RTS RIP

I stare at the envelope

She would be 96 years old now

Not one to browse the obituaries

I rarely read the papers anymore

I wonder

Is she still alive?

And if she is how is she?

There are vestiges of her

Around my home

The ugly yellow outdoor carpet

Screw holes from plant hangers

A grab rail in the bathroom

And the residue of adhesive

Shapes of flowers

Slip savers

That come forth in the wet tub

I stare at the return address

There were many of them this year

This one New Jersey

And as I scrawl RTS across her old address

Now mine

I think the people re-receiving this post

Do they wonder RIP?

Counting Pennies

One, two, three, four… and so on to fifty. 

A brown paper coin wrap is waiting.  A slight crease folded about one half an inch from its edge.  The paper placed carefully onto an open Encyclopedia Britannica, the crease fold aligned with the gutter between the open pages of the reference book.

Carefully and cautiously, the tarnished copper treasures are tipped upright onto the brown paper wrap, one, two, three, four… and so on to fifty.  Tiny fingers balancing tiny coins, onto brown paper, placed into a reference book, open to a page with a picture and article of a strange place in far off Africa.

We collect these coins with our trick and treating.  Little orange cardboard money boxes secured around our necks by coarse brown string, beacons of charity to the occupants of the houses we yell our Halloween apples to.  Children all over our city are making the same effort, collecting pennies, into little orange boxes.

These boxes come to our house from the schools.  Hundreds of little orange boxes filled with pennies.  For several days four sets of children’s hands and one set of mother’s hands, sit around the dining table spending their evenings wrapping coins.  Counting pennies, while eating candy, wrapping pennies, while reading the pages of the book beneath the wrap.  Reading of Nigeria, and Biafra, and listening to the news of families starving, and children dying.

One, two, three, four… and so on to fifty.  Over and over again.  Eating our candy.  Counting these pennies.  So people in a far off land may have food, and perhaps life.

Sense

No photographs sir
No memories thinks eye
What was it I was just seeing
That caused me to commit this faux pas
You must delete the photograph sir
But no damage was done was it
I glance at the scene I had captured
A fire scene
It had hit my senses
I liked it and wanted to preserve it
And delete it now sir
The condescension palpable
My sensitivity of doing wrong
Wrought by the sensitivity no wrong was done
Lost now the thing that had pleased my senses
And on the way out
I can buy a video of the production
But what is the sense in that
It was not this production
The one that had captured my eye
That had joined to my senses
Something is lost

Stella

Stella is a hard person. She has the build of a woman borne of labour or fighting or perhaps jail. Her shape nondescript, more a triangle. Her arms were large and muscular and looked as if they could handle themselves in a bar brawl. Stella was dressed in black steel toed boots, black jeans faded grey where she would lean against things, a black t-shirt with a not very nice slogan imprinted across the chest. Her face and arms are tanned the leathery tone and skin condition of a person away from this place.

Stella was not a person you could feel immediately warm to. Until you looked to her shoulders. On the right a large majestic white Cockatoo. It sat lording over all it saw from his perch subjecting himself only to Stella. It nuzzled and nibbled on her ears. As she prepared to enter a coffee shop she reached to him, scooped him onto the back of her weathered hand and touched his tail. He deftly lifted his tail and left his stool with all the other bird stool in the parking lot. A kiss and he moved back to his perch.

On the left shoulder a moulting Myna bird. Never has a bird loved a person as this tiny fellow loved Stella. He sat in rapt attention to her every word, every gesture. Her attention to Cockatoo did not affect him. She was his life. All other things were incidental.

Stella is a hard person, with a soft spot for these beautiful birds.

A woman...

...would be much better off if she could distinguish the difference between:

• A man that flatters her and a man that compliments her;

• A man that spends money on her and a man who invests in her;

• A man that views her as property and a man that views her properly;

• A man that lusts after her and a man that loves her;

• A man that believes he is God's gift to women and a man that REMEMBERS a woman was God's gift to man.


Know the difference!


~Billie Holiday~

ramblings of the mental mind (iv)

misunderstanding the misunderstood seems a mark in life I continue to enact and act upon with intentions misunderstood I care continuing to tackle the frustrations of emotions head on wishing for emoticon signals to designate a touch a feeling from people I love so I can not be misunderstood but this would be all about me when in fact I want it all about you but help is needed for me to navigate the subtleties of the human condition a part apart I seem to be

Design: Apophysis 2.03c – Rendering: Flam3 2.7.b8 (partial)

