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I make no resolutions for the up coming year. Last year was a wild ride. It had mood swings like an unmedicated manic-depressive.
Would that my hopes could be more pertinent than promises that probably won't be fulfilled. No expectations should mean no disappointments. It could also mean no anticipation. Anticipation adds that extra special sauce to good events.
The year starts out as a slate with a few things written on it. By the end of it, the spaces will be full. A horrorvacuii of life events transpired, with the key ones illustrated more boldly than the others.
I still sometimes think I could live an ideal life, only to realize that no such life could exist. Everyone muddles through, makes mistakes, and random things occur in life throwing everything off kilter and out of balance. Even if I was a monk in a monastery spending my days illuminating manuscripts things would happen to take me away from what I was doing.
Perhaps it was all the religious teachings from when I was a child that lead me again and again towards this unattainable goal. I remind myself to relish the wabi sabi that comes with it all.
"I challenge you..."
Those words are music to my ears.
Invariably I lose, unless I am competing against myself.
Perhaps I've just convinced myself I always lose,
Forgetting the few times when I win.
I take your challenge.
Completion of two projects at once.
I'll get it done,
Don't know if I'll keep my head.
New methods of coping,
Will give me strategies for other times.
If you see these words here written,
You'll know I've won the challenge.
I'm getting close, but there is still
Much more to accomplish.
I'll win. I will win.
I want to win.
Las Vegas was spectacular. Hotels lit up, like the Christmas that had just past, in the middle of the desert. Airplanes lit up in the dark night sky.
Pop music piped in everywhere, was cheesy. The shows replete with topless showgirls, rhinestones and feathers, cheesy to the extreme.
Fly me back to Vegas, over those beautiful plains and rocky mountains. The redness of the desert. Such flatness leading to sharper, taller angles.
It was hard not to feel drunk, even when sober. The excess leading to visual overload, but not wanting to close my eyes for fear of missing anything.
It was a good news, bad news day - part I
The good news, dear and sweet little Grandma, who was still driving at ninety-one, was pulled over by an evil cop. Weaving all over the road she was. He was afraid she would side swipe a car on either side of the road.
Her driver's license and her nice Lexus are being taken away. Poor dear, she feels she'll lose her freedom, her escape. A relief for the rest of us, not having to worry she'll hit someone and kill them in one of those top news story incidents.
It was a good news, bad news day - part II
The bad news, dear sweet Dad announces he is getting remarried.
So, the divorce went through in early December, just close enough to Christmas to take some sweetness out of the holiday time. Guess, this plan has been in the works for a while now. Yes, he does plan to marry the skank he left my Mom for. The same one he's been having an affair with for years. YEARS!
Sometime soon, I'll have an ugly stepmother and some step brothers.
Really, I can't make this stuff up folks!
The bike has two pedals.
Two pedals going up and down.
One seat on this bike.
It has handlebars.
A heart monitor?
No wall plug.
This bike still has two pedals
And a seat.
Riding on false hills,
On my bike.
A bike going nowhere.
I'll go nowhere fast.
On my bike, nowhere slow.
Just the bike and me.
Pedals go up.
Pedals go down.
On my bike.
This bike of mine.
An indoor bike,
Bike 'o mine.
Small, orange and shaped like fish, but they don't taste like real cheddar cheese. It is a simulated flavour.
My grandmother use to buy them for my sister and I when we were very young children. Smuggling the large containers, the size of a large milk carton, up from the southern states.
I hadn't eaten them in decades, until today. They felt like such a natural comfort food fit with soup on a cold and snowy day. Made me really nostalgic for those younger more innocent days of childhood.
With the last one gone, the spell is broken, adulthood returned.
Soap Opera Life
An artistic dabbler who gives up when the going gets tough. Living a duality from an early age she has always played the lady in public. Yet in private she is over-the-top raucous with very base humor. Did she marry for money or love or perhaps just a little more one than the other? Perhaps it was out of spite for a lover who wasn't in love with her? She will never tell.
Rudderless in her career and personal life, will she merely float along or will she eventually learn to swim with the current?
Soap Opera Life
He use to sell cars. The used car sales man who decided to stop selling lemons and start selling God and eternal salvation. Did he change his career for himself or to look good to a father he had always failed, a father who had always felt a calling towards the church? He truly believes that you can sell a religion like you can sell a car. He doesn't live what he preaches, with extramarrital affairs, alcohol and lies.
Was it the affair or the wife that lead to a trip to the wacko ward?
