the mEp.
January 2015
this is mid-winter in montreal, hang on to the edges
January 31st 2015
the 'right' perspective.
month one done; with three words, the coffee is cold.
adding hot coffee to warm the bottom could remind me of a corner restaurant,
or living outside the matrix, after armageddon, which it does.
i would have thought i could spell Armageddon. interesting, it wanted a cap.
learn something new almost every day.
i think i'm nearly done with the third person; third person is a luxury for the young; i think.
i'm not watching myself anymore; perspective now comes very much from within; i've learned the birds eye view
and i've also learned that no one sees life that way; although i think they should; or perhaps i've come full cirlce;
i know my place in the world and no amount of belly button gazing will change it; maybe for the second half i should see life as i see it; spontaneous; irreplacable; wild; or is it merely a plan for a fiftieth birthday wedding summer which puts it into such perspective?
my house is messy; on the table are glasses, and cutlets, kleenex and fish food; the counter is worse;
this is not a complaint; this means that neither do i live in the past and neither do i live in the future;
i'm not sure i know anyone who is so firmly etched into the present, as me.
maybe that's why i'm always right.
January 30th 2015
Moving from macro to micro; war movies should be mandatory reading.
they linger, longer, providing a rose-tinted filter for the traffic; the winter;
the banged up roads; and yes, even the loud, greasy dinner, on uncomfortable chairs.
no, we are not allowed our first world problems;
not aloud, anyway.
we are not allowed to complain about every single restaurant that opens in this city;
we are allowed to hold a wedding in a greasy spoon;
we are allowed to tell everyone we are allowed;
and we are mostly, allowed, to sip our slow-dripped espresso in a crabby mug while watching the snow through heated windows on a vacation day that we planned on monday due to someone else's bad planning.
January 28th 2015
speechwriting while blowdrying my hair
great progress has been made - like rolling hills and furrowing valleys - but this time over the hills i knew were coming - and temporarily; for a moment; all the lights are on; no matter the purpose here; no matter no purpose; the show must go on;
and two and half interrupted minutes of dancing in the kitchen may be all there really is to live for; which suits me just fine.
progress comes in slices of knives;
confidence overrides fear;
happy photos of a happier time;
truth be told, he begged me not to do it.
he once offered to stop drinking
then had a drink.
January 27 2015
writing a speech, on a tuesday, there was no storm, although i smelled it.
with caps lock on.
the speech now takes on a larger than life quality, it follows me around, it's a flashy coat that i never had,
it's a fairytale that i never wanted, it's flagrant sincerity, like it or not, it's got my name on it and yours too,
whoever you are, from my wildest dreams; it took two to tango; it took nearly fifty years to build this life;
this semi-rich bohemian life with a timid Swiss man, accented and all, those words barely true, barely believable,
with unmatching chairs, and neither of us cares, we've left behind all the airs, and no longer have stairs.
so in our crumpled up bed, with words seldom said, i pen out the only speech i need.
and i did it my way.
January 26 2015
the revolution.
frozen by chewing; alone; and with loudly ringing ears; i sip.
heaters hum as they are wont to do, coffee ticks.
overnight the positivity was sucked away from you; sleep does that sometimes;
sleep without enough food; on this belly who fills up so fast;
a night of missed cherry juice and missed women;
of seatbelts, and math tests, and of shiny floors
of missed paycheques;
and the whole point of everything; of anything;
is that it's your point, you're allowed to it, you've explained it, perhaps not scientifically or stupidly enough,
and perhaps it is perception, which is 9 tenth of reality, then there's the question if it's worth fighting for,
and then there's the answer which is over, and over, and over, again,
yes.
fittingly bitter java today
the sun is still rising
freedom is still coming
but you'll have the revolution by yourself.
January 25 2015
blood-curdling anger in the morning; and once again, i am silenced. story of my life.
we are all silenced. lay your head poots, on the pink sofa, in the bright room, with your heart and hands all busy in your silent little war, no matter what frankie says, we are silenced, permanently, eventually. with or without a seatbelt. God keep you Melissa.
i ache to be understood. i ache to feel union. i ache for more.
that was hard to write.
i don't care about your new car. i don't care about your new book. social media is a poison, sheila. i should not write this.
Scotch Broth, Scotch songs, Happy Birthday Simon.
later in the day...
in the night i lay, me and my mEp stories, some great, some small, all worth telling.
in the day, other things occur.
January 21 2015
one gets a phone, one gets a bubba, i fill their needs, what are mine, yes i know, to fill theirs.
reminder to self, the mep is my life, or my thoughts, or are they the same.
of course i'm glued to this device, what else would i do with public discourse where the only
possible negative outcome is to be ignored?
we measure our bubba in temperature, it's a first world issue.
the man wants to go skiing.