Woody Allen's Concept of Reincarnation

Woody Allen 

"In my next life I want to live my life backwards. You start out dead and get that out of the way. Then you wake up in an old people's home feeling better every day. You get kicked out for being too healthy, go collect your pension, and then when you start work, you get a gold watch and a party on your first day. You work for 40 years until you're young enough to enjoy your retirement. You party, drink alcohol, and are generally promiscuous, then you are ready for high school. You then go to primary school, you become a kid, you play. You have no responsibilities, you become a baby until you are born. And then you spend your last 9 months floating in luxurious spa-like conditions with central heating and room service on tap, larger quarters every day and then Voila! You finish off as an orgasm!"
— Woody Allen

From: http://grou.ps/meditationtime/blogs/item/woody-allen-concept-of-reincarnation

z

thrust early

and heart

broken

a lifetime

a fortnight

joy

a lifetime

agony

sadness
then

joyful memory

treadpidation

my words oft misconstrued the meaning known and understood to me felt and viewed differently by readers and thinkers known and unknown may get me into trouble or hot water or conditions of having to attempt to explain myself furthering my words perhaps misconstrued and oft placing me deeper into the maelstrom of misunderstanding requiring me to face my misunderstandings with an inquisitor who first hurt may come to realization what they see and what I say are not necessarily of same portent signaling a change in thought or feeling but an explanation of my scattered but ordered mind segmented into byte size pieces of information that arranged in a map will explain the pattern of thought that augers augury of insight into places I fear to tread and that in fact my meaning is one of great intent to herald a future of true content

Musterbation Can-Can

You must get a wife

You must get a large house

You must get a degree

You must get that six-figure job

You must have 2.1 kids

You must have a 2-car garage

You must have that Europe holiday

You must have an SUV

You must also own a car

You must send you kids to private school

You must eat at the finest restaurants

You must play golf

You must love professional sports

You must belong to exclusive clubs

You must have sex 1.2 times per week

You must attend the opera

You must be politically active

You must pay into charities

You must believe in God

You must go to Church

You must drink too much

You must have a huge debt

You must have a stressed heart

You must die early!

You can reassess your life

You can be an artist

You can cry

You can laugh

You can sing to friends

You can dance

You can eat sensibly

You can exercise smartly

You can take relaxing vacations

You can smell the flowers

You can play with children

You can play with animals

You can read

You can read poetry

You can love a wonderful woman

You can make love with feeling

You can listen with heart and soul

You can enjoy the moonlit night

You can love a sunny warm day

You can love winters white way

You can work for charities

You can listen to birds

You can live simply

You can live long and joyfully!

sWept

Norton’s Day of Discovery (part ii)

It came with such intensity.  A demon had been defeated, a lifetime of darkness and despair suddenly was laid bare.  The puzzle of the label could be solved.

It came with such intensity.  This mind was suddenly clear.  The pain caused by years of cloudy ink suddenly dissipated by clear cool waters.  Craved connection to humanity unexpectedly and easily granted.

It came with such intensity.  A warmth starting as if fused and shot from this belly exploded in this heart sweeping through this body.  Filling every recess of soul with warmth and with light and with connections.

It came with such intensity.  A release felt so little in this lifetime.  The body uncontrolled, wracked by cleansing waves of weeping.  A wonderful dirge of release.  A simple song so difficult for the label to perform.

It came with such intensity.  Again when shared and again when shared and again when written.  This elusive physical gift, paroled from deep in this soul, bringing consciousness, connection, elation, ecstasy... 

It came with such intensity.  A prayer answered.  A blessing received.

These Peas

Arranged, a pattern of geese in formation, together they remain amongst the sauces and meat and squash and pasta.  These we will not sacrifice to our sustenance.  These will remain sweet and green to compose naturally to provide for future generations of insects and plants and food and animal.  These peas, this sacrifice, these peas, for future. 

tears for tears

attacked without warning it tears into the skull swelling the brain expanding the mind this searing pain repetitious.  the tears pour forth as thoughts of suicide do battle with the stronger will to thrive and make a difference.  this pain beating the man to submission rendering his strength and will a shaking shambles.  a shell of himself to build again.  day after day like clockwork it battles to empty this mind of the emotion and feeling learned.  hopes of love switched off scoured clean by a force intent on minding mind to simple reason.  feelings content a future desired purged from soul.  this mind fights for supremacy to overcome inertia for sake of connection, for sake of companionship, for sake of higher power.  forsake a path straight to an undulating road experienced to soul and souls connected.  these tears the price to combat the tears these wired connections struggle to hold… grow forth.

Coffee

This heart it soars when you are present, and is sore when you are not.  The remnants of your presence surround this existence.  Memory of your voice as it sings; songs of black birds and women artists loved and revered.  Stars fondly recalled their stories growth, reverence and the beautiful.  We stare share the lawn of leaves from heights and discovery.  Shared place, blankets warm of conversation of friends, potato salad, strawberry pie. 

And coffee.

Never emptied, held warm and close.  Strength in its brackish, mine clear yours sweetened with cream and cane.  Remnants left of memory we share.  Tears and heart, your aura I feel.  