Soap Opera Life
A one time promising singer, now a godly and innocent woman. She is dowdy with a poor me complex, which outwardly manifests itself in the wearing of ugly and unflattering hand-me-down clothes. Generous and sweet to her friends and acquaintances. Give her a few drinks and she's argumentative and nasty. The godly innocence drops behind hidden anger.
She is past middle age and recently divorced. She would have made the better and more sincere religious leader than her ex-husband (see The Father).
Can she find a new man or will she become a complete alcoholic?
Soap Opera Life
A brash, tacky, bleached blond who married very young to a real dysfunctional jerk. Accidentally pregnant within a year after marriage then separated even before the child was born. Divorced a few years later. The first husband dies young in a tragic car accident. Remarried before she's 30 to a man who is old enough to be her father. He has had a kidney transplant and skin cancer. He wants a kid but can't get her pregnant cause his sperm can't get the job done.
Does she sell her career short to get artificial insemination?
You ain't no boy scout, but then, who is these days?
We were walking up the street from the bar, when the silver haired old man with a couple of days beard growth, asks you to help him across the strange jog in the street.
Without hesitation you stick your newly lit cigarette between your lips, you take his hand and gently lead him across the street. Your generosity is something I like and admire, because I tend to be a bit of a miser.
Further on we talk of grapevines, but I am still thinking of the old man.
Picture a domestic setting. Two cats curled together in peaceful sleep. You and I in the kitchen. On top of the rather old robin's egg blue stove are various pots of steaming liquid at the boil. You're cooking me dinner.
I stand by, watching your preparations. Lost in your movements. Looking around I do not know this place. It is somewhere I have never been.
Here I feel contentment. In a non-waking state, is the only place where this scene and this feeling of contentment could possibly exist for me. I will search for it, but never never find it.
I'm going. I want to support him.
I'm not going. Fuckin' bastard.
I'm going. To feel my curiosity.
I'm not going, having never met the bride.
I'm going. Fuckin' bastard.
I'm not going. Don't know anyone.
I'm going. Just for spite.
I'm not going. Hate them church-ies.
I'm going. Just to say I was there.
I'm not going. I can't face the train wreck.
I'm going. Gotta see the train wreck.
I'm not going. I'll come up with some excuse.
I'm going. To meet her.
I'm not going. Don't want to meet her.
Must stop! I haven't been invited yet.
You must live the brand, dar-link! Eat, drink and sleep it. Present it where ever you go. It is part of you. You're living style, n'est pas?
Wearing this, you are living this brand. Drinking this, you are living this brand. Watch this, you are living the brand. Everyone and everything fits in to nice neat branded packages. Or, if they don't they should!
I am not what I wear. I am not what I drive. My consumer habits do not accurately reflect who I am.
Is there a brand for second-hand shoppers who change their minds on a whim?
She puts her garbage out in the hall. She often leaves it there for her mother, who lives in the basement, to take it out for her. It sits out there with her shoes. Yes, she leaves her shoes out in the hall. Someone could easily steal them. Wouldn't that be funny? But, the garbage, that is disgusting. It smells. The next thing you know there'll be flies, or roaches or mice.
She's just lazy. She should do what the rest of us do; keep it in the apartment until you're ready to take it down to the dumpster.
Anatomy of the human gravid uterus
They say children are marvelous. Someone even recommended a book about discipline. Discipline and love, can't go wrong with those two to get lovely children.
Someone said, get a dog. If you can raise a dog, you can raise a child. Dogs need discipline. Not too many treats. Keep'em healthy and happy. Lots of walks.
The fear is in the whole experience, conception to what ever the end may be. They die first. You die first. Which ever happens, it seems terrible to open up to such a potential for sadness.
And giving birth??
It shouldn't be like this.
Yet most days, here we are,
Connected in a funny digital exchange.
An anomaly that has no explanation.
It isn't love love. It is a type of love, though.
An outsider might think we were twisted or
Masochistic to continue on as we do.
A house of cards that will one day fall,
It is hard not to think of it that way.
A spectacular collapse, when luck finally runs out.
Tomorrow we'll be here again,
Tied up in the knots we've made.
At times we will meet in person,
Perhaps another day.
I wish we could have tea. I'd sit at one end of your couch. You'd sit at the other. We'd sip and shoot the breeze.
Why, yes please.
We both know we can't have tea seated on your couch. I'd accidentally brush your hand as you handed me the cup. You'd brush my knee, walking past to get some more milk. Conversation would stop as our eyes burned in to each other. Slowly we’d move towards the centre of the couch. If we kissed, we'd give in, our clothes coming off rather quickly.
Why, yes please.
