avoidance.

I have no mind for keeping an actual blog. the sort that informs you of my daily life and all the witty witticisms I dispense liberally therein to anyone in ear-shot. not my thing.

could be that the moments I have free to start pouring forth life thoughts are moments like these: too early in the morning when half my brain is still quite asleep. diction and syntax are ridiculously out of whack and, well, a well-formulated story/argument is hard to come upon half-asleep.

could be that my daily life is dull, continuous and devoid of drama.

could be because when anything does occur of drama-esque  possibilities, I let it turn over in my mind for a few days and then spill it out (oh-so-graciously) upon one of my friends in a sort of rant. because they rant back I don’t feel too awful about my occasional spills.

or it could be because I actually don’t want the general public viewing the real me. the valleys and mountains are equally freakish and I’d like to think there are some people in the world who consider me a somewhat mature, somewhat stable adult. (I thank you people for your blissful ignorance.)

on the other hand, there are so few readers of this blog aside from my parents (I know this because WordPress lovingly informs me of my un-popularity in chart form,) and most non-parent readers are quite familiar with my unstable and immature behavior…

this is where I forget where I was going with this…

a point, possibly made or untouched from the above statements, is that I enjoy avoiding drama. it’s comfortable. for the sake of avoiding boredom, I do tend to get interested in other people’s drama, but I don’t envy them. I like my life. I like the drama-less ease with which each week completes itself. and yet…

drama doesn’t avoid me nearly as neatly. silly drama.

night past

why does the night pass by

so sluggishly dripping as though

squeezed through

a leaky facet, not quite

turned

off.

pretentious ’tis, as if

every nano-second momentous is.

A (so-called) masterpiece

of thirty minutes measured, clicked and

ticked into place hours aft.

And This clock – Yes, just This – advances

five and ten and then

lingers

it seems

stilled to full stop…

but only sixty thrice and moves along

minutely measuring the same once more.

Slow and sickly and sticking,

flows this night,

with naught but the useless idiocies,

curiosities to bat about as the cruel cat does play,

here munching the month

there letting it flutter vainly loose,

to meander, listless but doggedly, to that freedom dreamed,

towards the weak sun’s light.

Oh! The fright from failed flight!

Mangled and weary

wilted wings half-hinged, and does it wish?

Oh that sleep would carry me down…

This slumber-less wonder, the dawdling clock,

these twitching didgets and eyes bright -

how they make my mornings mad!

Glowering is sure upon the final arrival

of early new day’s rays.

a bad day gone good.

yesterday started. it was not to be a good day, it seemed. the weather was against us – the first rain in more than a month, I think. headaches from allergies thrown in and my eyes puffed up… not much helping. and then… all went up on the scale of good day things. 

old/new friends. bbq. flopping upon picnic blankets. so many kinds of chips. toes immersed in sand, in ocean, and tangled in sea weed. cute baby laughing constantly. bocci ball. chats of ridiculous nature. drawing in the sand. cherry pit spitting contest. crashing, then welcomed at, a waffle/sangria party. more old/new friends. flopping on couches. long, rambling, random chats. small dance party as only enabled in a 4-ft-sq area. asked to come again. rides home. one absolutely glorious bed to climb gratefully into…

joys.

We’ve moved (I have become a part of another we), we’ve had the house-warming party, my dearest books are in place (each placement giving me such a glorious thrill), I’ve just returned from taking out the garbage and the compost, and then strolling down the avenue for cleaning tools and candles, and am now just so gloriously content, I thought I would share a List (and you know how you love lists!) called:

 

“How Do I Love My Apartment? Let Me Count The Ways (But Not In Order Of Prominence, Just In The Order It Pops Into My Head”: 

1.  We have compost and separated recycling for the building! Having lived (which is actually a cursory word considering that I mostly just turned into a sloth) in small town Indiana for a summer, I’ve realized that it is stinking hard to be Earth-friendly when convenience doesn’t coincide. I guess I’m just saying I’m lazy. But I do want to be responsible. So I’m happy.

2.  Our avenue contains, within a block of our apartment, a vegetable market, a fish market, a meat market (ahem), and two bakeries. Also a Safeway, in case I’m so lazy that I’m willing to pay the freakish prices. Also a Capers, in case…I become a millionaire?

