April 2015 the mEp

the mEp.
april 2015

may. may you be warm. may.

april 30

the focal point that is created as we pass through time
becomes painfully clear as it grows smaller;
sharpening the edges around things that shouldn't have been
and leaving only questions behind.

the black mollies pool towards the sunlight;
it streams through the glass into the photosynthetic cells of aquatic plants
their tiny fragile brains and bones, are aware that food may appear.

and the same sun fallls on my skin, reflected in the screen of this laptop;
i have pooled here as well, although for me it highlights only an aging face.

there are so many untold things in our world
where people think all is known;
where women are still largely objects of physical desire;
why men ignore my words, though wiser than theirs,
how magic must happen for love to survive;
how cruel you must be to be true to yourself,
how silence is greater than words of a feather
and the monotomy that comes with being alive.

had a beautiful house i hated in a nice part of town.
had a fancy car and a fancy patio.

april 29

all night i write mEp lines,
brilliant words on a mobile,
dangling and on display;
i can pick those words like low hanging fruit

in the morning the real thoughts are at bay
i reach out my hand to grasp them,
where they were, in this same mind,
and they are gone, elusive, invisible,
as though belonging to someone else

we emulate
we storytell

and during the night, i received an intra-venous vaccine, on a ship, nonetheless, with six other people.
the gentlemen responsible for the ship diligently injected each of us, at a small wooden table at the entrance to the hold,
first with a red control, then with a long syringe of pale yellow vaccine, directly into each of six veins, as i watched before my turn
to ensure that the others still looked fine.

april 28 - later
social media in a long winter

first world problems!
we've all got them.

i don’t want to see your cute little dog

I don’t want to see your wrinkly-assed cat.

I don’t want to hear about your expensive restaurants;

I don’t want to see your photos of florida.

I don’t want to hear you complain about our elected officials.

I don’t want to see flyers of missing people; your weird day at work; your dead second uncle;

I don’t want to read your hateful insults towards Palestinians:

I don’t want to donate money for your favorite medical cause;

your incessant insistence of insinuations insults my in-sensitivities.

we want a dog but we cannot have one

your hairless cat is ugly

your expensive restaurants are expensive

i cannot fly to florida but would love to

if you don't like our politicians then become one

your flyers on facebook of a missing child from Iowa are pointless

and your sympathy with his plight is a waste of energy, when there are real things

your vitriol towards Palestinians not becoming,

medical foundations do not do real research and will never cure cancer,

and your ten dollars is pointless because one vial of Taq polymerase costs more than 100 dollars

and i most certainly won't have your whining about waiting a week to have your washing machine repaired as thousands of Nepalese dig their dead loved ones out of rocky, graves.

april 28
me me me

yesterday a woman wrote about her book and was accused that it was all about her;
'me me me' they lashed out at her words;
while THIS me hung on her every personal experiential words;
reminding us all what it's like; reminding us what she has learned;
and what we could have also learned to.
why did i not learn what she learned.
what did i not have.
what did i not know.

as my mood waxes and wanes wildly;
settling, distantly, into a new normal;

everyone gets my sympathy card, except me.

this is a blog about me.
since 1996, since 1965, it's always been about me.
should it not be?

april 27

blank blank blank

her dreams triggered my dreams,
there is another world inside us all.

april 25

it's quiet here in a cold gray spring;
the numbers on the thermometer are not indicative of the date;
we have shit to do; we are unkind;
caffeine on a slept brain is not any use to me today;
a stiff back and ringing ears wait.
fish stores and squeals of delight from people receiving invitations;
unnecessary emails to explain why; i don't have to remind myself.
9:08 and nothing poetic comes from me - silence is not always golden, sometimes it is ringing too.
we have tasks on saturday, fish, sewing machines, immigration, invitations,
i hope they don't sound so boring to you as to me.
this veiled prose of which i once spoke is leaving me;
although the words fall quickly and firmly from my brain in black and white
i cannot feel them dancing, only landing squarely on this page, in an effort to rid them of my webby mind,
which, for some time now,
has not been cleared of it's dust. an addiction to twitter notwithstanding, only increases webs,
fleeting angst, accumulates, and frustrations with the world's inhabitants,
and their inability to see clearly now. has always annoyed the fucking shit out of me.

april 24

there is nothing in a perfect world; it is empty; void of space or time.
nothing in a perfect space; guilt and dishes.

once again, it's thursday april 23 and it's 7:32 am

hiding in the aka loo, unsure of how i slept, i am interupted by stories about japanese keyboards and translations.
a successful dinner of chicken deemed expensive by the lady behind me in the grocery store, was a success on many levels,
the guests liked the food, the wine was excellent, the conversation interesting, and a foreigner got both sides of an age-old debate.

april 21 7:19 am

i am always measuring, guaging, as an ENJF, watching big pictures, and i slept, pre-caffeine ated, here i sit
in this duplex on the park, the first greens of a summer to replace all the wildest summers of my life still at the end of branches,
an english essay to be typed to my right, a gurgly stomach, now a chirping bird, as i actively yet patiently wait for the caffeine
to cross the blood-brain barrier, which it does as if it didn't exist. and thank G#d for that.

so what part of me has something to say today,

april 20 7:11am

i let only caffeine wake me;
only
and only myself rule me.