January 20 2015
gosh it's still shiny
panicky
pushingit used to be so easy to stand on my own:
to remind myself: i was right:
and in this media which is 'social' the Me i used to know is sometimes drowned:
it's easy to be right here:
it's easy to be wrong:
it's easy to yell and easy to get along:
but i don't want easy: and i never have:
i want truth: i want sincerity: i want what is logical
i cannot write a review of Sam Smith:
i am not accustomed to this language:
http://montrealgazette.com/gallery/gallery-sam-smith-at-the-bell-centre
this language i wield daily: this failing, but endless, language.
i am too alone here.
and there.
and everytwhere.
as soon as you can talk to me through yourself without the world,
i'm here.
January 18 2015
still nothing
January 16 2015
nothing
it's a clear table today; a clear slate; a clearer brain;
and you cleaned the table that i thought of in the night;
my racing thought crossed the finish line;
aching for freedom, they are now my cross,
my own thoughts, imprison me, as i position myself
poised at the starting gate,
and wait.
lucky he! who has simple things to say!
who speak through sport, or craft, or song!
with no desire to be heard, you rejoice in silence!
and lucky she! whose hands and heart are busy are in silent little chores
and your private little wars
a dead fishhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84Pi1ED-3bs
a dead woman
lucky ye who are normal.
January 15, 2015
still very few words
the worst of watching people suffer is knowing that they don't yet grasp all of their future pain.
January 14, 2015
a prayer for Melissa
who else would i be if i were silenced by Charlie
not me, certainly, not me
and how can i be silenced by her pretty face
or by Rachel's grace,
and the human race
while permeated through and through
with thoughts of you
things you won't do
i don't know you
yet i pray for youwith words untrue
and my subtle voice
i do, make a choice.
...
this is a harsher january,
we are fatter,
colder,only one thing shines,
and the coffee barely warms our souls.
January 13, 2015
silenced.
yesterday, i was silenced. through this gripping headache, i will explain.
January 11, 2015
... what does it mean to be inspired? ...
untitled, in a larger font.
it's Sunday. my body is lonely. today, all that matters is what you say today.
those were perhaps not dreams of the everyday housewife, but they were dreams nonetheless.
a small bed, in a large room, very far from the notion of francesca and her last moments, i slept.
but i can still be inspired by her, haunted by her, apeased by her tale, as my alone-ness greets this early day,
contemplating the life i had before, which i chose to leave, and reminding myself why, as i sit, alone, with a lonely body.
no, a small font is better. it's early and i don't want to wake anyone.
it is dark, it is cold, it is january, but everything can be written through.
through the heater and the ticking; the tepid coffee and the sore gluteus maximus;
through the empty center of my body/of my being / i have consciously moved out of my head and into my body;
on june 17 2011 i made a choice; i made a choice i made a choice; to return to being animal; to inhabit this body i sit in and type with into this box; to use it as expression; to brandish it; to extend it; to unfold it; to succumb to it; to follow it; and it has taken me great places, without a passport. it has not yet failed me, as it one day will, it has brought me greater joy and expression than all the words of the mEp can do; and now, finally, after more than half of my life is gone, it gets lonely too. and that's a new thing. that is entirely a new thing.
January 10, 2015
it is saturday. i am alone. this is my second coffee, some of you know what that means.
a real challenge
today, i test free speech. no, not that kind of free speech, just my own little version of free speech.
my mother taught me what she taught me; but i like to think that i can still think objectively;
who can say that they can think perfectly objectively, and just because you say it does it make you wrong?
is the only perfect objectivity, he who says nothing? i think not.
the thing i do agree with is that saying nothing is wrong. you have a voice. use it.
still alone, less lonely. fish tanks humm, neighbours annoy, the Swiss man sneezes.
there's a new discussion in town; it's a dangerous one; i tread lightly; the Swiss man sneezes again.
more candy, please. what is that freakishly annoying sound upstairs.
the fridge experiment failed.
...
a day has passed and this pootly one was pensive. lifting a finger on her left hand, it's a shiny, powerful unvaluable expensive thing.
no matter what you say, you are silenced.
no matter who you are, we live in a world that doesn't value sincerity; doesn't even tolerate it;
it's not a value people want; and no one likes people exactly like them; including, and especially, me.
i'm trying to be bold, Frankie, i'm trying to stay true to you, mom, i'm trying to shout honestly, loudly, and with respect at the same time; but not everything is possible in this 140 character world we live in; not everything is possible, poots.