Broken

A walk down the curved hill from door to road’s edge.  They are tiny people, and aged.  She leaning against her cane, he bow-legged walking with the deliberate care of sore joints.  They are slowly walking the downward slope, leading me to the road’s edge. 

She stops to punctuate a decision.  She will walk no further.  She speaks, her orders punctuated by jabs of the cane, her language not mine, snippets englais mixed in francais, her point understood.  He (two jabs directed to his chest) must go get the car (a swing jab over his head in the general direction of where they are parked) and he must bring the car here (a point of the cane from the road to the precise spot he is to stop) and he (more jabs to his chest) must be quick about it.  She leans upon her cane, tired and pained.  A look to her husband reveals her disdain.

He looks confused and frightened.  Momentary silence and then shy speech: where is the car parked?  Wife explodes in fury, a string of language I recall hearing on the schoolyards of my youth, her jabs to him pronounced and pointed: you stupid man, you forgetful uncaring man, you inconsiderate man, must I do and think of everything, man.  Her anger animated, her cane swinging about her, a menace of wood it lands across my shoulder.

Her profanities, no apologies, proffered upon myself for being so near.  Unapologetically she returns to her man to complete her eulogy in stupidity finally recalling to him the place where the car is parked. 

Wide berth I give her as I continue to the road.  He hobbles down, down to road’s edge.  At the light we look into each other’s eyes.  We share, he a broken man belittled impotent and useless, me a broken man bruised contained anger.  No words need pass we just know.  Light changes, permission made, we cross together, solace in companionship, strangers to pride.

On Angels Wings

Greta was tall, nearly six feet, and slender.  At 60 years she held herself with poise and grace.  A beautiful self assured woman who one could not help feel affinity with.  Herbert was equally tall, equally slender, with a twinkle in his eye, and love in his heart.  When these two looked at each other all you saw, all you could sense was contented happiness. 

Greta and Herbert, they loved each other.

Greta was dying.

And soon evidently, so she said.  These two had prepared for the inevitable and there was peace and grace in their hearts. 

Greta and Herbert had faith.  They had faith in the peace Greta was going to find in her release from the ravage of her disease.  They had faith Herbert had the strength to carry on in life, to continue to be the stalwart of their family.  They had faith that once again they would be joined together. 

Greta had no regrets in her life.  Greta had only one wish left.  Greta wished to sing one more time with her choir.  Hers is a large choir, forty voices.  Her hospice room small.  This evening she was going to sing with them, to be one in voice, to exalt her faith, the very fiber of her soul, one more time.  With her Herbert, with her friends.

This choir is punctual.  Complete with piano they assemble, crowded into the hall and her room.  Greta standing, dressed in her choir robes, at her place, harmonious and happy.

Hummmmmm, the sections they measured themselves.  And they sang!  The roof was lifted from the building.  The sick and dying, their families, all moving to the hall to join in the beauty of song and blessing.  Harmony layered upon harmony they sang with verve, they sang with purpose.  Glorious tunes to God and Jesus.  All that is fair and wonderful in church coming to that single point in time.

God joined this choir that evening and stood with Greta holding her, giving her strength.  Angels carried voice to the halls and the heavens.  A glow of harmony, of accord came over us all. 

The choir sang On Angels Wings.  Greta’s strength gave way after one verse.  Herbert lifted her and carried her to the bed.  He covered her to keep her warm.  And while her choir sang her Herbert held her hand, stroked her hair, told her of his love for her.

Greta, enveloped by the angelic voices of her friends, whispered back, “I love you Herbert”.  And Greta passed.

Recycling... Dig-It

Archeologically speaking my recycling bin is a backward look to my recent past.  Layer upon layer of stuff no longer needed, a reflection of consuming, of habits, of health, of information.

I tend to hold onto this past until it is flowing out of my bin.  Then I precariously balance the bin down nine floors out the back door to consolidate my meager history with the meager histories of my flat mates, all which tells a story of our community.

My story is simple.  Three weeks of history.  Here lays three wine bottles, 2 red and one white.  The white was opened a while ago.  It is not my preferred drink and it was consumed slowly, occasionally relegated to add flavour and substance to dishes.  All the wine is memory of friends, time valued and shared, providing comfort and companionship, respect and love.  I touch these bottles fondly as they slip through the holes in the bin of histories consolidated.

A vitamin bottle, 400 tablets of Multi+ daily joy, plus a BONUS 100 tablets.  500 tablets of daily joy, how could a boy go wrong.  This bottle hearkens way back though.  To a period just prior the big relationship change when the stresses of life and concerns about my health led me to search for the “fix this” solution at the local health food store.  Misguided as it was I dutifully consumed a tablet a day… more or less, until this week this link to my past ended.