3.  Five blocks north of here (all downhill) lies Kits beach. Mmmmm…beach.

4.  My shower! There were two things on my list of of wants for my next place.  The first was…#5.  The second was “a good shower/bath”. La. It’s absolutely brilliant.

5.  My kitchen! It’s about a third the size of my last kitchen and about three times as efficient/ inspiring.  Herein I will bake, cook, and wash dishes with a view… Absolutely lovely.

…and so much more!   I’m so thankful for this place, for my new roomie, and definitely for a warm Vancouver sun that disappears only at 9:30pm.

the Eighth Move

Twenty-third, Thirty-first, Hoy, East Broadway, Berkeley, Forty-fifth, West Eleventh, and in three more sleeps…

West Fourth. Huzzah!

Unfortunately, I’m noting that the down-side of an early summer in Vancouver means any exertion, such as, perhaps, PACKING, becomes akin to cruel and unusual punishment.  Hopefully between a good number of breaks outside my sauna of a room I’ll make a massive dent in all this stuff that is now somewhat “mine”.

Shared Salt

 

through Tenebrae tramping

traces of Bergamot tender my thoughts

then I suppose this Broken Heart is

just a dissipation of daisy petal Dreams

(on Yew and Broadway)

between crevices on the walk-way

and that scent – simmering beyond memory

just on that day that you go

I hear the hurry - 

see your awkward scuffled shuffle

(such Cold Feet to dance upon!)

Singular and sometimes Coupled digits

to raise a strong signal do they fidget

satisfactory movement and Meaning

for New Worlds, Continentals,

and proper Brits about

(now do I cough an ahem to bring me

back to the sentiment - 

so singularly and passively felt – foolish)

shared Salt, it is said, in sonnets of Olde

the Bards did spake it often enough

(now murmured down hallways empty

perhaps, even whispered to dull bug-eyed Fish - 

who struggle in a wriggling dance like yours)

but for salt shoved, pack deep into wounds too fresh?

might we forego the Sayings - 

the well-intentioned jibes

simplistic-writ lines of Lore

or a Casablanca darkened to Color

Lies become you less than me

for Women deceive as we do Breathe.

vinyl label tape

 

trapped in a moment

this silence

so much constrained in nothingness

captivity of the letter 

white on black vinyl label tape

a storybook life, I’m told true

oh that these tales give loose to life

from pages of stained paper gathered tight

this present persists

between drum beats and dusty moth balls

and the foot starts the tap

alive and unwilling to be

so still.

the morrow is still to come!

the grin will break in the face of today

in the moment of orderly semblance

tap, tap, back-step

give a bit-of-a spin

arms all a-quiver to join and let go

holding the moment still

plans of constructive constructions fail

so much pulled,

prim’ed, trimmed and weighed

tap, tap, back-step and twirl!

my beat is odd, not off

the grin pulls in all directions

(catch it if you can!)

to join this dance, this magnificent moment

do the eyes close and brightly twinkle open.

on the weather

 

stories shift in this sun-damp head

sticky, they mediate restless thoughts and dreams of dread

but words, linked limericks and words…

how they flit listlessly

break their lease, their fast in other minds

left, I sit ( or saunter quick?), hoping to garnish their ways again.

sun burnt wonder: how do dreary druthers uplift flick?

swift joy, such menial splendor…

words mine, sudden this simple contentment

mundane grey, oh but I smile

even sodden in this soaking dry rain

fain not, truth and I came for the weather, sundry.

the feeble cling

startled at stability,

floundering amidst this found contentment

did I only feebly cling on solid ground?

sand have left – as have my senses

so ‘balanced’, I see no rift to mend

shake me some – break me if need be

crush the solid - 

(do I whisper true these words?)

imperfect, burned and better to be

may that the present and the contentment swell

(simply and solely) with thee

desk dahlias

these words, letters, mumbles

fumble. dahlias, morbid, in

magnificence. significant changing maples

of lanes, steeples and 

steel memoirs of long past ages

the rage of industrial machines, white collars

high collars of civil threads, in eights and 

four walls. confined cells 

in venetian blinds stripe grey clouds and

carpets. viewing walls see all

baker dimly beyond the haze

of this dog summer heat

sudden screeches, shrill

sirens trill their half-hour bells, pauses

hums and buzzes and fizzles

with blinking lights. the paper is out.