Everyone Will Wear Yellow

Valentine's Day

2012-02-13T16:15:00.000-08:00

Happy Valentine's Day friends!

I hope you have a splendid day today! I wish I could take you all out for a candle lit dinner with an ocean view! Or we could exchange valentine's like we did in elementary school (nervously choosing the ones with the least amount of romantic sentiment for the boys, or secretly hoping that you would go to your locker and find out you have a secret admirer).

I will be spending the evening of ol' St Valentine's day with overseas friends, making lasagna, eating chocolate, drinking red wine and watching a movie.

Giving Oscar a little love in Paris.

I promise to write more in the near future. I've just regained my ability to download photos so expect many a post soon :)

Love and miss you,

Jessica

xxxx

New House!

2012-01-08T23:02:00.000-08:00

I've moved to Brighton!

Here is my new mailing address:

Room 9

10 York ave

Hove UK

BN3 1PH

More to come soon :)

Cheers,

Jessica

12A

2011-11-21T13:24:00.000-08:00

Hey Friends,

Here's some photos of my room at Lewes Court. It has been really nice living here, this residence is beautiful and my flat mates are wonderful, but I'm moving to a house in Brighton this week! Here's a little retrospective on the first space I could call my own in England.

Lewes Court itself! The front entrance always reminded me of a large country estate, a creepy mental hospital, a castle, a fancy college or a brick butterfly depending on my mood.

One day critics and avid fans will look at this picture and say, "this is the desk where she started it all! The very first articles were written here... sigh".

The red pins show you where I've been and the yellow/white pins are where my friends and I were thinking of going for New Years. The options! I can't wait to fill this up entirely with red pins.

The pin board above my desk where I've put up little clippings from home, postcards and pamphlets for festivals I want to go to here in Brighton. Send me some mail and it will end up in this collage! (hint hint)

These are a few of my favorite things - Lovely bed! My new red coat! An English flag that my flat mates gave me after a football game! Now I just need to find more stuff for my walls.

Who knew having a sink in your room would be so amazing!

And... that's it! I've grown pretty fond of this room to tell you the truth. It's funny how you grow attached to spaces. But to Brighton I go! Goodbye room!

Cheerio,

Jessica

Good Eats

2011-11-20T10:50:00.000-08:00

Cream Tea

Full English

Double Spaced

2011-11-14T04:37:00.000-08:00

That awkward moment when you realize that a week's worth of toil and turmoil has only amounted to ten odd pages of paper covered in print.

The Reveal

2011-11-11T05:22:00.001-08:00

Hey Friends,

I'm sorry I haven't updated this! As I feared, life took hold and left me little time to sit down and write everything out. But, here's a slice of the update pie! My posts after this will be smaller and more pictured filled. I'm planning on doing a series of posts called "It's All in the Details" - so get ready for that!

BIG Slice of Life -

Things are going pretty great out here. I was really nervous on the plane ride over, but once I got on the train from London to Brighton and saw the beautiful English country side (and the train station that had more history than most buildings in Vancouver do!) I was instantly excited.

Ladies of Brighton - Lillie and Leanne (who I live with!), myself and Becky

The first week was a bit of a blur. It was "Freshers Week" which mostly consisted of first years getting drunk and partying all the time (or, if they weren't partying, feeling like should have been). So, it was only okay for me having gotten over the anxieties of going to university for the first time, or the emphasis on drinking. I did go to some fun events and met some really nice people.

My residence here is really nice. My room is bigger than the one I have at home and has a big window with a tree and a courtyard outside of it. I share it with five really nice people, two boys from China and two girls from the UK. Campus is beautiful and wayyyy smaller than UBC, which I enjoy. That being said, it is at least a half hour bus ride away from Brighton. After having lived here for a month I already know that I want to try and move into Brighton for next term. It is way too convenient to just stay on campus and not go into Brighton. And I really like Brighton! I want to be more of a local there for sure. So we'll see how that goes.

The Brighton Royal Pavillion

Brighton is lovely. The streets are small and windy, the beach is made of pebbles and there are tons of little pubs and shops everywhere. I have now officially had fish and chips on the pier, an English Sunday roast and cream tea. It seems that most of the "you have to do this in England" things that people tell me about involve fatty foods! But I really like it - now I just want to get to know it better!

Cream tea!

All of my classes except for one are great. In my Shakespeare seminar I seem to be the only who ever talks so it makes it boring and frustrating for me. But my other two classes "Sense and Sexuality: Female representation in 18th cen lit" and "The History of the Novel" are both really great. They are very small classes with engaging and funny profs. There's very little class time here (only 7 hours compared to 15!) but there is a ton of reading! I feel like living here has really cemented my love for English Literature. The novels I'm reading are fantastic and the discussions we have in seminar are really engaging and interesting - what more could you ask for!

I'm such an edgy photographer, yes?

I tried joining some clubs on campus but have either found them to be disappointing or have had to miss a lot of the meetings due to school work/grocery shopping. But I just applied to do some volunteering in Brighton (either for a film society or a youth program) and am going to go with a friend of mine to the next choir meeting. I've made some amazing friends so far, but without extra curricular activities it can be hard to meet people - plus I just want to be doing something! So I'm trying to make an extra effort to put myself out there and meet new folks, do new things, the whole bit.

A couple of weeks ago I went to London and it was amazing. Seriously, I almost cried when my bus went over london bridge and I could see Westminster Abbey. There's so much history in that place! I walked along the river Thames, saw the Globe, St Paul's, Tate Modern, the National Gallery/Portait Gallery, the British Museum - you name it! A friend of mine was kind enough to let me sleep and her floor and introduced me to the finest in trashy British TV. I'm going back on the 26th with the photo society of Sussex in order to participate in a "photo scavenger hunt" that brings together university student from all over the UK.

Other than that I haven't done much traveling outside of Brighton. Just getting used to living here and dealing with school has kept me pretty busy. But I do plan on going to a couple of different places in the next coming weekends before I have more school work. Once classes are done I'm flying to Paris to visit my good friend Stefana over there and then I'm flying to Vancouver! I'll be in Van from the 16th - 26th, which I'm actually really happy about. Then I fly back to London and then... well there are two lovely girls who want to travel to some place great for New Years with me. We're planning our trip this weekend!

And that's it for now! These photos are from the only day I took some before my camera charger broke. So expect way more in the future when everything is up and running :)

Cheers,

Jessica

GAH!

2011-09-23T21:01:00.001-07:00

I LEAVE TOMORROW!

Things I am so so excited about right now:

I paid rent!

My bag is packed and is 19lbs under the limit!

My friends are here!

I made tough packing choices!

I have a laptop!

I'm leaving tomorrow!

The Complimentary Reactions to getting a Student Visa

2011-09-06T11:37:00.001-07:00

Yessssssss

and

Hoorayyyy!

Travel Entry Numero Uno

2011-08-30T09:27:00.000-07:00

Dear friends,

I leave in less than a month! I leave for England in less than a month. That's an incredible sentence, isn't it?

One thing that I told myself I would do is keep a travel journal while I was away. Just some anecdotes here or there, maybe a picture or two, to keep anyone who is interested informed on what I'm up to over yonder. So, here it is! The very first travel entry (druuummmmm rolllll)

What I Did this Summer (because I haven't left Vancouver yet):

1) I went to Ice Cream Social at The Waldolf. A lot.

As in, so much so I became a regular! My flats had holes in the bottom from doing the twist so much!

For those of you that don't know, the Waldorf is this fantastic hotel on Hastings that has been converted into a hotel, venue, restaurant, art gallery, anything-cool-you-can-think-of space. Ice Cream Social is a 1950s dance party that happens in their Tiki Lounge on Monday nights. It was great because it was free until 11 and that's exactly what broke, dance hungry students like.

2) I went to Hawaii with my lovely Grandmother.

Highlights included surfing, the beautiful scenery, a HUGE pancake lunch with pineapple and coconut, and my adorable Grandmother. I once woke up to the vision of her, teary eyed, because she had come to the part in her book where Princess Diana dies. SO GREAT.

3) I hiked up a mountain with my wonderful boyfriend.

What Dexter had told me was a two hour hike was actually just a super steep 45 minute one. At the top of the mountain was the beautiful Heart Lake (we didn't realize the romantic implication until we got up there!) and the dead quiet of the wilderness. We camped up there for two days, eating ridiculously nice food and reading in the sun. I got to see Dexter's manly skills as a wilderness man and we both got to be super uneasy about bears.

4) I went to a music festival in Nanaimo.

Oh man. Have you been to Crace Mountain? It's this gorgeous house in Nanaimo with a big back yard, huge record collection, a turquoise tiled bathroom and a Winston Churchill plate. Oh, did I mention that there's an amazing venue in the basement. Oh yeah!

The Number One Fun festival took place in Nanaimo and was a face painting, bare foot booty shaking, can't stop smiling, tent city slumber good time. I helped construct a stage in the park and enjoyed the sounds of bands from all over the lower mainland.

For heart warming photos of the festival check out Steve Louie's flickr: http://flic.kr/s/aHsjw2TJLE

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was my summer in 4 easy bites. Tons of other stuff happened, I worked, I hung out, I stressed out about student Visa stuff but all in all this summer has been a really nice time. I mean to make the most of the next couple of weeks that I have here and I hope that I get to see you, whoever you are.

Love,

Jessica

PS: they won't always be so long, I'm still figuring out how to post photos and I'll continue to use this to post poetry as well.

It's 4 am in Sweden

2011-06-06T10:16:00.000-07:00

Kicked back
Wheel house
Red rose chips
Playing house
Caged feet
Furnace safe
Legs like these
Sniffle sniffle
Throwmeup
Pedal pusher
Watered temples
Sour dough
Let me loose
Single file
Blueberry dress
12 hour people

Little by little

2011-02-05T19:39:00.000-08:00

little by little the truth scrawls its way across your page
comes out from the wall -

I'm sorry tiny mouse
you died in my hall way
beside the classic books
and my unfolded laundry
felt your insides dry up with poison
and finally became still
I'm sorry I shuddered to look at you
but death felt too close
you are the third living thing
I have watched die in my life time
I covered your body with paper
tried to erase your memory
with the images of a romantic comedy
but you small tragedy kept playing in my mind
the way you thrashed and squirmed
makes me wonder
if I will fight so physically
to keep onto life as you did
if my hands will reach out
and dance like they did
at my birth

Speed

2010-12-12T21:27:00.000-08:00

gut throat cheek neck all that I am made of slip swish felt bad gurgled up the wrong one feel this this way fore arm blasting out a trumpet tune you've swung too far and down dangle over the edge you wish you had a leg to saw through but you you don't even catch latch key fill me with everything I want I want it body move down ward feet on floor and up up swing out hold on to the bar to steady mouth piece freeze time fight with all the words you know and felt this touch soon diving diving diving mad freak girl king trouble soon and fast this way! Catch your fall-outs bring your heart lay it down and shake it hard you've got it all they want it but you had it all you want it backdrop foreground fading fast and hugging close to darkened fauna climbing stairs in castle and walking past the red rope tethered to a chair so fine so fine, you feel like a woman surrounded by mountains surrounded by aching for flat lands and deserts in the dark lighting up my fire with match sticks to the ground grows gut throat cheek neck all that I am made of gut throat cheek neck actors act like audience

2010-11-25T19:33:00.000-08:00

A raspberry jupiter smell

berries found on a branch

reaching out like falling

wouldn't be such a bad idea

This and Only

2010-11-08T19:26:00.000-08:00

who needs maps when you can hear the cross roads

(clink together like new yeas eves)

when your eyes strain to see themselves in the dark

(look yourself in the eye and fall short of understanding)

when you look for something like god in your life

and find it in the arches

(red and white and catching you up)

the poetics

(like being stolen from in a library)

the music

(this and only)

the people straining to see themselves at your cross roads

Untitled

2010-11-04T16:05:00.000-07:00

I can feel it now

it's funny how cold hands

make me know I'm happy

Action

2010-11-02T16:26:00.000-07:00

She says she should

something

and I wonder how to

something

for her

Wringing my language

until it drips

words

coloured

by the past

that is so much

like hers

We sit at my table and

nothing

wringing our hands

until they

come up

with

nothing

Sometimes

2010-10-18T23:15:00.000-07:00

sometimes

at night

I sing quietly in french

underneath my blanket

in the still dark of my room

just to know that I still hold the languages

of love and melody

in the still dark of my heart

underneath my blanket

still singing quietly

night lit

sometimes

2010-10-04T21:06:00.000-07:00

Maritime Museum Haikus

2010-10-04T13:52:00.000-07:00

Girl with sparkly vest

Sneaks into the museum

I don't mind at all

"What? I have to pay?!"