My grandfather kept a diary. For several decades after he retired, he daily wrote about his experiences from the day before. I remember leather bound books on the shelf in his little library. He'd ask me how to properly spell the names of my friends. Creating a written history of himself.
There was a lack of care when my grandparents moved from their home. The diaries have now been lost. All my grandfather's mornings spent recording in pen on page are gone. I feel their loss more now that I am spending my days making written contributions, scrounging for ideas.
You go in to a restaurant believing one thing. You'll come out of this same restaurant feeling quite differently. This end result feeling will be dictated by the conversation held over dinner.
These little yellow finger bananas never ripened. Too cool in the trunk of the car, they turned from green to black. I cut them open with a knife and eat out the insides with a spoon. Still yummy.
I won't cry, but I'll act cool and heartless. Slowly get up. Don't forget to leave some money for your half of the bill. Walk out. You can cry later.
First you take the buns, separated in to three and nicely toasted.
Apply one squirt on the bottom and middle section of the special sauce.
Then, onions and lettuce.
On the top bun place two pickles not touching.
On the bottom bun place one slice of cheese.
Then the two patties on top of each of these buns.
Stack. Put on the top bun piece.
Now repeat these steps for the next couple of hours. I'll check on your accuracy and speed. You need me to explain this again? You'd think having a doctorate you'd get this the first time.
A little something that can be felt just under the surface of the skin. Only when walking on it does can you feel a small stone or piece of grit. Run your nail over to try to try and catch an edge. Can't figure out what it is. Ignore the feeling for a while. It nags when you walk, but there is nothing when you stand.
Find an old rusty safety pin. Dig under the nagging spot. Feel something there for the first time. Sharp pain. A small transparent piece of glass is found on the tissue with the blood.
In the middle of the chemistry lab, amongst the tubes, pipes, boiling liquids and steam, My boss says to me, "we want you to take a position cataloguing Veteran's affairs. You'll write biographies. And don't worry, it is much the same job that you are doing now."
"Sure. I'll take the job." (anything has to be better than this one!)
First thing the next day I went out to the outer buildings to find the cataloguing forms. Coated in dust and cobwebs, I couldn't find them. So, I sat at my desk and made some shit up.
Hello, X invites you to join Facebook!
Fill in everything about yourself. All the little details that make you so fuckin' special. If you like music, books, movies - list your whole collection. Every interest can be captured in this sleek little form.
Tell us your religious and political views with these handy drop-down menus.
Change your relationship status - all your friend receive a broadcast that you're now SINGLE.
There are many groups to join where you can discuss important issues like the love of being pants-less.
What did I get myself in to? I really hate this shit.
I am ever the doubter. Afraid that you'll end it. "There are things I want to talk to you about," you say. Perhaps there was or is someone else. Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.
I'm a terrible doubter when it comes to you. Terribly afraid of what you have to say. Not hearing from you feeds my fear. It is all I can do not to feed a growing sense of rejection. Perhaps you made a mistake getting involved with me. Perhaps. Perhaps.
Perhaps it is things in your life you'd like to tell me about and my fears are unfounded.
Take the above and picture what you see as the lyrics. Set them to a rhythmic pulsing grind noise, combined with a TV sitcom alternated with music videos. Then you'd have the ultimate in musical noise for an evening concert.
The last one.
Absolutely the last time.
Le dernier fois.
Oh. I like that! Yum.
Why does he have to be such a fuck?
Random. It is not random at all.
I'm an idiot. I'm a schmuck.
Ouch. It hurts when you do that.
Is there anything that hasn't been said?
Keep it simple. To the point.
Show no weakness.
I can quit if I really try.
What did you do that for?
If you can't even have coffee with me...
How can you think that way?
Is it over.
I just can't write any more. All my stories aren't told, but, I can't seem to find an interesting way to write them down. I'm derivative.Uninventive. I don't understand the language enough. Never was very good at English. Almost flunked my grade 12 English class.
How could I imagine I was any good at this writing thing. Plutonic or platonic - I know there is a difference, but the sound similar in my head. They get twisted when I don't pay attention. The 'u' and the 'a' collude to confuse me.
I enjoy writing this drivel way too much.
At the end of his life my grandfather was a frail and very old man. He called me darling or sweetheart because he could no longer remember my name. He couldn't come to my wedding, but he did see me graduate a well educated woman.
My memory turns back to sitting at his knee. His hand resting on my neck, stroking it. He thought gum chewing was disgusting, though smoking was not. He didn't swim. When I was two he got bugs in his left ear that made him deaf.
I know he loved and was proud of me.
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