January 8, 2015
hurry, poots. stealaway four minutes, you and your beautiful (yes beautiful) empty fridge.
jobs in my inbox
saved by a banana at 3:26 am; remember, this is my life.
an empty fridge means we ate it:
an empty fridge means nothing is hiding:
an empty fridge means nothing is rotting:
an empty fridge means i didn't spend 328 dollars at Loblaws.
i never before knew the meaning of an empty fridge.
imagine, at my age.
January 7, 2015
i used to own a camera. i would have pointed it outside this window and captured the cottony balls balanced on the branches
images
and on anything else in their way. until the lightest puff of wind topples them, scattering onto a white wonderland of a world.
how you can't see beauty in this is beyond me.
focusing through old-fashioned cobwebs, half a bottle of cote du rhones drips onto the videotron bill. four lone cheerios soak up the 2% milk and i can't even spell cheerios anymore. the ketchup bottle is too close to my right hand, it's stickiness threatens me as i eye it suspiciously, not wanting to touch it, but not more threatening than cartoonists being shot.
January 6, 2015
all heaters ablow. five minutes aspare. with athought that may take years to explain.
in the bleak midwinter indeed
and the decision is.
waking up against her will, poots sips warm coffee against a backdrop of cold ikea chairs.
running through the checklist of life, perspective is difficult with only one moment to spare.
the current temperature outside is minus nineteen.
time to make the donuts.
for as long as i look outside and see intriguing neighbours;
this is where i want to live.
January 5, 2015
she fiddled with my ring and asked how many diamonds were in it. she asked how much it cost.
dreams are still free
i didn't say. she knows.
this brain never stops, never. it hurts but it doesn't stop.
ears ringing through the ambient sounds in the room;
the clickety fish pump; the electric blow heater;
the howling, cold winds, and now some kind of chirping in the distance.
no, not chirping, but ice-chipping.
more coffee please.
an arbonne invitation;
a pile of corrections;
and one sleeping Swiss man.
i think that's enough for monday.
monday monday.
sunday, before monday, for twisting around my views. the signs of life notwithstanding, distortions abound!
January 4, 2015
the sixteenth day.
twigs are breathing through ice, hours tick by, it's a pendulum of waiting. tick. tock. taking all day to write through this.
a grown man, jealous, of me. but why
January 3, 2015
i'm writing what no book can ever say or has ever said. . . well i'm trying.
poetic and toxic
and a resolution of outrage, on a saturday morning, while still in love with a Swiss man, was precipitated in fact by loving that man and what that means is that if you love a man, the only real struggle is to accept that he is in fact a man, if just a man, as the tall irish one says, and out of respect for this Swiss man, that is in fact all i can actually say. are my words so much more toxic and honest than the rest?
i cannot write about untoward advances; i cannot write about accepting current ones; without explaining a lovelife; and a lovelife is long; and as i point, counterpoint, on twitter, beside a vocal transgendered person, it seems to be a dance of mis-understanding going on; as though flatlanders; those who don't get it don't mind and continue on their merry way and those who do get it also; but those of us; those of us who watch in 4D are on the outside, looking in, refusing to merely pass through yet not getting it at all; and we insist on clickety-clacking into these boxes, wailing about our misunderstandings; screaming out to understand; hopeful if fearful that the answers are here; are somewhere; and painstakingly not wanting to give up.
these are not poetic days
as i chip away at things by mallet
peering in, as i have always done
and turning things around in my mind
it's poetic in my brain;
poetic from the inside;
a dance of anger; of disgust;
yes, harsh as winter; not embracing us;
and dark, yes, dark, dark slate all around;
but slate is the finest grained foliated rock;
derived from metamorphosis
and often allowing light through the cracks.
outrage only brings more outrage
unfortunately
#to truly love a man, you must first accept that he is one.
image used from http://www.ucmp.berkeley.edu/fosrec/McKinney.html
i sent an email asking for permission but the email bounced.
when christmas is over, we've got lots of handsoap.
the house is twice-cleaned; the cheese twice-eaten;
and no one ever uses enough christmas napkins.
summarizing images isn't working today /
tepid coffee is tepid /
writing through this body today is frustrating /
foggy brain / crackly eyes /
where the fuck did all that happiness go /
i know /
and as usual, i can't say /
silence
no silence.
i was the happiest person at a party.
that has never happened to me before.
and there is nothing else to know.
really truly madly deeply.
the mEp ... aka my Electronic pen . . . the 2015 edition ...and all of the contents therein are copyright Poot's Place
1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012 and 2013, 2014, and 2015.
All photography original unless otherwise credited. louern@vif.com