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/5d/RefractionReflextion.svg

April 19 - really Sunday. really Slept.

of speeches; of stories

and finally, a night of dreams leaves me with some stories.

crazy images filled this night of sober sleep; images of a growing girl not a child anymore.

a mind on replay, rewinding, re-recording, and rehearing your words in the night
some are beautiful, and some cut like a knife until i wear out that track which i did not appreciate.
the stories never end; the speeches having beginnings, and endings, and then swaths of editing,
in a world that bends everyone into and out of shapes shapes you have little control over;

and a speech written in the corporate hallways
as my own story unfolds on top of yours;
it tells itself; it becomes real,
and as the story's told, as they say, it can't help but grow old

so as i begin this final speech, i pen a final story,

'this is the story of who i am, so many stories'

April 17

a longish night is over;
a bug infested bag of birdseed is being thrown into a truck;
my eyes are still glued together;
too much cheek-chewing has left me with a sore throat;
and this coffee tastes odd.

save and publish with this ring that matches the MacBook Pro;
i never thought i'd have a Mac and now i never think i'll not have a Mac
no alt-tabbing, yet, on friday, no shaken or stirred emotions yet, blurry eyes,
no kissy kissy, and a sore neck, yes, a sore neck.

if i was a good writer, they would say it, no?

yes, it is confirmed, now that the badly-tasting coffee has reached thoracic vertebrata #3,
and while the Swiss man applied math to physics on the edge of the bed,
i slept like shit.

April 16

with your linen suit and your box of champagne, you will sail over the ocean and others will come by car,
but words of life nor death will not be spoken, however this event which is motivated by them.

we are allowed to drink, to drive, and to marry, too early.

April 15
slacker

here we are, alone, waking up to tweets, my world has changed, has yours, i was never your girlfriend and now i am,
you always want what you used to have.

after a good sleep i yawned, ringy ears and groggy body, webby brain but clear thoughts, an unusual combination.
sometimes there's not enough coffee to clear a heavy heart and sometimes not even enough to clear a head.

how much of other people's lives should affect mine
and that is all i can think to say in this webby world.

i cheated there - i've always cheated here - juxtaposing concepts unjuxtaposed - it's not intentional - but it's life.

monday, April 13
there are finallly birds

between stories, body, veiled or poesie, i must choose. these are the formats of the mEp and which one is today
or will it be all of them as the caffeine takes extra long to travel. i'm teetering, and perhaps that is normal on a monday.
i'm not always a monday is bad kinda person but today i have other things on my mind, which are not written here,
in between or out between of any lines. there are stories i cannot tell. so many stories

in the night i weave songs; i have tales to tell; my thoughts form mEpwords which tell an intimate story;
in the morning, they are sometimes and often, gone.

so with the words of one of the park ladies running through my head, i arrive here to write still
my book has been written, hurrah, i am not sad. the story needs to be told, no matter who tells it.
i'm searching for my most romantic words in this country afforded romance, this highly unusual freedom
which we all seem to take so easily for granted in all our honesty. thank God for her, for Esther Perel, for
writing my book for me, for understanding Americans better than me, for speaking more languages than me,
and for believing in my song. yes, mostly, for believing in the same song as me. i can sing it louder now.

yes it is monday morning, yes it might even be warm today
but i am here alone, again, with only few words to share.

pssst... you didn't like my favorite sweater; you didn't like what i said in public; maybe you didn't like me much at all :-)

April 9
...love is never boastful

with my third wedding on the horizon, i spend a lot of time thinking about dresses. and invitations. and music.

and love.

historically speaking there is no way to evaluate love; love exists in the here and now; in this moment; is love, like a sex life, a thing which evolves, as our understanding of life grows, (or shrinks as the case may be), or, is love an absolute, as in, the way my heart still drops in my chest when i see your name in my inbox

i've decided that i'm not sure i believe in true love, but for sure there is real love. real love is requited, it remembers promises, it speaks softly and in tongues on blogs, and it knows when to shut up.

i'm fifty years old and i'm going to have a first dance, goshdarn. and a second. and a third.