Northwest passage is warmer

Than your cold exit

I wish I knew french

Learned spanish and italian

You'd understand then

I want to adopt

So many grandfathers here

Old men and stories

Mad customer says

"HST can suck my dick"

I say "yeah, it can"

Bikini hot mom

What have you done to your dog?

Rodents look better

(Bottle neck me now

Nights fill me up to the brim

Slowly pour them out)

Staying up

2010-09-15T21:29:00.000-07:00

if i stay up too late
my lungs will collapse
fold into boats and sail away with my last breath
if I stay up too late
my knees will shake
earthquakes for all of the children who could've sat there
if I stay up too late
my throat will go dry
crack at the edges
let the light in
and you will see
the portraits I have hidden
on the inside of my voice box
before the light
fades it all to silence
if i stay up to late
my hands will get cold
the blood will stop running it's late night busses to my fingertips
we'll have to walk all night
for me to feel anything at all
if I stay up too late
my shoulders will hunch
relieved to let show
I don't know anything yet
if I stay up too late
my head will fall
my head will fall
and land like a magic eight ball
with the answer on the top

For Reddy (written last year)

2010-09-14T09:04:00.000-07:00

She feels like a third wheel to the world

one foot stitched to the floor

and oasis of love hidden deep

deep

in her bones

she sits in buses and marvels

as one couple makes moments of love

caught in snow globe bliss

tipping chins and brushing knees

"this is charming" she thinks

evermore entranced with the way their back curve to cup each others warmth together

two shells scopping sand

"I'm glad they found each other"

because, to her in this moment

the odds of that seem

unfavorable

searching through fountains of wishes for the penny with the year, shape, tone, inexplicable tenderness that she's been aching for

falling into books like falling in love

because at least what they say will make her escape for awhile

lost

and bewildered she looks around the back of the bus to see that she

is surrounded

couples

to her right

couples

to her left

couples

in the rear view mirror

locking lips

like their heads might be stolen away by zombies prowling transit unless their lips stay connected

the entire

bus ride

and grows sick of love

Why hold hands?

You will only lose that record you were carrying on your way over, at the bus stop

only lose your wandering eye that traces out lines of beautiful boys on news paper, to report on later on

only lose yourself

and maybe

find exactly what you wanted

she is scared of this the most

stops looking and chooses to walk

from bus stop to bus stop

Ulysses

2010-08-04T18:53:00.000-07:00

I am not a dying king

You will not find the imprint of crows feet where they landed near my temples to place a crown of laurels on my head

Not find the heirs and heirlooms hiding in my chest muffled quiet by velvet time

I have not become a name

I am not a dying king

My arms do not feel weary from holding up the length of me

To examine the parchment of what I have become

For the mistakes and missed words I will find there

My nose does not arch like the bridges I will burn and mend just to reach the first sight of being whole with you

I have not learnt who you are

And I am not a dying king

I have not stood for anything that long

Have not stood on what is mine

And given it all up

A part of all I’ve seen

I have not become a name

I am not a dying king

Orchestras

2010-07-22T21:53:00.000-07:00

Music swelled from beneath the ground

lifted your head

your neck as straight as bar lines

your lips a single note

Music seeped out of concrete cracks

shifted from shadows and bashful lawns

wrapped your arms in memory

skin tingling with the distant song

The air hazy with a pause

and you know

that somewhere beneath your feet

orchestras full of longing

hope only to touch you

like this

fill your hands with melodies like heavy silver lockets

get caught in your eyelashes to brush the air you bat them with

with amber light

solos slipping round your waist

mapping your rib cage with harmonic precision

etching tremble clefs and pianissimos into your bones

notes between each rib, you breathe out concertos

Crescendos at your wrists

and you know

that somewhere beneath your feet

orchestras filled with longing

only hope to make you feel

as perfect as a symphony

as full of grace

made with as much care

feet keeping time

with the music you will play

when your body returns to the ground

and you take up your place in the orchestra

playing the songs you lived with

whole years worth of listening

in every note

Deep Blue Sea (stream of consciousness)

2010-06-29T18:21:00.000-07:00

Deep blue sea darling

oh the deep blue sea

we went swimming

hands clasped around shells

that cut our skin

red ribbons tying us still to the land

we dove down darling

moon bright on our bare backs as we dove down

we kicked the air first

struggled with our descent

kicked the air and the star scarred skin of the sea

then the water

reached out

we held the breath in our lungs like

paper promises trying to flutter out

held the breath in our lungs

and forgot to say good luck

deep blue sea darling

the deep blue sea

welcomed strangers in the night

such as us

we passed sunken sand castle turrets

passed sea weed choruses of dance

the green salt lick

you'd find

on the edges of each sailor's veins

out there

in the deep blue sea

our arms scooping up the courage

to move forward

we found the depths

saw the octopi sparkle like christmas lights

felt the hot air bubble up from the crust of the earth

slept on jelly fish pillows

and began to glow

told stories of longing and night time windows

through bioluminescent body language

I saw your heart beat magenta love beneath your chest

you saw my circulation

lit up like night traffic

slow near my fingers tips

to linger on you better

deep blue sea darling

oh the deep blue sea

breathed a sign and

our red ribbons pulled us back to land

the moon caught our pale skin

caught our skin on the dark beach

full moon bright and heavy

made us glow again

Campbell Soup Love

2010-06-22T17:58:00.001-07:00

This is Campbell soup love

All tins cans and pop art

Sending out messages from top floor window to top floor window

To your top floor, top notch, top left heart

This is Campbell soup love

Add water and heat up

Let simmer and cover

Magic in taking off the lid

And ladling it into bowls for

This is Campbell soup love

Make you feel better when you’re sick

Make you feel creamy when mushroomed

Make you mix

This is Campbell soup love

Reinvention in neon

Revolution in repetition

Baby, this is art

This is Campbell soup love

The kind you can store away in a bomb shelter

The kind that doesn’t expire

As long as you keep the tools

To open it

Leaving [Stream of consciousness from prompt]

2010-06-22T01:21:00.000-07:00

Why are you leaving?

Because my feet and hands are cold here.

My fingers fidget with pens, hold up imaginary tickets to imaginary train men. They reach out in the middle of the night to far off places so that I wake up with life lines that have yet to be lived in.

Because my eyes are overly enthusiastic in focusing.

They try so hard to concentrate on one place they cross and wander to each side, one to the ocean, the other across land. I look silly with wanting them to way wander, see things I haven't and not focus but take in.

Because my back muscles are knotted.

They long to be used. To turn my back on this place, on another, let home see the back of me for once. The front of me, well worn and crossed with maps, back muscles relaxed by traveling the winding knotted roads they used to be tied up in, will seem more welcome on the return.

Because my roots are growing out.

Hairline changing colour like the landscapes I wish to find, roots growing longer so I can settle somewhere far off without losing where I came from.

Because my finger nails need trimming.

I grow them long so I have something to leave behind. I grow them long to dig into the dirt and tunnel my way out like a jail break, great escape escapade with white potassium spots and earth crust cuticles.

Why are you leaving?

Because.

I want to.

My body keeps telling me,

I need to.

(But I haven't yet)

Delirium

2010-05-13T17:20:00.001-07:00

Delirium makes you spill your guts

makes you ache for breath and fresh mint

makes frenzied teeth

makes australian lesbians with silver imprints of their lover's pinkies dangling from necklaces ask you tenderly if you really are what you say you are

Delirium makes you pick up chairs

makes you rumble loud in night time kitchens

makes you bubble up compliments and half time praise to boys whose self confidence sags like popped balloons, letting out their blushes with a hiss of escaping air

makes the house go dark with shutters you didn't know were there

makes you miss out loud

Delirium makes you cry

makes you fetal wet hair vulnerable, cupped in bath tub palms

makes your lover take off your rings in an effort to wipe your slate clean

Delirium helps you say "I'm fine"

Delirium

makes you wonder if you are

Foot Prints

2010-04-28T18:04:00.000-07:00

If you wish
to find my name
the one nobody knows
then look
beneath my feet
see the name
etched onto my soul
the one I print
with every step
asking you to follow me

My Friends Have Fallen Out of Love

2010-04-21T01:01:00.000-07:00

[See also: My Friends are Falling in Love - Parts I and II]

My friends have fallen out of love
Mouths gaping wide with wonder they stare
Hold their hands close and their friends closer
Try to tread lightly on the ground they have finally come back to
Touching their toes on the cold tiles of the road to recovery
They feel the walls with their hands and hope desperately to catch on to some edge
Some doorway out
A short cut to forgetting

They don’t visit certain streets anymore
Don’t listen to certain songs
They black sharpie pen out all the names of places that will never go to
Without remembering the time they spent an afternoon
Traveling to buy gems they found on craigs list
Hands clasped together around the answer
They now forget the question for

Filling through past memories
Detective work with the magnifying glasses of their pain held up to their perspective
They blow dust off even the least significant moments
To try and find the signs of where it went wrong
A trip to Europe
A queasy feeling in the stomach
The red shirt on Wednesday
Seem glaringly obvious
Huge neon letters spelling
“I can’t talk to you”
and
“This has changed”

With their past days together filled and sorted, they cut the memories into pieces,
Confetti for their party of singledom restored, freedom felt again
But once the party is over
Once everyone has left
The streamers fallen down, the cake half eaten
Once they feel that they are alone
They pick up each tiny piece
Put them in their pocket
Tape some back together
The edges blurred and raw
Feel the pieces of their love tight in their fist
Thinking
“This was it, now you know”

A Poem

2010-04-20T19:49:00.000-07:00

"it's okay for you to feel
like this is more than it needs to be
and not half of what it could"

- Kelsey Savage "I Want to Write Myself a Poem"

