loud resonant POP that it makes when leaving the bottle. If you do it the right way you will spill not a drop.
A sophisticated drink, like the martini. Simple. Elegant. Almost old fashioned.
Chilled to perfection, this divine liquid enters the crystal flutes. A golden colour for a golden night. Ribbons of bubbles catching the light, running up to the glass' rim. They perform a beautiful dance both in the glass and on the tongue.
Cheers to another year over. Cheers to another beginning.
The Tip Jar