A P R I L 2 0 1 1 - Beyond Twitter ...

so i'm thinking about anne; about her values; her generational values; cleaning the house for the sake of having a clean house; a proper way to do things, everything.
from a time when keeping house was all there was time for
distractions were few, and pride was mighty.
hedonistic thoughts were for the weak
and the ruling goal was to keep 'correct' things correct.

fast foward thirty years.

she watches us. she judges us. i know she does.
she watches us run, but doesn't know the half of it
she watches my attempts, what would she think if she knew i was writing this here
less, or more, i'm guessing her opinion would be ruled by the same indifference to all that doesn't fit into her world as given unto her by her generational paradigms.
am i judging her by writing here, i am trying to understand what is right from wrong. it's something i have to do for myself since i don't have her generational values.

this land we own, a chore. this mess we keep, an invoncenience. it's all a struggle.
we pull our way through inconveniences only for the sake of our conveniences
it's all about precious leasure time, and no reason for it not to be
is it disgusting, is it wrong, is it different, yes

my world has evolved to this. hers has remained. mine continues to evolve,, perhaps hers does to...
perhaps i simply can't see it due to my generational paradigm

even easter morn
is quiet in our house
the little one sorts smarties
could it get any quieter.

there are various reasons why many people don't like me
one of them is that i really don't care about the daily happenings of life.
yours, mine, her nor his.

i care about reason, judgement, and everything i cannot control.

twenty seconds stolen
four to check the date
soft thighs, sighs,
and windy between Easter
if Easter matters...

something inside me feels inside of me good
there's no time to alt tab
when silence is nearly broken
and crafting words to describe locations and faces and situations
becomes a monumental challenge, here.
it becomes a code even i can't decipher;
lucky pauline, she tells of real life

my mind, my company,
the mEp, my shrink.

mightily tweeting through eerily falling snowflakes,
the cardinal tells the snow that it's time is up,
go home, you look friendly but you're no longer wanted here
and the snow says i'm hangin on for what it's worth
just drifting down here, see, lightily with no real intention to stay
and my flakes agree, as they float passed you like fireflys in the daytime

poots chews.

it is thursday, Holy Thursday if this were nineteen eighty,
but no one round here thinks about that anymore
we just hang on, one weekend to the next,
me hoping to wake up early enough to write here
and he hoping to survive the day; and the night actually.
a palm is now what your grandma brings you
and snow falls in spite of annual climate change warnings

how to tune it all out, asks poots

and as Carolyn said many times, many years ago,
this is my diary.

saving time is not always time saving.
-little poots 2011 (that would be me)

it's hard to write about the word divorce
- when it's not yours -
and when the words must be cloaked in gold
across the table, too small for anything but the separation of two people
and two paper mugs of coffee

hard to tell how pretty, how ugly,
- when you hear one side -
and when all persons, places and things are ficticious,
unidentiified, unrelated, but unrelenting and as real
as the empty coffee cups

but it's even harder not to write about it

daily, daily, i rush here to wait.
on april 19 2011, i awoke early, and, i think i slept.
the first thirty minutes of the day passes in no time
it's no time
and all time
at the same time
rollercoasters of moodswings, how do they hide it?
i cannot
and
when i feel peacable, as though i can make up words and use performant in a sentance,
when my ears don't ring
and the coffee tastes good
when the fish are quiet
and the family sleeps
...
i wonder if my therapy really worked
and then i realize...

it did.
and hanging on several small nice said things;
i smile.
and words off this chest, wherever they have landed,
are words off this chest.

half a lemon, an accountant's business card, a pale blue sky, and
and silence.
lots
and lots
of silence.

if simon would visit, i would like that too.
maybe getting up at six is the answer.

closing throbbing eyes and head, i smell the spring of yesteryear.
with louder spring birds and aching body, still recallubg vividly and instantly,
the smell of my montreal yesterear; of early spring movers manually towing mattresses overhead;
the smell of the tam tam before it's quite ripe;
and the early morning dusty smell of the decarie, before SUVs are whizzing by,
carrying not only the locals in and out of delicatessins on bar mitzvah day,
but of perhaps suburbanites trespassing the city, with their three and a half minute view
of the westernmost vestiges of urbia, peeking over the cement, offering nothing luring to them, until walmart at jean talon.

yes, those were my first thoughts before my sore broken eyes were even opened today.

yesterday is gone, it was a day yesterday, now it's only a thought. a very fleeting thought
getting more fleeting with each passing thought.

thinking is to be avoided by many, here comes the child loudly out of bed
and probably miserable and grumpy.

child-like communications from all around;
children in israel;
children giving speeches;
do children run the world already?

or am i simply getting old.

is this the process of life, to outgrow the world around us,
shedding our recognition of it, like a skin, left only with ourselves
and an acceptance of our eventual non-existence...

sunday, sunday
poots digests

an outdoorsy day, bound in the front by Peruvian songs, and in the back with a secret club of two eating veal ragout under a blanketed wet tent.

yesterdays' taxation an ugly thing, questioning, questioning, and put it behind you.

is anyone really reading this, when your belly is full of ice cream sundae, you wonder those kinds of things. bike rides and parks make up a weekend.

yesterday, she asked "maybe someone invented electricity before the guy who invented electricity and just never told anyone?"

fridge full of food/yummy smells/toomany toys/ the weekend.

a night not long enough cut shorter by a grand hug
poots wrinkled face, sweaty skin, and miserable demeanor, tells the rest.

it's rare she writes in this state of mind
rarer still, a perfect heart.

chewing chewing early, what makes a poot chew her cheeks.
no amount of concentration can prevent it.
no glasses that fit properly, squashed, dropped or bent
no more sunshine when she's gone
but it's reflecting off the aluminium exhaust pipe of the Swiss neighbours roof
and cutting me directly into my retinas..

it's saturday and the timespace in front of us is wide open,
what will we fill it up with; we're not advance planners, now that it's been many years
since they didn't invite us back for dinner
all i've ever wanted was that long table with educated people around it who enjoy each other's company
but it's rare, it's few, and it's far between.
or perhaps, it only exists in movies?

can i beg the world what i want here,
throw it up in the air, watch it crash to pieces for my eyes
watch it crash

and go back to listening to cartoons, slurping, and chewing the inside of my mouth.

i could keep writing, jittery.

i'm writing a book.
i had to start somewhere.

there's not much romance outside the door;
two rolled newspapers and clock bells
my imagination is very, very, vivid
is my cousin reading this?

a p i l 1

no fooling how i feel this morning
carry it over to tomorrow
because today may as well be over
caving
insiding

however i can close my eyes and paint a two dimensional bridge into it
; a tapestry ; says she ; thirty years later ;
do we weave alone
do we really weave alone...