From the Rivers to the Ocean

When it's Saturday, and you've just returned home from the market, and your feet are damp, and your eyes are dry and tired, and your to-do list is longer than the hours in the day, and your stomach feels as though you've been doing crunches, but you haven't, because you don't, and when run on-sentences comfort you, when sense doesn't make sense, and when someone somewhere (in the next room) is saying holy shit about something, and your feet are getting colder, and you stop to wonder why your forehead hurts and you realize you're furrowing your brow, and you realize that everything is sort-of slanted, but instead of straightening it you just smile and wonder how things came to be that way, and you have to go to the bathroom but the sink is so dirty that looking at it will make you feel guilty and mad, and now you hear wow from the next room, and you wonder what made that wow, it was a wow of concerned surprise, not happy, and you think to yourself wow, wow, and then you think if you turn wow upside down it's mom and some sort of hallmark card must have done something cute with that sometime, but then instead of wow she's saying holy shit again, and then you think that some awful artist sometime probably made some sort of religious scatology piece and titled it holy shit because that could be art and funny, and you know there's nothing funny about the absence of art created by you, but you still think making nothing is better than making holy shit, and you think that it's funny when people say that clothes with holes in them are to be worn on Sunday, because it's such an old-fashioned joke, and you like old-fashioned jokes, and old-fashioned people, and old-fashions, and if you think all of these things, in this sort of sequence, with a half smile on your face, then that's what it might be like to be me, at least for 10 minutes. And complications are simple when you look at them when you're tired. And then you nap.

Because I didn't send a card.

I always fancied myself a cowgirl; actually I fancied myself a particular cowgirl, Cowgirl Marie from Texas. I wore a vest to match this self. It was fringed and it looked like leather. I would come to Ontario to visit sometimes. Every time I came to visit the Kane family in Ancaster, Lynn would be away visiting the ranch in Texas. It was a terrible coincidence that we never met.

I met another cowgirl though, an older and wiser one. She reminded me of Sissy Hankshaw on account of her prominent digits and her pretty face. She kept a bunch of pigs, but hated pigsties. She raised a couple of asses, and loved them all the same.

Even cowgirls get the blues. She takes care of me every time I do.

And by you I mean you.

Everyday ends.
Some end better than others. Yesterday's finish was today's topic of conversation. Yesterday took all day to happen, and I forget what happened.

Today, nearly over, is ending better than others, with a phone call. With a smile that I hope was heard, well wishes sincerely meant and old wishes still sincere. If wishes were horses, and dead horses will never work, then dead wishes won't work either. Phones can't send hugs, and I wish they could. So what's an alive wish? I will wish for a cup of tea, a warm bed, and oatmeal in the morning. That will work.

Everyday (Dave) End(s): "I get too much sleep, and by too much I mean not enough, and by sleep I mean you."

My Word.

I shouldn't, but I am, so here it is.
The selected version of things I didn't say, now said, simply because I like them.

"Things in life are always more than the words that try to contain them."
&
"I should just write it anyway and see where it takes me."

I love to see the unexpected places words take me. Words surprise. Let's read tonight.

The Shadow Knows

1. You can't see the forest through the trees 2. Twenty years from now it won't make a damn bit of difference 3. A dead horse will never work 4. When you look in the eyes you see eyeballs.

These statements require delivery. They (except for the second) aren't simply said. They need to be sent. In transporting these expressions the darkness that shrouds them is shaken off. They aren't as grey as they appear, or maybe they are, but that's okay too. Anyway and either way, they make me smile.

Delivery included:
The first is said while riding in a car (at the speed limit) and being steered by a wobbly driver across farm-side streets. You yawn and a finger is in your mouth. You turn your head to look at sheep and you're poked in the cheek when you look ahead again. You look out at a forest, but the driver complains he can't see it through all of those trees.

After perhaps a, "For God's sake Bett" (Bett is the woman in the photo), or more innocuously, after a long look at slowly passing clouds, the second is said just as the second is written. And 'it' probably won't.

The third is posed as a question, or rather, a fact to be questioned.
It will never work.
What won't work?
A dead horse.

The fourth is purely silly.
I look in the eyes and what do I see? Eyes-a-balls!

I'm thinking now that I have a lot to get done that I am not doing. I'm thinking I'll pay attention to number 2, sleep, and worry about it in the morning.

Subject: On Mail (A Lengthy Post)

On her four fingers she wrote, "Action", "Expression", "Honesty" and "Comfort," I said, "You've got a thumb left for love." She said, "I've got too much hate." With all abounding thoughts on action resting violently in my head I've forgotten some important things, mainly honesty. Mainly honest expression. Lack of honest expression has led me... let's just say it's led me astray in the past. I would use one of my four fingers for bravery, rather than comfort, because I feel I need it for the other three, and I feel that it's a weakening fear of discomfort that allows me to lie to myself. Everything under a smile.

One day I walked with an elderly woman to the post office. We met because I giggled at her opening a door with her bum, "You gotta use what you got." She said she was sick of writing letters because she had sent so many to her brothers and husband during the war. Mail is important. It's a little bit of all four fingers.

Making Moves and Puppy Love

I've recently made scrabble moves, dance moves and moves from point a to point b (and c, d, e).
Scrabble is a series of careful decisions. I chose "Pi".
Dancing is a series of thoughtless actions. My feet choose for me; they do not always choose grace or dignity.
Moves from point a to b are difficult, particularly with the use of 50 cent pay-phones, more so when you do not know the neighbourhood you're in. You get crafty. I went into a Chapters and quickly found the travel section to plan my route. A subway ride later, then following much misguided direction and forfeiting to a gypsy-cab-co-esque taxi, I made it to the door I was to enter. Ascending one simple set of stairs can be a daunting task when you do not know the apartment call number to get you through a door, when you don't have a cellphone to find out, and when you don't know what to dial even if you did. I found myself in front of that very task. First, I walked out of the building to see if I could spot a room to throw stones at. I can't throw curve balls so I decided to try my luck guessing apartments. Numbers 1-14. I had an inkling it was 13. The building must have a suspicious landlord because these numbers jumped from 12-14. I tried 12. That was it. I was meant to get into that apartment. The evening that followed was too good to tell*. Good in that sad way, and good in that way that I just can't quite put into words yet because I can't quite understand it.

Eventually, after a short weekend that lasted forever, I brought myself home to to dream of puppy love. His name is Freddie and my mom brought him to Oakville yesterday. He is about the size of a shoe, soot-black, and really freakin' cute. One day soon I'll swing back into movement and meet this little mutt.

* I think I unconsciously took this from Kerouac, but inverted it's meaning. Apps?