I want to write myself a poem

and then forget that I did

find it only when I need

to have a poem written to me

like the one my mother would write

words simple as to cradle our complexity

limitations set in her form

only to say that they make it what it is

filled up with the knowledge that love

changes us

written in between the images of others

her careful care

her wanting of a voice to sing stories

to the castles, the shipwrecks and the exotic lands

folded in us

in her

a poem

like the one my violin would write

phrasing like mountain slopes

like body curves in early morning

smooth and tactile

ending with a lift to the air

with an arm bent and holding

the line break the moment

to stop

the magic in silence

to read it would be to play it

make it your own

find the place where

heart strings turn to steel

and its beat hugs the metronome

a poem

I would write for myself

to remind me that

this is how it is

and it is so much more

than a poem

Taking a Break

2010-04-20T19:13:00.000-07:00

I am trying to break your heart

says the procrastination

seeping through your fingers

wiping blank your pages

closing your days

far too soon

settling on your lashes

brushing blank your hours

closing your eyes

far too early

turning in your head saying

you are breaking your heart

with every time you don't try

to break me

This House is Burning (right after watching Synecdoche New York at 3am)

2010-04-10T11:15:00.000-07:00

This house is burning

Smoke smoke smoke

Smoke it out

When you told me that the warehouse was full of cut outs

The people, the places, in someone's life

I imagined black and white portraits

Eyes still wild, smiles painted

I imagined all the parts you’d want to share, walk through again

When you told me that the warehouse was full of cut outs

I imagined the kind of love that would warrant it

Would make you stand up your portraits for perusal

Let him walk through, let him in

But this house is burning

The warehouse filled with people

And the roles they have to play

They were awake somewhere losing children in their sleep

Wanting picnics, wanting glory, wanting you

They were awake somewhere

Whispering truth into your ear

The end is always built into the beginning

And you never

Let anyone in

Galileo

2010-04-04T19:59:00.000-07:00

Galilei Galileo

Liked to have rooftops parties in Rome,

Would invite over students, the elite, fancy dressed ladies with lace between their teeth, scholars with bible pages in their souls

He would invite them to look into his telescope

Marvel as they looked across the city and read the etchings on a palace wall, saw the birds nesting on roof tops, their throats orange as a setting sun, joked that they would need to ban the dun breasted women from bathing in the early light on their balconies, dark hair tangled in steaming water

But when he turned his telescope on his new stars, the mountains top peaks glowing the light of the sun, the light of a new truth on the moon

When he tried to show them the moons of Jupiter swirling around it in their lunary love, they looked away

They could not walk to the sun and feel the dark spots they were supposed to see there

Could not make a day trip and lie with their backs on the moon’s mountains, feel the rocky proof beneath their finger tips, feel the sun lit truth from where they resided

They were scared

Here was a man saying their earth was not stable, centre of the universe, crystal spheres holding up the planets with a luminescent comfort and support, that theirs was not a unique planet, centre of god’s eye but instead pulled by some unseen force around a glowing star, needing its light and giving of its own

They looked away and they were scared

And I think I felt this fear one night as I watched a girl whose heart was broken collide and stay standing only by the gravitational pull of the drunk boys around her

Her love having been shattered the day before she stared up to the lights of the dance floor, white neck bare and exposed, she got lost in the stars up there and forgot her body remained on earth, being taken for granted

That nights as she told me of the hurt that pulled from her very core, circled her limbs like moons caught in her single despair, it was if Galileo was telling me that the rules had changed

That my centered earth was in fact revolving around a different sun, that the love I felt for the first time could lead to this

That this loves leaves me vulnerable and bare, that like the earth I need the light of some other body, have, by some unseen force started to be a part of it, and give of my own light in return

How could I feel safe if this universe of first love was itself expanding, not connected by Aristotelian crystal spheres, lovely and predictable, shining like a necklace around my neck

That night I asked, how can I know that it’s real?

But I do not have the same problem that Galileo had

I can see you through my telescope, in the dark early hours of the morning after, walking down your block to meet me (without your shoes on)

I can lay my telescope aside and run through this city to meet you and hold

Hold the proof of this love beneath my fingertips

Feel the heart lit truth in the place that it resides

Hold you as the constellations on my arms glow at the knowledge that

The rules have changed

And isn’t it so wondrous not to circle the skies alone

The Undergraduate

2010-03-30T23:04:00.000-07:00

Slowly I’m realizing I’m not crazy

about him

(and I want to be

wrapped up in straightjacket fastenings

screaming for a world that comprises only minutes more

only minutes more!

so our goodbyes would never be cut short)

Instead, I hold on to the syllabus of

“How to Do This” 101

knowing that,

even though the course before this was Distance Ed

at least I daydreamed during class

hoped for homework and a full research thesis

“Keep this” running round my palms

he pulls rain from trees

he French presses my lips

the impression of his spine makes my fingers draw circles

but,

he will never be the break from my reality to

the ache for time abundency that could

(a boy who will)

drive me

crazy

Six

2010-03-22T22:12:00.000-07:00

We’ll get lost in it all you and I

Bare feet padding through moss

Wrists turned

So upwards fingertips can brush a birds flight

For just a moment

Before it settles in your hair singing whispered songs of unicorns wadding through riverbeds

Whale castles under the sea

Trees that write wisdom in the folds of their bark

Creak welcomes in their branches just for you

A dress made of roses and twine

I imagined all this

As I stretched out my hand from the Pocahontas rock

To the Canadian goose in the park pond

We’ll get lost it in you and I

I whispered

Amazed

To see it swim closer

My friends envious of what they thought was my deeper connection to nature

My talking to animals

Ours knees dark from the damp dirt

We so desperately wanted to understand

Search Beneath It (stream of consciousness)

2010-03-04T20:38:00.000-08:00

We’re all in the same boat

Coming up seasick for our wanting of the land, this dust settling as salt off our shoulders, you’ve seen what the waves do to the sides, pushing and rolling, caressing the wood until it simply, wears away

But let’s look at our feet

Wishing for webbed

Wishing for hot sun baked dirt to crack our heels into caverns we can sleep in, curled around our campfire smoke and parched tongues

Our whispered dreams and wind swept eyes seeing what we believe to be the second coming the slow moving, thighs heavy, with them a promise of rebirth, red tide

Waking

Waking to blue stitched on blue wondering how we found the courage to dream of something different

Did I want you that bad?

Solid ground

Seems dense and all the while knowing you could only search beneath if it you dig

And emerald waters?

They are the closest thing you’ll ever get to weightlessness on this earth, they would lift you, feel you, take every inch of you and say yes, this is you whole, I’ve got you now

But solid ground now seems

Honest

There are limitations to your growth, there is weight that drags you down, there are parts of you I will cherish more, but you can find safe footing here, learn to struggle with your gravity and push against the overwhelming urge to just

Float

The boat rolls over

Gives up it’s guts

For a look

At the sun

The Same Details

2010-02-28T22:55:00.000-08:00

You wonder

If wherever he is

He still remembers the feeling of your touch

The way you held him

Shaped him

The warmth and care seeping from your palms and finger tips

Through your gloves

You wonder if his smile is sill crooked

His arms always falling

And catching the wool from scarves

You wonder

If he thinks about you

You try and replace him each winter

Rolling your hopes

And stacking them together

Use the same details

The scarf your grandmother found in her closet

Branches from the willow tree in Lily’s back yard

A carrot with a knobby bump on the end

But

It never feels quite right

The loss of that first snowman

After bringing him in to your house

Wanting him to meet your dog

Play your games

Learn your name in the way you had etched it into your walls

Was like a first snow fall

Still wet and cold

Against your heart

Francis (Absence Letter)

2010-02-08T20:58:00.000-08:00

Dear Francis,

It has occurred to me as I sit in this florescent classroom, that the reason you aren’t here is because you are spooning in the grass. So as you take in your vitamin D and the smell of fresh earth, think about this: Home. Residence. House.

We are trying to show these words as an emotional state and I am starting to realize that the only house I want to reside in, are the ones in the hearts of the people that I love. That the dollhouse tucked beneath their rib cage is the only place I call home.

I am starting to realize that I don’t see words anymore, I see people. That when we talk about diction, word choice, that when you know it’s right it’s because you could never chose another word for that one, that that is love, in every moment. I am starting to realize that the reason I put pen to paper is to make the house in my heart bigger. I want these rooms to be a home for someone, and if I take care with my diction, use care with my diction, care with my diction, I’ll write each person through my door. There are windows here. So if I say you are walking poetry, be sure it is because I am starting to realize that each quirk in you, in others, is exactly the right word, there is no other. (So shouldn’t we all share our word choice, welcome mats out, and bring our houses together?) Let’s start with this:

When I was born the nurses named me dancing hands. My middle name is from my grandfather, and when I told you to go spoon in the grass it was because I knew you would find poetry in the sun, and her curves.

Sincerely,

Jessica

PS: At the time, I didn’t realize I’d written you a love poem. I thought that I was merely writing observations made about the world and words, when trying to take notes for you in your absence during class. What I didn’t realize was that I was writing what I had observed in you.

While I was in a relationship that left me feeling unexceptional, questioning whether I’d ever find a connection that was truly satisfying, you told about what it was like to be with someone you really cared about.

Of losing time to the lamps of soft bedroom lighting and curved door frames

Of finding forests in the suburbs and racing next to streams just to catch up with the beat of two racing hearts

You told me, “The Story” of how you met her

Love spot light lit on stage that paralleled the play’s plot, culminating to an ending that was beyond poetry in that it was real

It made me crinkle to see someone so happy, so happy to be with her

And I was happy to be with you, jumping stones off Japanese gardens, talking of our “dork forking” the buffet of skills and interests we had – photography, steel pan, ballroom dancing

Finding the poetry in late night concrete, muscle shirt wearing professors and snatches of dialogue from busy campus streets

Later, we made a duet. Fitting together two poems so perfectly it was like magic, like puzzles, like cities built in hours, it was a reflection of the connection between us that was stronger to me than the one I was supposed to be feeling with a boy who would tell me that he loved me. Stronger then any I felt with the people in vast crowds of the immense university that I had stumbled into.

You were showing me what I was missing.

You were showing me what it was that I wanted.

It may have seemed like I wanted you, but if this caused any confusion, we never showed it.

So, yes. I wrote you a love poem.

A love to poem to the way you showed me not to settle for anything less than a story, for being my friend when I was lonely, and making the terrifying new world of UBC seem a bit more like home.

Now that you’ve been gone, I want to tell you that I’m crinkling from being so happy, from being so happy to be with him. I’ve found my story.

And I hope you’re still finding forests in the suburbs, carving your heartbeat into flat stones and skipping them over the water, finding their endings to be exactly where you wanted.