Grocery packaging: a KD box, jars from jams and sauces, soup tins, cardboard wrappers from a pie, preformed flash frozen ¼ lb Angus Beef burgers, an ice cream carton, a pie plate, a pop bottle, a pizza box, all evidence of poor diet and when presented en masse a stead fast reminder I must make change.  No change could result in the inevitable well earned, long overdue heart attack, an experience I do not wish to enjoy.  On the other hand this paunch has sure come in handy for propping up the recycling bin while fumbling with locks and reaching for elevator buttons.

And paper.  A layer of paper across the base of the box provides a softish landing spot for the evidence of consumables above.  Bills, shredded in an attempt to protect identity and information.  Flyers imploring me to exercise my duty to consume by offering me deals on bad groceries, deals I obviously fell for, to collect mileage points, to go to the temple of evil empire gods from Bentonville, to support the oldest retailer in North America long since wiped from Canadian culture to be owned and marketed by someone also south of us, buy electronics and computers.  All of it lacking, non of it with imagination, lifeless flotsam, a waste of trees.

Embedded in the paper layer a reminder: vote Conservative, vote Liberal, vote NDP.  How the nation has changed since those imploring documents came through my mail slot.  My vote it counted but wiped clean by another respected view.  Such is the wonder of politics in this country.  One tiny tick in a circle and I had a voice. 

And this voice is changing.  It has allowed me consume but sends me a message.  It allows me to grow old on my own terms.  It allows me to tell my country what matters to me.  My voice is added to all the many other voices recycled in the big bin.  Much of it to be changed back into consumables, to start a path again, to fit into lives.  A reflection of ourselves, an ever changing people, ever changing persons.

My Twenty Five in no particular order...

1. Coca Cola, in a tall thick glass, 5 ice cubes, cold.
2. Coffee, black, bitter, and strong.
3. Grandchildren: Gods blessing that life must carry on with unconditional love and free will.
4. Work driven by personal intrinsic motivation.
5. Lemons.
6. Children, my children, to love and be loved for all our days together.
7. Travel, new and interesting places, new and interesting people, culture.
8. Cathedrals, of all religions, architecture of faith, monuments
9. Chocolate layer cake, raspberry centre, chocolate butter icing.
10. Cold milk!!!
11. Water: to swim, to float, to marvel, to drink.
12. Prairie thunder storms
13. Spring snows
14. The scents of fall
15. A woman to adore: my best friend, a partner, a confidant, a supporter, a critic, a protector, a lover.  Till death do us part.
16. Winter
17. Dry Red Wines
18. Poetry
19. Internet: an organism to join us all to motivate us to better.
20. A healthy earth
21. Stories
22. Love
23. Hot Showers
24. Mountains
25. My healthy strength

Crest

My friend blessed me with a gift this early morning.  What is the view from your house the quiet excited thoughtful voice implores.  Oh, I’ve woken you, sorry, go back to sleep.  NO wait, look.  Tell me what you see…

Waves of orange and grey slip by my windows undulating across the sky, lights from a descending craft fading in flickers on its homeward journey.  The orange, an elemental glow from amber streetlights on Armstrong’s Point.  Grey, the thick cloud of flurried snow as a heavy wind blusters and blows.

It is May Day isn’t it?  What madness is this?  It is not.  This is nature’s maypole dance, a swirling crescendo of beautiful girls dancing across the sky, colours of nature in the deep night sky.  Mixtures of rain and snow, the foundations of spring life, swirl dancing to the ground below settling on trees and rooftops and cars and streets…

…and riverbanks.  The new fallen snow expands the ever widening river, this itself a tributary to the larger shed river.  The wind is churning the waters that have been hastening their descent all day as they rise to the Red.  The Red itself rising faster has been backing its waters into the Assiniboine, the two expanding waters meeting and mixing in a churning eddy at the end of Cornish Street.

Waters rise, meet, and churn, rain and snowfall, wind gusts and blows, blusters of grey and orange, release to a clean white cover.  A perfect choreography this May Day, the natural earth rhythm working to crescendo, a rivers crest rising to peak to trumpet herald a new season, a new reason, of fertile hope.

This I share with my friend, grateful for this late night call, blessed to be able to share my view, thankful voice we part to silent wonder of this earth given art.

Stroke

A brush will provide clarity

To life’s long brevity

Experiences, community

Friendships, affectionately

Behold be held

In weakness meld

Blood stress pressed skull

Hostage, life may be killed

Fortune of care

Position place to pair

Chance peril now aware

Life’s risk is to share

Caution to wind not so

Future known not yet, lo

Life’s interests, love to know

Deep caring love’s wondrous show

It is so worth it

Face forward no longer sit

Recovery’s exposure writ

Life’s love experience wit