April 8, 8:10PM

fewer moments are describable but this evening while eating soup with the Salvationists, the silence of the dad was. he ate his soup, smiling coyly and nodding periodically, and seemingly in a modern way to leave the parenting to her, but not unoticed by me, his silence, was he listening?

i feel at home with those people; the boisterous, exuberant children, one on each side of the table, as i inhaled the spicy, gluten-free soup, burst forth with reckless abandon, spilling their every idea and thought onto that table, that table with one of many guests, who instinctively wanted to say grace.

the doorbell rang at precisely fifteen minutes after my arrival, and welcomed were a man from France, a sleeping boy over his shoulder, a girl of about 6 with darker skin than his, and a seriously conspicuously absent mother. the Salvationists get many visitors, and i shed a tear at the joy of so many visitors as i drove home in the april snow.

April 6, Easter Monday, 8:18AM
with itchy well-slept and under-poetic ears, i sip my coffee on the 5th day, finally well slept, well fed, and well paid too.
some holidays leave the weekly budget in good shape.

and if my thoughts don't align with Easter Monday, can i write whatever i like? it's a bouncy in between here,
but mostly good actually, and i know from what i've written lately that it might not be clear. is it clear?
is it clear to you? the most important thing to note today is that my mother, in all her goodliness,
made a statement in her own house, declaring that it was her house and she can say that!
so even if you were born before 1950, you are in fact allowed to have an opinion, and voice it too.
so Thank the Lord for that!

Easter, 4PM, drinking tea.
i can see the wind howling through the silence here.

April 5th, Easter Sunday.

"I don't believe in God, but I miss him" - the lady upstairs.

i absolutely can't write much here; when it comes to religious holidays, the best i can do is wax nostalgic. today these words seem harsh, too black and white, or perhaps i just need more coffee, balancing this cold machine between bare thighs on a napkin not wide enough.

facebook is covered with Easter - which i find disingenuous - so i'll stay here a bit longer.

what is the essence of today, what can it be boiled down to - such old fashioned mEp words, i no longer see the world with such luxury, to reduce thoughts like maple syrup into a pure, sweet nectar, no, the world's not like that anymore, and only of my own creation, should i be proud or not, i don't know.

the coffee pot and the fish tick and the visitors children counted our pets. no dog, but now twenty-seven baby mollies. i'm not yet anywhere in this brain today; it's not settling, although, i slept, on a cold Easter morning, the world outside unforgiving,

palais de congres, montreal

the world inside still quiet at eight-fifty-eight am, no snoring to be heard, gurgling fish tank water though.

the guests asked about my book - and well - after a very tiny glass of beer - i actually told them - and the stories flowed - the questions - the lies - and more questions - everyone has them these days - stories - i should weave them into the book - mary anne runs thru my mind - our similarities and our differences -

April 3rd...
later on, once sanity returns.

conversely to modern thought, i don't think you know how much slack you need, until you have spent 24 years resisting a force.

what i hope for you is that you are never so happy (or pragmatic) as to be drawn towards a state of imperfect happiness in order
to avoid the anxiety of fearing losing it.

april fools
april 3
night panic

why do we panic in the night.

why do we panic in the night.

why do we panic in the night.

why do we panic in the night.

why do we panic in the night

day panic.
no one is awake.

because, we panic in the night.

pulling a brain out of bad sleep, with coffee, helps, mildly, day panic, quick respires, gasps, at eight twenty two,
as the leader of the house drinks coffee, amidst a large ham, swiss potatoes, and groggy, foggy brains.

his loud snores do not signal restful, only fitful sleep, this man i dream of, this man beside me.

why do we panic in the night.
why do we panic in the night.

april fools
what i do

barely scraped by a decent day; phones buzzing just after my natural wakeup.
i'm aware of what it means to turn down a child's request; i do it anyways.

as the caffeine molecules render my brain, it remembers lapsonyms, wet polishers, and wednesday.
flying through my mind are wednesdays, cabane a sucres, april fools dances, and European visitors.
it's alot, for a Holy week, and i recall my childhood, marked by Catholic Holy-Days, where this week
would have been set aside for fasting, worship, mournful singing, and eventually, praise.
how life has changed in such a short time.

the Pastor spoke of the industrial revolution, how much has changed, since then, including roles,
and, when, in my politest tone i tip-toed around her beliefs (or not) in evolution, she did not flinch,
and i still do not know what they are, since she did not say.

i should probably write a real blog. if no one knew who i was i could do that.
it would explain the painful acceptance of the joys of life. or maybe that's what i already do.

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