Intro Paragraph is All I Have

2010-02-08T13:22:00.000-08:00

These hands of mine

find keys to fit

poems that find their place at last

messages that say "I miss you" slipped between the casual

to do lists filled with could be, would be moments of glory

emails to mothers as invitations of being let in

a side note about Russian horses

but not

no, never

an essay

due yesterday

3:30 am

2010-01-10T11:30:00.000-08:00

Your ghost finger tips had just left me

evaporating into steam from tea cups

smoke from my mother's cigarette

static snow from a TV left on

When I turned a new page in the folds of my blanket

reading the chapters of warmth I found there

memorizing lines to bring back to you

(making your space heater seem useless)

Your ghost finger tips had just left me

my temples

my palms

When you phoned

voice soft with the drunken night

lullaby quiet when you said

"There are intersections filled with people"

and

"How do I get home"

I didn't know

the points on maps were constellations from some different hemisphere

myths behind them that I'd never been told

Instead I offered up the ones you'd told me

of dog walkers with fire burn hot chocolate

in towers filled with couches and oven baking

their bike a golden promise

Instead I sent my ghost finger tips

to feel through the night

take up you pulse

for you to find hope in them waiting there

like so many people at intersections

Time (to waste)

2010-01-09T11:30:00.001-08:00

let's not waste our time

smiling at the levers we know will move us

slinking back to dark lit

moon shine

grumbled path way forest

let's not waste our breathe

I need yours

to know

what kinds of clouds run wild in the skies

catching all the planes

and turning them to golden spires

let's not waste our days

speaking tongues with the children

wrapping all their feet

in stockings

and tying all their shoes

and hoping they don't trip

I want (you)

You want

But let's not waste our time

flipping through magaizines of so much splendor

calling to our inner mona lisa

and figuring out we never brushed our hair when we were little

let's not waste our time giving up the little room

we have to make a space for inconsistency

she says

I want bread and literacy to prevail for everyone

to know what whole feels like in detail in daylight

but we keep wasting time

All I Want for Christmas are my Personalized Haikus

2009-12-25T00:33:00.000-08:00

For Adrick

Your boots lay hidden

Whispered my secret wanting

To walk in your shoes

For Kelsey

Savage blue eye'd girl

Will you laugh the sky blue too?

An iris morning

For Keely

Sway us back to sea

We'd learn how to swim for you

Tidal pool embrace

For Nat

Excuse me, madame

But I think you might be Nat

Have been all along

For Francis

Elevator shoes

Only going up, to heights

Yours are brightest views

Stefana (Laugh Louder)

2009-12-23T03:26:00.000-08:00

It’s the way

You look back

During concerts

And smile to tell me that we’re sharing this

That it is us

Taking in what will be story time remembrances

Magical field music sun creeping down below trees melodies

Night running lay your head on concrete lay your head on my shoulder for the only time I’ve seen you cry

But I’ve seen you laugh louder,

Eyes gleaming and I know this is us,

Taking in what will be another bus ride surfing vacation giggling over the cheek bones we know will only gleam as we get older,

That our ceilings are covered in haiwaiin drink umbrellas in golden sunned summers

That I can predict your love and you can only multiply mine for each belly laugh afternoon spent with you plotting “The World: UNDERWATER!” And while I may not always understand you, I will always stand beside you

Combing our bangs over wit toothed irony

Stacking our words to create cities for our walking

These streets of poetics

These houses of sentiment

Are built to say

That there are pomegranate seeds in my palms from when I turned the kind of age where I know how invaluable you are

That there are birds in your hair that I placed there because your heart can come through in a song

That this is us

Taking in these moments

Running through the snow filled dark

To meet

From opposite sides of the bridge

Breathing in the ocean

I Dream of Road Trips

2009-12-08T23:49:00.000-08:00

I dream of road trips

sun glasses and gas station lunches

sunny road side queasiness

a "care free" car filled attitude that warms

your nights

your maps

your aching joints

the sun on your legs on the dashboard

I dream of long roads

dusk approaching whispers

trying to keep you up

as you drive with one hand on the wheel

and one in mine

finding shapes in all the shadows

of a desert growing cold

ghosts to tell us stories

of how this trip will last forever

how this trip will make us whole

make us wonder at the number

of flowers by the road

I dream of playlists

a song to be born from speakers

grow up to spend an entire lifetime

just to colour our memories

"remember when radiohead came on,

just as we passed over the bridge

the lights reaching out to us from the water,

my heart stopped for just a second

so I could listen better"

lingering on our tongue tips

only to slip away

with our postcards

I dream

of laying my hand outside a window

let it waver on the air like a kite

imagining tying string

to each lampost

each sign post with new names

hopeful in their lack of explanation

each fast food chain shrine

each pit stop

(photographic moment, concrete oasis)

to catch each time you say good morning

You say good morning

and I wake to find

the curve of your spine

is like the valley

I dreamt we drove by

skinned warmed by the sun

Prototype for a letter Shiva could have written the coffee shop guy (with tattoos!)

2009-12-08T22:34:00.000-08:00

Subject: To the barista who was as hawt as my morrockin' peppermint tea

Bonjourno,

Was your day as filled with hopeful dreaming as mine was? I feel I could have filled up a grande cup with as many times your smoldering smile came to mind. Coffee? Too cold. Fire? Too cold. Lava from the depths of the earth? We're getting closer...
What say you to a dinner filled with scandalous eye contact over some spicy chai and voyages through engaging conversation. I may sound like I'm exaggerating but after I saw your tattoo I knew, this was meant be... written on a coffee slip!
I'm as free as a get out of jail free card and park place is ours. Let's play like pros. Dessert can be the chocolate of my skin and the caramel of yours.

Sundae, someday?

Shiva "Ready"

"Some Days," quoting you.

2009-12-01T00:43:00.000-08:00

"The marvelous thing is that is painless," he said

- Hemingway

Some days I look up into the sky when it's snowing and I don't know if it'll ever stop.

"Love is like music heard in another room," he said.

- Jude Law

Some days I hear the bang of the piano. Somedays they hear a violin hesitate, then slide into 5th position.

"An eater of broken meats," Kent said.

- Shakespeare

Somedays my teeth applaud and gather to the front, an eager crowd.

"I'm not weary and there is no place I'm going to," I said.

- Bob Dylan

When I was little I was fascinated by the way my legs floated in the bath (if I let go). Knees just surfacing to break the skin of the water.

King's Head

2009-11-25T01:05:00.001-08:00

leaning back

on our chairs

on our heels

we start to discover

the dust floating around the room

the dark wood walls scratching echoes into our ear drums

the light splayed across these well worn eyes

I want you to listen to when he changes his mind

slipping back into a comfortable

daze of confusion and melancholy extract

I want you to listen to when the days crack

leaking their moments like water on newspaper

streaking the words and blot darting the photos

when real becomes hyperbole

mismatched and broken

I want you to listen to how we are

now

feet sliding through doors at the end of a night

hands reaching for doors at the end of a night

and finding

the dust floating around the room

the stillness in the light

the lean of a chair

the lean

of your weight

on the wall

Natalie (Like Caring)

2009-11-09T23:34:00.000-08:00

Natalie Grey

beauty and beast pointed toes etching figures for children

straight up truth fact wonder

about the world that has to offer

so much

in tar on the sands

looking up to see

that the company she keeps

has locked lips

and swayed to her chinned down wink

wondering

if this is what saving trees feels like

if this is what green peace superhero stardom feels like

like caring

Natalie Grey

makes boys blush

when they smoke on the bus

their yellowed fingers grasping slightly

for the hidden promise of redemption

in a statement clearly made

yet

even after choosing one side of the room

the corner for a thought divided

she will listen and tip toe

to open doors for opinions she never thought existed

Natalie Grey

is riding through the dark

like a long board figurehead

making slow silent streams

of sidewalks and side streets

and if you're lucky

she'll smile your name just so

as she makes each place her home

(her own)

1 instead of 2 (opening lines cont'd)

2009-10-13T17:41:00.000-07:00

Lately I’ve been looking in the Dove campaign for a woman with a unibrow

An add for shampoo that would make silky and sweet

That place where two eyebrows meet like impractical lovers trying to make a home together:

Hairy.

I’ve been thinking about unibrow styling

That chance to see someone’s expression of themselves, their flare, as soon as your eyes meet

Frosted tips, mini faux hawks, dye

I would have chosen a florescent hue for my unibrow in grade one

because back then

it was cool

It was so cool that wide eyed boys who described their future as being the Coolest Man on Earth would stop and exclaim “Hey you’ve got one instead of two!”

“Yeah, I guess I do”

were the first words I ever uttered to the British anthem singing angel across the table from me who had colonized my heart.

Now, I felt a connection between us as powerful as the one that ran across my forehead. This, was my chance for love.

Yet, it would be that same boy who would ask me four years later,

when the desks were taller and the mythology of cooties had transformed into something much more brutal

where he could find the tent that I performed at in the circus.

It was that year that it rained most nights under that dark line of horizon.

I know mothers and fathers

That after lovingly weaving a sense of self worth and stitching precious messages of being proud of who you are into the night time stories and day time embraces of their children, struggle

with the notion that they should tell them that they need to change something about themselves because society won’t understand.

Differences make others beautiful.

Differences makes others beautiful

Differences make others beautiful

But, my dear, not you.

But lately, I’ve been thinking about how you could tell what I was thinking by the angle of my unibrow.

Three bump curvy line? Chocolate!

Straight but with a slight curve downwards?

Give her a hug, tell her a pun and you’ll survive through the day.

I’ve been thinking about doing the worm with my unibrow on a hip hop dance floor,

painting self portraits like Frida and throwing out my tweezers with the people who won’t tolerate any other version of beauty than their own.

I’ve been thinking that maybe a unibrow is just a physical, hairy, representation of a want for connection, for love.

And if that’s the case then Ernie from Sesame street and I have a serious want for love.

A want for love.

Maybe, if this is true, if we all grew out our inner unibrows and acknowledged this same want for connection in us all, as soon as our eyes met, our differences would seem beautiful. I’d find everyone smiling in their own Dove campaign, and it would be ok, it could be cool, to have one instead of two.

I Saw You

2009-10-13T17:20:00.000-07:00

I am a Girl

I saw a Spark

You were sitting in front of me at a Vancouver Film Fest Film.

You have red lips, small fists and a penchant for golden elephants.

You laughed, at the most innapropriate of times.

Death scenes, love scenes, scenes where characters ate in complete silence, fell victim to your boisterous cackle.

We shared a moment when you looked back to see that I too had been laughing at the awkwardly placed extras, strolling in the top left corner.

I should have told you then, that I would always ignore the death stares of other movie theatre patrons to laugh, at the ridiculousness of life with you.

Houses Duet [left side written by Francis]

2009-10-13T17:09:00.000-07:00

Your body is a city

I shout against these walls

But they echo in veins

Your heart is a house, a home, a cup of chocolate milk

It is cold out here

I have lived alone all my life

In the house that is my heart

With its beat that travels through the city of my limbs like wild fire

Lead me to a key hole

I have golden framed photos on every wall

A grand stand piano that echoes in the aortic tunnels

And makes me ache with melody filled mornings

I love it here

I love from here

I can see you dancing inside of you

Skirt twirling, hair meant for breezes

Your feet bare my stares

Please climb them

Know what I hold dear

Dear, let your eyes hold me like a hole does my curiosity

Ooooooh you

When you smile hello a warm breeze wafts through the windows of my collarbones

The mansions in my gut flood with rain, filled like aquariums when I see you hurt

Parades march down the streets in my towns, with pink confetti and flashing trumpets

When I know that you’re proud

I’ll knock your favourite number if you’d like

Maybe you and I could eat oatmeal in the morning

Plant petunias in the afternoon

Pick whispers at one

And get ahead of ourselves

But I have lived alone in this house all my life

I don’t know how to entertain

You sit perfect happy behind you windows

What music to play

What dishes to serve

What smile to wear with what dress when I open up the door to this heart

And I know that I have a welcome mat out but the locks are still in place

The curtains are drawn but that’s real glass in the windows

That seem stronger than glass sometimes

I’ve seen you

Strolling past mine, expecting cinnamon buns and table cloths

But truth is: I got none

I’ve got a floor

A table for too many chairs and not much more
I jostle bricks from my sides

To shatter your windows

Close my eyes

And throw hard

If I don’t hear a crack

I’m hoping your windows were open

I could break through

And take the freeway to a meeting place in between our two houses

To a small road side diner where we can decide

Who gets to take who home

Like show and tell

I want to watch you shower sing-shower songs

Sit on the porch after the sun

Brush your teeth

Eat dessert after

Etch every quirk into my cavities to tongue at later on

And I’ll show you how I want to make these rooms a home for someone

I’ll dream about your cupboards, your couches, your electrical outlets

And I’ll tell you that I like dancing in your kitchen with bare feet

Bare arms

Barring all

But you like your kitchen

You must like your house just so

I’ve left mine

So give me your roof

These dark corners don’t last long enough

And maybe there’s enough going on in there that those rooms don’t have room for me

There are nights when these rooms filled with empty engulf me

So I’ll stretch a string with cans at each end to the top windows of the houses in our hearts

I’ll grin you a wind chime

To hang from your strings

And you

You might, or might not, fill my spaces

And whisper “we can kiss each other on the doorstep

But we will always go home alone”

But at least

It’ll ring

And you’ll have my brick to throw back

Glenn Gould

2009-10-12T14:26:00.000-07:00

Glenn Gould,

I want to kiss your finger tips

bless them with holy water, rose hips

and sign away our souls for your art

Glenn Gould

There are foot prints in the snow

of your walks through arctic fog

to bring a symphony of voice, to these tables

Glenn Gould!

Did you see the way she sang

hands out stretched like hopeful horizon

eyes viewing, ears tuning, to your careful tender heart

Glenn Gould

I want to kiss your fingertips

so maybe I could smile as pianos do

so maybe you could reach, a little farther

and touch white keys from heaven

I Know Sweet Kids Everywhere

2009-09-27T13:20:00.000-07:00

I know sweet kids everywhere

they dance in forest clearings

they smile at strangers

they hold out their hands like they were blood, meant to give

they know what you're thinking when you say "fine"

they swim in oceans and rivers and lakes

to breathe in the feeling of being a part of all that they touch

they leave messages on the inside of your eyelids that say

"we laughed for so long, my voice became louder"

"open your eyes, this day has turned golden"

and sometimes "we miss you"

as your heart feels an ache you hold out your hands like they were blood,

meant to travel

and give back oceans and rivers and lakes

to the sweet kids you know everywhere

a part of every heart that they touch

Absent Letter

2009-09-26T01:14:00.000-07:00

Dear Francis,

It has occurred to me as I sit in this florescent classroom, that the reason you aren’t here in Creative Writing 101, is because you are spooning in the grass. So as you take in your vitamin D and the smell of fresh earth, think about this: Home. Residence. House.

I am starting to realize that I don’t see words anymore, I see people. That when we talk about diction, word choice, that when you know it’s right it’s because you could never chose another word for that one, that that is love, in every moment. I am starting to realize that the reason I put pen to paper is to make the house in my heart bigger. I want these rooms to be a home for someone, and if I take care with my diction, use care with my diction, care with my diction, I’ll write each person through my door. There are windows here. So if I say that you are walking poetry, be sure it is because I am starting to realize that each quirk in you, in others, is exactly the right word, there is no other. (So shouldn’t we all share our word choice, welcome mats out, and bring our houses together?) Let’s start with this:

When I was born the nurses named me "dancing hands". My midle name is from my grandfather, and when I told you to go spoon in the grass it was because I knew you would find poetry in the sun and her curves.

Sincerely,

Jessica

Street Beliefs

2009-09-24T23:12:00.000-07:00

My street beliefs

Are embedded in the cobwebs that my shoes will become

They are etched into the pavement porches of my night time gatherings

They return to me

In echoing star signs that peek through velvet undertones

And I wonder

Do my shoulder blades,

My cheekbones rise

Like mountain tops in snowfall

When the cars are left to slumber

And the streets are ours alone?

These street beliefs

Furnaces behind each iris

Bestowing grace to ligaments in moonlight

And sweeping off our covers

Make me wonder

If our bodies change

To accommodate

The feeling of the infinite

The freedom in avenues of stillness

Handsome

2009-09-24T21:00:00.000-07:00

Hand gestures are going to save the world.

Point and lead to corners of the earth.

Sculpt stories from air, sign away our secrets in dimly lit living rooms.

Hold hands in an effort to express our want for connection.

A nervous twitch of the pinky will give away a weakness for half truth.

A soft flick of the wrist will show the care and tenderness in a gesture about your eyes.

Handsome.

When mouths turn to insincere, we will pause.

Give me your hand, I will tell you.

Opening Lines

2009-09-03T15:53:00.001-07:00

Lately I've been looking in the Dove Campaign for a woman with a unibrow.

An add for shampoo that would make silky and sweet that place where two eyebrows meet like two impractical lovers trying to make a home together: hairy.

Steve (I'd Adopt)

2009-07-16T11:02:00.000-07:00

I’d adopt

For you

A hundred different ways of being charming

So that this world we keep dissecting still feels filled

With potential

And kinetic energy

Balancing this equation of music slowly growing from a basement

Forming lines and tendrils stretching up carpeted stairs

To catch you up

As you grew

Realizing that your grudges were scarcely there

That “connections” can be a three-letter word if you want it to

N–O–W

Now, now that you’ve put you bike chain on

The physics of dancing down hallways feels the same as word play catching air and floating

The chemistry of red tops hats can translate into high fives that echo in your elbows

The mathematics showing that the amount of charm of your grandfather chauffeuring is equal or lesser to my mom breaking your boutonnière

Now, that is a science class worth showing up for

Looking up for stars that may not actually be there

(but still sending light through the dark to our irises)

Lying on night street intersections

Knowing that you’d balance each equation

With potential

And kinetic energy

Forming moments with the love of a life you want to live

And carrying them with you

So we all felt familiar

And close

And charming

And if I have never said

“More than this”

It is because this is more that I could want for

Because I’d adopt

For me

A hundred different ways of knowing you

Regan (You Made Plans)

2009-07-11T23:15:00.000-07:00

Cookie dough

On red plastic spoons

On church steps at noon

Figuring out that figuring out is easier when you want to

Cookie dough

On the pages of angsty teenage novels

Of broken angels

"Street Kids"

The books we read when we were young

Imagining an edge to us that would define our beauty

You

Had an edge to you

That softened as beach shores

That hid beneath momentary embarrassments

That cut through pretension like the curtains that you peeked through

Marveling at a world that fascinated and embraced that curiosity

Your modesty at having read Gossip Girl, but more importantly, never returning it to the library

Even that held you up as a marvel in society

Ducking as blushes spread to every paper back boy who saw you reading Herman Hesse

And even though they may not have always followed through

At least you made plans

More plans than most do

Filling your pictures frames with the art of everyday

Hanging them in trees for others to find

Feeling that every moment spent with you was something to hold on to

So we all did

Cookie dough

On the corner of Safeways

In parks on their pathways

Taking in the taking in of a whole world filled with marveling

Watermelon

2009-06-17T18:20:00.000-07:00

dashboard sizing up our legs

we are the hidden

shy gaze

the left too early

thought impossibly

the waited too long for something they were meant to give

push

mothers were happy but now

wonder

is shelter to cover or to hold in?

late bloomer (because we're early bloomers)

modest

so we turn to corners

pick one piece instead of two and hover

during wrestle matches of too much splendor

and think that one instead of two

one (two!) instead of two (one!)

is fine for now

but flirt you do!

in swedish they say "jag flört"

in friendship they say "card game"

in french they say "that izz too bad"

(you've found a reason not to, capprice like an alter you won't pray to)

but hold on

to handle bars

to drinks

to violin necks

to sweet encounters

like we do

summoning up the inward knowledge

that this too

is like water slides you took two years to go down

climbing stairs when the joy

was enough to jump for

cheeks blushing at our introductions

we are the hidden

twinkled eyes

the taking time

testing waters

the seeing we'll give something when we want to give

yes

we are new but now

wonder

pick one piece instead of another?

Dissection

2009-06-08T22:03:00.000-07:00

I can't measure the distance between the kidney to the pancreas without thinking of the distance between the bathtub to my carpeted hallway, I can't think about the hair on the chin without the last stroke, hopelessly trying to capture a life's worth of communication through touch in the final grasps, I can't see a tongue protruding from a mouth, eyes closed, nose turned upward without thinking of a horror settling firmly in the stomach, the one that you want me to find, J shaped, remove from the connection to the small intestine, we've been removed, we've been removed to a small sitting room and this feels worse, feels final, my final biology class hanging like an albatrose around my neck, the exclamations a tribute to some sort of detached brutality, they'll think I'm weak but really I'm just faster at realizing the reality of gloved hands touching something that once was breathing, I can't help but think of not breathing, holding your breath in the tunnel and wishing, of knowing you're under water but still moving, of knowing the truth but still hoping, of dreaming, of dreaming purely tactile remembrances, of holding, of holding a head still falling with the weight of an intelligence (still) brimming, that had my hands been gloved then I would have lost, been removed, as the stomach lays next to paper towel dissecting tray, as we left to a car still filled with the scent of fear, we've been removed, we've been removed, and that feels worse than anything

Shiva (Like Junk Yards)

2009-05-11T19:07:00.000-07:00

They will tear us apart

Like Romeo and Juliet?

Like magnets in a junk yard

we attract everything to ourselves

hold close Lost and Forgotten

abandoned and deemed

scrap

metal

Our greetings are the kind others can envy

shout shout!

This is joy meeting it's cause

This is West Side Story haze

but platonic

although dancing is

and singing is

the same as this love felt

Remembering the time

we rode on night buses downtown

walked down club rat robson

lion roared laughter at the city

practiced empathy

So you wouldn't have to go home

They will tear us apart

Like Tristan and Isolde?

Like cheese string at lunch

We bend to make shapes of ourselves

give a little

give a little calcium for

strong

bones

But I cried during Mama Mia!

and you've broken into my house before

(realizing you'd put on my fathers pants,

legs too long, in the washroom before you go)

So this is

this is rearranging our poetry magnets

on a fridge filled with cheese string safety net

Lining up the words to say that:

We are not fiction

tragedy driven

but filled like junk yards

with potential

with moments deemed worthy of warm recollection

with everything we give them,

our lives (all or nothing),

each other

Finally believing

we can't be torn apart

The Ballrooms at Bath

2009-04-30T16:21:00.000-07:00

The ballrooms turned from beige to pink
from the heat of the bomb
My cheeks turn from beige to pink
from the blush
that crept
up my neck
at the heat of a remark left standing

We've don't
have never
(we won't, until)
acknowledge
each other
and this leads to silences across tables
(pretending to yawn)

The ballrooms turned from beige to pink
from the heart that pounded
in pushed up chests at the canter
the gate
the curtsy of dance
that chance
for human contact
skin on skin touch

My cheeks turned from beige to pink
at the heart that pounded
in cold air chest at the unsaid
the thought of
the lack of human contact
skin to skin touch

This is parallel
this courtship in not knowing
the strand of it remaining
deep in our hesitation
in our voices softly saying:
(but I always make too much of everything)

Remembering Remember

2009-03-30T14:39:00.000-07:00

Rising

Envelopes

Measuring

Elastic

Monday

Beside

Embers

Rolling

Rising in the morning to see a clock that lies in spite of itself. Pillows call you, blankets keep you close. Shift and sleep through creative writing.

Envelopes you wish you had received, containing letters that change destinies and destinations, dears and sincerelies.

Measuring time in the way you hold yourself up. Crawling, stumbling, running, slouching, flinging, fleeting.

Elastic Band! The logo an electrocuted man with a guitar in his hand. We're going to be great, little shows here, grand shows there. So... let's learn how to play our instruments under the sweet blooming bushes of our courtyard.

Monday is day one, day one of week three, week three in plan seven, plan seven in semester five, semester five of life one. Life one.

Beside the point stood the incalculable stretch of innumerable tangents. But that just made me think of jerks.

Embers turn into fire if you give them air to breathe.

Rolling carpets into forts in an IKEA show room. We'll watch for bargains and strike down As Is prices with our lingenberry bows.

Caffeine

2009-03-30T14:29:00.001-07:00

Real writers drink coffee

means that tea is a weaker literary drink

means that caffeine is essential to writing sincerity

(but tea has more caffeine than coffee)

means that dark and bitter are what writers are supposed to be

cynical

is too easy

means that tea is spilling on my page

words float!

means that we can make a boat out of our conversations

means that we can sail to Europe on "how are you?"

(means) real writers drink coffee

(means) sailing writers drink tea

That Second of Fury

2009-03-10T18:54:00.000-07:00

Sharks!

Barking at our ankles, moaning to the moon,

"we can't sleep"

"we can't see straight in the ocean of noise that fills you"

We swim faster in the dark to discover that the waves lick the salt off our legs, tangle our hair into knots as big as islands. Breaking the skin of the water with our breath, we kick and peer down to wonder at

Sharks

Screaming over sandy floor, crashing into hearts that could stop in every second of fury.

Small Notes Found in an Old Journal

2009-03-10T18:03:00.000-07:00

"Those aren't bats, they're sparrows"

Floating on the leaves that cover our front lawn

Taking down a church, brick by brick, to build you a home

Sipping tap water

Tip toe dances, reaching for the highest counter

I need to say hello to the keyboardist of Black Mountain who works at my London Drugs

Disney friends that go for walks in the forest

Something amiss

Drunk bees buzzing at frothy shores, full of alligator noses

Hawaii calling your calling card in a quiet night

Steel string blues shaking your finger tips

Cliffs

Emerald city escape into heavy breathing villages, tired of loving life so much

Stale bread that you turn into French toast

"They say you can float on the Aurora Borealis"

Peaks, Flame and Things Between

2009-03-08T03:03:00.000-07:00

I've got the big picture hanging on my wall

I've forgotten names and places and bargains

I've held hands with Faith and Things Between

I've been said to grow in spaces thought forgotten

But I've never rested as peacefully as this

I've yelled at screams in throats unlatched

I've held a small bird in my palm

I've gotten ready in a storm

But I've never held on for so long

We'd never held on for so long

Ash ash ash ash flame

Bring back the heat again

What was right is now a thunder

with bits and pieces

(of the shiver)

of monday morning

I've gotten used to most things

I've helped to warm hands of ivory

I've seen the green of envy turn to brown

But I've never seen your face so empty

So empty as to hold

Ash ash ash ash Flame

Bringing back to hold again

Thunder thunder on our palms

I've never rested as peacefully as this

My Friends are Falling in Love - Part II

2009-01-31T19:26:00.000-08:00

... and then there's me. 3rd wheel, 5th wheel, 7th wheel. Looking to my side for someone to make a bicycle with. Two wheels together, rolling in the same motion thinking "well at least we're getting somewhere". I want a basket and streamers coming out of the handle bars, a bell that rings so sweetly and shrilly that it smiles away obstacles before they even appear. I want a bike trail, so this bicycle doesn't have to battle the vehicles roaring down hot crush roads, signaling to send shivers of guilt down our sinewed calf muscles. So I don't have to wonder if I should be going, or get stuck talking about pretentious reading material with suicidal wonders so they can have their time together (while I wonder what I could take that time up with). I once went for a ride around the block without bicycles. We put on helmets and flashing lights and rode through the dark like we were pedaling our hearts out. But that, was only pretend. And now, now that my skin is burning from basking in the glow of my friends and their lovers I know, I am ready to ride a bicycle, to take off those training wheels and fall to the pavement, to throw away the helmets but keep the lights, to make a trail through the speeding heart traffic in candle light, to let loose down hills and take off the brakes, take hands off handle bars for a second, a fortnight, to fix it when the chains falls off, the oil turning our fingers black, fill panier bags with only what we need, odds and ends and precious photos curling at the edges. The edges I keep to so that my friends can dance in the middle, so I can watch them be happy. So I know that I am a wheel, collecting parts slowly,

"Pedal Pusher, look now, I'm right beside you"

Castles, Numbing and Blissful

2009-01-25T00:45:00.001-08:00

I am sickly sweet in this fog.

We mean what we say.

There may come a time when saying "you matter" doesn't.

Daisy chained to cobbled roads that fly through the paris, the sierra, the channels and full boated venice that stirs this heart to frantic tragedy. Numb at curtain fall, the catharsis left dangling on the pages of a dog eared script. Read by loved ones, those who know that the hurt will hurt them too. Ballooning in chests and coming out in heavy pots banging in the hallway. A New Years eve worth halting. Do we want another year? Weren't we happy with this one?

We mean what we say.

Lips perched on high vocab beams, surrounded by the advice of your fathers. Follow your bliss until your bliss follows you, wherever you go. Seeking you out in crowds at the train station, red coat against steaming engine, hand clutched in a fist to try and grasp that yes, this is what leaving feels like. Wrapping that steam around you, dripping but warm. Undoing your hair so it can grapple with the weight on your shoulders.

There may be a time where saying "you matter", doesn't.

That time hasn't come yet. If it does, believe that we will show it instead. "The rosy finger tips of dawn" come waving.

I am sickly sweet in this fog.

Shipwreck comes creaking through high sea traversal. Sails ripped and dangling like plastic bags on trees. Heads turn, eyes seize. This is the moment before. This will be the moment after:

The back of the bus, my mind hazy, as I tell you that I'm "ssso happy we're friends" and "I love you... ssso much". A walk home to sleep off the haze and sentimental sea foam.

We land on shore and find a castle.

Instructions, Cutlery and Outdoor Weddings

2009-01-19T22:17:00.001-08:00

Does toasting bring about the moment

(speak slowly)

that we all remember collectively?

Drudging up the same sense of character

Personality, flaw, being as a whole

That we have come here to consider?

(remember to gesture, here, then there)

If I ring my glass with my knife

will they listen and imagine the person I want to be

will they find the same details meaningful

my tone enthralling, worth while for waking?

(don't speed up until the moment before)

I'm looking to the left and seeing a basement we sat in,

do you see it too?

The sprawling space ending only at the edges where the wallpaper met the carpet, the me meeting them, the us meeting you, the way this toast is supposed to sum up everything at once and mean something to everybody, about everything but mostly, mean something.

(breathe)

If I use humor will they listen?

If I cry will they sit up in their seats and face my mouth so as to hear each syllable better?

(stare to the back, project and ee-nun-ci-ate)

I want to impress them.

I want to press upon them that our relationship meant something to.

That, while they think they know you better, that that simply isn't true.

(pause for effect)

So this needs to mean something.

Will I find a conclusion that they've found evidence for?

(don't get distracted)

I've painted your eyes as blue.

Golden Ash Summers, Ice Tea and Lake Cowichan

2009-01-18T22:41:00.000-08:00

Fruit Roll Up

Tongues of red and blue and green on the faces of children who rap to cameras about chickens, energetically swaying from side to side trying to catch the attention of the bathing suit clad parents who drink coolers in the sand, search for firewood with ambitious enthusiasm, put on foot masks and brown in the sun that streams down in afternoons heating the layer of camping dirt, lake water residue, smell of campfire song on your skin that you suddenly become hyperly aware of, putting on sunscreen, Off, protecting from the elements at all costs with sweaters and short sleeves and bathing suit tops all other clothes on the market when beaches are rocky and unassuming baking the towels and deflated boats that my cousins unwittingly named "Sphincter 2000!" my aunt spitting her laughter into cups of cocoa that resemble the elixir of driving into town to buy jawbreakers and chuckle over 1990's blockbusters that we can't watch when, in the middle of the night (after mourning a summer romance left in a parking lot at noon) , the power goes out we stubble and huddle together, we eat the tubs of ice cream with relish, realizing a dream of 5 year old wonder "we can eat it all?" wondering if we can do it all creeping up to creepy neighbor's front door, cousin backing me up with swiss army knife ready to "shank" anyone who tires to hurt, yet he's behind me, sweetly supportive but, ultimately, behind me, as I knock with hesitation breath abaited knees shaking, full bellied sleeper answers and passes me a lighter that sparks out mad frantic race back to grandma in our cabin, grandma in floral nightgown fashion driving shovels into dirt mowing black berry bush forests into roads like a pioneer of the west with a silly little zen garden, pebbles that feel out of place next to trees with carved names of Jess, Davie, Zander and Mike, Jacob and a name I've been forced to forget like the lyrics to a song my mother wants to sing in the car her ideal view of family game nights renewed we play monopoly and rummy with a passion called fierce, a competitive twist to a board game grown mildewy, cookies for chips and I lay it all down in the lake when I actually believed David's prediction of my 16th year transformation into a mermaid that could swim to treasure island in a flash of panic I am left stranded on a rocky island pin prick as canoes go swirling like the thoughts in our head, the clothes on clothes lines in the wind that pushed my aunt's animal printed, smoky chamber trailer into the dust, the ruins mirroring the remnants of the house my ancestor's built in the same plot, kitchen ware pocking through moss, maybe we are the pioneers that will see this place through divorce and lawsuits and student loan inheritance the neighbor with a dog whose testicle still sway in the wind when he walks, like we walk through poison ivy, our love for the smell of fresh moments bubbling to the surface of the skin I scratched when I entered the reading room they'd made me a cranny for the imagination, bookish fascination I had then, my pony tail flapping in the breeze while I tried to look contemplative, mysterious, worth leaving sports for, worth talking to about serial killers as we slept in the mini van eyes growing wide as each incident stole our breath with new thunder jumping like lightning when teenage girls come barking down our road in the middle of the night looking for a party like the one my grandma always had when she drank too much sherry, crying out calls to the moon while dancing 'round camp fire crackling thinking of lost loves and travels to Malaysia, swimming on canals and laughing in out houses, the houses we left behind beginning to worry their walls feeling clean and confining, showers so sweet that we find ourselves singing as loud as we did at Lake Cowichan.

My Friends are Falling in Love

2009-01-14T22:40:00.001-08:00

My friends are falling in love.

Mouths gaping wide with wonder they stagger, fists unclenched and stare straight at the sky. I swear they could sing louder than birds at breakfast, beating their wings to the the heart beat that is staggeringly fast when the object of their eye, the great successor to previous enjoyments, walks towards them in a swarming crowd of hallway glee. Because this, this warmth, this blush of inconceivable delight makes even the mundane groups of hair sprayed teenagers seem charming on a run of the mill over the hill teacher, high school kind of a day. School changes everything. So they meet in rendezvous, parentless and enjoying a cup of coffee for the first time. They swirl their cream and sugar in a hypnotized state gracefully drinking each other in. Swimming in laughter, dog paddling with frozen feet in the snow outside just to get to each others homes. They make pasta, they hold hands and rub toes, they go to movies with just the right amount of "I can talk to you" and "this is perfect": they miss details. Sometimes, when even the sight of each other isn't enough (because somedays that extra special mile is a flip flop, flying fast step away!) they fill warehouses with the cardboard cut outs of their lives. They invite each other over and say "this is it! Now you know". With scissors in hand they cut the pieces into snowflakes and hang them from ceilings that are stretching farther and farther into the horizon. Will they ever come down? I take a picture of a warm heart close to smiling eyes and know, that even though this photo will last longer in the spans of time than the intricate stitching between their worlds will in the end, that it doesn't matter. My friends are falling in love, heads over heels, backflip worthy, with each other.

Incalculable, Reaching and a Distance Measured

2009-01-09T17:26:00.000-08:00

Hills

(Written for a scholarship. I had to write a poem about BC's cowboy/ranching heritage!)

Wet meadow tendrils and grassland arms

Stocky legs and muscled shoulders showing

This is a place of roaming

Of growing green and brown

Million stomachs churning

Leading and following

Living off the land

Breathing with a land slowly shrinking

Focusing on the incalculable force of the ever changing

Fire, breathe hard, weather, breathe harder

Houses that obstruct

Computer bidding for something that begs tough hide and water

We've traveled a fair distance

But let's travel farther

Reaching tendrils over green gold cathedrals

Raising wobbly legs and slumped shoulders

Mending and guarding with bare hands and hearts

A piece of earth can give everything

(Freedom felt and fierce)

Or be taken for nothing

Bittersweet and beautiful

Market Place and Mother Nature

This is a place of unknown futures

But of pasts that ride out to be remembered

Android 18, Catch-18 and 18 Wheelers

2009-01-02T13:44:00.001-08:00

Eighteen is:

The number following seventeen

A composite and semiperfect number

The number of chapters in Ulysses

Don Larsen's number during his perfect game

The "age of majority"

The name of a Moby album

The number of levels in Hell according to Chinese mythos

Aside from 0, the only number that equals twice the sum of its decimal digits

The more expensive floor in some Chinese buildings as eighteen sounds the same as "one who is going to prosper"

A customary percentage to tip when in a group of four or more

Just a number

Eighteen means:

Life, as the word in Hebrew has the same numerical value

Hitler, (A=1 H=8) in neo nazi code

I can go to R movies in Canada legally

I can buy marijuana in the Nertherlands

There is an error with your zoom on a Canon camera

Blood (relative)

That I'm a year older

Winking, Laughing and Green Light (Means Go)

2009-01-01T23:01:00.000-08:00

Can I interest you in some french?

Soup?

Tired days at the cafe?

Sipping on coffee like french wine

Downing pancakes like breaking news

Crossroads and crosswords

I have it!

A four letter word that will knock you off your feet

c-h-e-m-i-s-t-r-y

But it doesn't quite fit

Exploding onto screen

captured in Basement Dances

Accidental Hand Brushes

Copious Glances

The way I pronounce my vowels

The way Rs are rolled out like red carpet chances

We're pouring mixtures together and watching them change colour before our fixed eyes

Fireworks in glass bottle, corked top, champagne dancing chimneys

The bubbles rising to the surface of our eyes

Shimmering and reflecting

Warm honey words for playful debate

Flash smile response that triggers the laughter

We're good at this, and

I like this roundabout way of asking

Can I interest you in some french?

Because this changes everything

My, Favorite and Place

2008-12-22T01:21:00.000-08:00

A white house

a white picket fence

a white car

a white cat (with its eyes closed)

marshmallow lawn

vanilla icing sprinklers

a fog machine

it's snowing

can you see it?

White, White and White

2008-12-22T01:07:00.001-08:00

It started with a mist

(how did it come to this)

then a hovering waiting buzz in the air

puddle and rain clots

playing at pub and coming out to discover

snow

vast blankets and

"Oh no, I'm wearing inappropriate foot wear"

wear and tear on a city caught off guard

fragile in paralyzed shock

buses left stranded on the sides of roads

empty and dark shipwrecks at the bottom of the sea

muffled city night noises

"Legend" like sparkle detail

a drive down to the west end

a car with no heat but snow tires

tired drivers, 2 am and feet, feet not felt

a daughter sacrifices gloves to ivory hands

and looks in the mirror to discover

snow

lining the tops of her eyelashes

snow

lining the tops of her houses

snow

snow!

everything and everywhere

falling as if it will never stop

coming down

gently

Seeing, Glass and Rain Drop Monsters

2008-12-09T17:57:00.000-08:00

Dear bus rider, stove top cooker, tea maker, hot room entrance

I want to trace hearts on the inside of your glasses

like kids trace maps of foreign islands on steamy car windows

rain drop monsters sliding and eating each other up

the image that stays there for an instant

then is gone with hot air breath of amazement

traces of it's edges faintly and defiantly delicate appearing when the fog comes fading in again

love notes on bathroom mirrors

signatures, hellos and countless smily faces

watching a clear world, then turning to discover

a smear of bright lights and dark shapes

new eyes before focus

old eyes in milky cataracts

I look into my dogs eyes and see only saucers

milky way admiration, blind love blind kind blindness upheld

ready to lick hot tears off wet faces, snuggle into cold corners and snore uninhibited

raise the bar in welcomes remembered and causes for

sweet talk

I can't wipe the fog from her eyes, the collection of years pilling on her irises

draw trees and streets and hearts in an effort to communicate the love that first bloomed when one year old her fell asleep in my five year old arms

the subject of every drawing I ever made until I was seven

my ankle nipping herder, dinner table confidante, my waddling muse in fur

my arms that will hold her again when her years

like images drawn on a foggy mirror

have faded back to delicate traces, clouded but remembered

Tiles, Taps and The Blues

2008-12-05T23:22:00.000-08:00

I've left it behind

and the thought comes across

slanting in the window

like vampires in horror movies

wanting to be let in

The awakening as we call it

happened on a Saturday

crying in my bathroom

clinging onto towels

warm and dry against the door

trying not to let the neighbors hear through shared walls

feeling like each gasp

each body thundering tremor

was reaching deeper into reservoirs I didn't know I had

antibodies streaming

hot rivers, racoon beating eyelids

red rose veins in watery irises

full out chest caved anguish

the kind I don't like to let myself have

the kind no ones knows about until after

The afterglow

Bambi's forest fire bringing new growth

Poseidon's chariot riding over calm waters

Dawn spreading over dew filled mornings

dew sat in my eyes then

I shook it off with every intake of shuddering breath

delicate, raw, open and

ready

ready to let the thought back in

waving curtains, disrupting dust

settling in the empty place I'd created

by letting my arms fall, defenceless, to my sides

Cups, Leaks and Overflowing Leaky Cups

2008-11-29T19:43:00.000-08:00

The largest and the fastest to the orient

I want to be

the largest and the fastest to the orient

hear me now and forever more

the largest and the fastest to the orient

streaming, steaming mass of flaming sail glory

patched up and worked over

glorified before consumption

hull overtaking the making of waves in an ever flowing current of

mass production

we weren't

but someone was

the largest and fastest to the orient

all we can do is sip from plastic cups

a lagging, nagging mass of inconsequential potential squandered

bruised up and looked over

chastised before demoted

large eyes sizing up the situation of a foot tripping up stairs in an ever crowded apartment

there's that and this one too

could it be you?

The largest and fastest to the orient

Stubble, Cake and Eye See You

2008-11-24T18:04:00.000-08:00

Eyes at work and eyes at play.

(sub headings taken from the definition of "Eye" in an old dictionary)

An eye for an eye:

My father's hand is gone and so is mine. We shake our ghost limbs and remember.

Catch ones eye:

Feathers red! Emerald green and royal blue go walking down turret white and dull grey mist. This day would have been lost had my pupils not expended into pools for you to swim in.

Eye right, Eye left:

Neck brace.

Have an eye to:

He drank whiskey and liked to waltz. He grew stubble and believed in singing loudly. Piano nights and rickety chairs. "I have..."

In the public eye:

My legs are dancing across the billboards in Hong Kong. Giant knee caps like solar discs and heads peek out of windows on my thighs.

Keep eyes on:

The rock never moved. The kettle never boiled.

Make eyes at:

You're in the baking section staring at the cake mixes. I look at you like you're the Betty Crocker creamy chocolate icing to my heart shaped spice cake. You look my way, and the timer goes off.

Open a person's eyes:

"No, Jimmy, it's called Namesake... Name Sake"

See eye to eye:

Our optic nerves are tied together.

Our corneas match like twin mountain peaks.

Our irises change colour depending on the weather.

When we sit down, we sit in the same seat.

Set eyes on:

It was the most beautiful Red Rider Bee bee gun I'd ever seen. "You'll shoot your eye out."

Shut one's eyes to:

Noris lay dead on the patio. I lifted my hand and pulled closed the shutters.

With an eye to:

Every time I go water skiing my glass eye falls out, bobbing to the surface. Let's pack extra, I want to see the sunrise in Montana.

Breaths, Bows and Beauty Found

2008-11-13T19:29:00.000-08:00

If we had known

seen the inevitable

the unforeseeable future

the dark looming shadow

the fate that would consume as all

maybe then, we wouldn't have taken so long to wrap

folding corners

tapping sides

sticking on bows

signing cards

maybe we wouldn't have stopped

and kneeled to tie our shoes

tightning laces

looping knots

double bows

twinkling toes

instead we would have run

with bare feet, long stride, graceful frenzy

to catch each other up

and hold, hold with baited breaths

the greatest gift of all embraced

Ohhhs and Ahhhhs and Sighs

2008-11-06T19:52:00.001-08:00

Ohhhhhhhh

someday doo da doo

helllooo to someday!

ba da da da

if you ever see that someday

that one day

won't you tell me so?

ohh ohhhhhh

because life would be so easy

steps would be so light

waking would be breezy

if I had that someday in sight

Ohhhhhhhhh

someday doo da dooo

helllooo to someday

ba da da da

if you ever see that someday

that one day

hold on to it tight

Dazed, Warm and Full of Frenzy

2008-10-14T22:01:00.000-07:00

The bee keepers came out on a Sunday morning,

covered in dewy cloth and veils of netted helmets.

Their soft tipped hands rounded and warm,

moving with knowing movements,

caring sweeps and feet leave grassy hills

like wing beats.

They smell of heat and translucent frenzy,

honey taken raw and the respectful fear (of the power)

of something so small.

Something so small that only the gentlest of bee keepers

with the warmest smiles

and brightest brows

are selected to wade through

humming filled air

thick with shivering bodies and stingers.

To cradle the comb mazes with so much care

like the thought they hold onto

fresh, unstung, hand made marmalade

on an early Sunday morning.

Bells, Strings and Lets be Natural

2008-10-07T20:36:00.000-07:00

It's just there

patient, hoping and filled to the brim with possibilities

I can't give myself choices, there's no holding back but holding on hurts if you do it for to long

sentences make sense, lyrics are understandable

so try to force illogical, unrandom randomness when lips open wide with story like visions and cliches, images and imagined days are at the ready

"there's not enough depth"

"this is nothing new"

"this is out of date"

This, this is all you have to give sometimes

and as soon as you say it's not enough

the sooner it becomes all too much

So, let's be natural, just go through the motions

but bellies are full of acidic self critique, first note judgement

feeling like your chorus is an audition screaming for a past where breaths were new and ideas like daisy chains in green green hazy air

Chin up

Wait it out

Force it out

Take the time

time that doesn't give you an inch, doesn't wait for another heart out, rattling power house, smoke filled sweet melody, the one you know you could write, feeling that you have written it somehow but no one, (straining for it now) even you, has heard it

maybe breathing out was the first note

maybe blinking at the sun ray in the the painted pane was the second

soon each "every day thing" is labeled and dissected as bars, and leaps and barely there transitions, open book remembrances and embraces that stare down the warmth that welcomes unreserved

Then, you've lost yourself in that song

and all others ring false, laugh at sincerity mistook, mistaken and

You miss it

it's just there, hoping

but you're filled up to the brim

Sparks, Hymns and Wendy Girls

2008-09-16T21:28:00.000-07:00

Lets take into account some of the things you've said thus far

I would like to see the duke

I would like to see the dawn and ever spiraling clouds of morning whisper:

lets go at once to a country house

lets see pigeons fly in the afternoon fog

wings catching eyes and ears and old hummed hymns and nursery rhymes

I know that you know

that there's something more behind the pictures than colour to show for measured work

like iceburgs we stand with most of what's left of us underwater

struggling and frightened to bare it all at once

show me the way!

show me the lights that catch you up in the end

spiraling like pigeons in a dawn filled morning

hoping to land on bread filled ground

Let's take account of what you've said thus far

the water is slowly rising

Maybe there is something out there afterall!

A balloon let loose at a birthday party

leaving slack mouths and tight fists

lifting and streaming to blue filled blue

a red mark and a loss of childhood abandon

or maybe the abandon was the first spark

the first truce with the adult like shadow

waiting, hovering, hoping to form

stretching out tendrils and forgetting keys behind the counter

chasing peter pan boys from school seats

and wendy girls that always stayed, never went back

to cry out in hopeless

abandon

like balloons let loose in celebration

there is something out there after all

lets snatch it up, then

let it go

Hands, Senseless and Mild

2008-09-11T19:12:00.000-07:00

And living lovely living

and repeating it's alright

and seeing the example of sunsets each day

would satisfy

and compliment

and feel good, yes feel right

if there was something, nothing, something

to overcome

Whiplash and fallouts

to nowhere, in between scenes

Hallmarks and falsehoods spoken

Blank cards and blank looks

and gnarled hands that wither

I have seen, you have seen

but what have we done lately

what have we done strangely,

spontaneously and

love is grace

fallingabouttheplace

it's alright

it's alright in knowing that knowing isn't the first thing

but we all have to start somewhere

Nights, Wants and Rupert

2008-09-09T21:51:00.001-07:00

Dear Reader,

I just wanted you to know that tea is great, no one will ever use the line "the car?" better than Rupert Grint does in the second Harry Potter movie, we can't always know, let alone get, what we want and when jupiter is aligned and preciously close to the moon in the night sky (as it is tonight) it is called conjunction.

Ahh, c'est la vie.

Bone, Heart and Details

2008-09-05T23:32:00.000-07:00

I am perfectly aware of the situation at hand

that small particles, wavering molecules of distinct variety

are growing and shaping the body that makes me

able to do things, small things and details are scarce when you overlook breaths between moments and movements

Sing for me!

Symphony of lights firing off in the brain

like missiles made for madness

Missiles made for blindness of a different kind

a meaner kind of cynicism

cleaner somehow

with a perfectionism of it's own

But for goodness sake don't live up to my expectations

don't climb the slippery slopes of my imagination

the possibilities pilling up like a stock pile of canned goods in a shelter for missiles

missed targets

missed meetings and chances for connections

I miss missing someone with an ache that draws from your bone marrow

the heavy limbed ache that pulls like there are threads laced into the surface of your heart (but the organ now, not the figurative thing)

pulling towards something so close it could tear the cold off in a snap of wonder, thundering pain hold breath joy that would mean everything in each second of living

like a chemical equation you can't live without

like a first step second step method that repeats indefinitely

like smiling when you're happy

I know exactly what's going on in this situation

I am aware that my finger nails are growing, that blood is traveling through that figurative thing

that will, for goodness sake, for my sake, for someone's sake, for each missile launched,

exceed my expectations

Strangers, Franco and Asking the Ultimate Question "Am I a Creep?"

2008-09-02T14:39:00.000-07:00

Franco is in my house.

Dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt he's got a comb over hair cut that I'm not sure, with the rest of him, reaches five foot two. He's skinny, friendly and unassuming but most importantly he's Franco, and he's here to help clean our house.

I don't really have anything important to say about lovely Franco, who is starting on the kitchen as I write this, it's more that he is an example of what I have been enjoying so much these past few days. And that is: people, or more accurately, the details and absurdity of people.

It can be anything from watching a large ginger haired woman scrunch up her face, lost in utter confusion over some inner decision. Or the look of an old Asian grandmother, completely inept in english but perfectly fluent in the language of motherhood, stare lovingly as two little girls scamper up a ladder at the Maritime Museum, whispering in german. There are crazy cartoon runners, akward but endearing preteen boys and old ladies who try to be discreet when they check out the beef cake men beside them. There's the smile you get when you see a couple dancing in the park or the fragile tenderness you feel towards the person who comes out of a bathroom stall, barely composed and face stained with tears.

Does it make you a creep if you notice these things? I don't think so, where would half the material, characters for movies or stories be if people didn't notice, didn't "people watch" from time to time? It's a wonder anyone gets bored when there are all these beautiful or hilarious little moments going on all around them. Noticing can even be small moments of empathy, seeing the humanity in what would normally be a faceless crowd.

It's a funny thing for me to say but I always feel I fall in love with the one person who sits on the edge at the back of the bus. You know that seat in the very corner, right beside the window at the back? Whoever sits there is the last person you see as a bus drives by, and to me they always look graceful or poetic somehow, maybe it's the angle. There's something mysterious, something that draws you to them. I always want to talk to people who sit there, but only when I'm outside of the bus, never inside.

And so with all this going on, the heart warming new family moments, the empathy, the giant spills and trips on side walk cracks and with Franco dusting off my family photo frames, I sometimes wonder. Does anything I do ever inspire as much wonder or laughter as what others do, totally unaware, does for me? Somehow I don't think so, but maybe secretly I hope so.

Corners, Calm and Content

2008-08-20T21:43:00.000-07:00

Are you high?

No, these are bedroom eyes

This is sleep wavering in the corners of my mouth

This is calm curled up in my belly

Heavy limbs and light thoughts

These are guitar strumming movements

and warm coloured rooms with soft corners

These are boundaries and arms held aloft to settle on round shoulders

Rosy glowing cheeks and contented sighs when conversation has winded down naturally

Silence is golden

As warm summer nights settle on heavy lashes and

these, are empty street moments

Lance, les Poumons et l'Oissseau

2008-08-08T21:03:00.000-07:00

Today I've been thinking about lungs. About pink lungs like needle cushions. About babies' lungs, small as bubble gum mushed together. About world renowned bikers' lungs, huge and abnormal, constricting and expanding with enough air to set sail an armada. Birds' lungs with air sac oases that set each breath on fire with gas exchange and flight. I've been thinking about my sixth grade science experiment where I developed (googled) a device to measure lung capacity. I remember walking between row after row in an empty space centre theatre reciting lung facts and figures in french. Laboriously memorizing my presentation like my teacher and classmates were gods and the science fair my one chance to prove I deserved to exist. Each intake of breath gulped down like I was drowning in research and fine-lined hand-written reports. "Alveoli sounds like ravioli". I've been thinking about the release of my lungs from invisible hands, clenched tight around the middle. Feeling the sequence of "Breathing is hard" vs "Breathing is Harder" vs "Breathing is Hard: With a Vengeance" play itself out in my bronchioles as I trembled out the words I'd worked so hard to remember. The exhale with the last sentence as perfect as the cheesy last breath of a dying sidekick. My last word said was "merci". That last exhale said "mercy". It turns out (according to French, grade six me) that those of us with larger bodies and larger lungs have larger lung capacities. I got a large A. But I've been thinking about the way lungs grow from baby to adult, miraculously, like the way sponge dinosaurs from gifts shops grow in water. I've been thinking about the lungs tireless, unmeasurable capacity to work day in, breathe in, day out, breathe out.

Unicorns, Stags and Sealions

2008-08-06T13:16:00.000-07:00

Well here it is, my first blog. I've never really been that embarrassed by my writing but right now it seems that everything I write down on this is cheesy. First blog jitters? I guess it doesn't help that I hate the word blog. But anyways:

Last night I went to see the concert I've waited to see ever since I realized that I was in love with Feist. It's a common phenomenon this Feist love, a combination of awe, envy and relatability. Wonder, I think, is a big factor. Anytime I see a Feist music video (1234, fireworks etc) I feel like a little kid again, what Feist does with her music, charm and visuals is like magic (like when I swore I saw a unicorn in the park when I was 4). So there it is, Feist is my unicorn in the park, so it would make sense that I was ecstatic to see her in Deer Lake park, for real this time.

The line up to get inside Deer Lake was long. That's the only way I can put it. It curled around trees and sign posts and served only to amp up the anticipation for the concert and make my dad and I miss half of the wonderful The Weakerthans' set. One thing I can say though is that, had it not been for the line I would never have met the stag party. The bride to be was dressed in a leopard print shirt and cowboy hat, ready with sailor moon septor in hand to deem us friends as her drunkenly over animated posse gave my dad and I plastic necklaces of stars and acceptance. They exclaimed over horse shaped shrubs and snap shot photos and became kind of a charming "Real Life" entertainment to pass away the hour in line.

Finally Feist began. The combination of summer air and sugar from the jumbo lemonade I had just drank (there was a full lemon floating in there!) made my head light as my friends and I headed down to the stage, shoving hamburgers down our throats. We chose a place with lots of space to dance around but all close enough to see the action on stage. And what a stage! On stage, artists used a projector (like the ones in schools around the country, doo do da dooo!) to project images onto the back of the stage. They had beautiful cut outs of trees and birds, fingerpaint oceans, jewels, burlesque legs bending to the beat of "Sealion" and graceful hands snatching up the sun. It made me wonder how the same machine could be used for something as dull as notes. As this was going on in the background Leslie Feist turned the people of Vancouver into (her words) Mer people. She had us sing in harmony as if under water and then made fun of our bike-riding, granola-eating ways. She held us in rapture as she sang though slow soft tunes then let us loose with rocking numbers that shook the park. I always find it great how such a small woman in size can use such a large guitar to unleash such a powerful sound. There were kids and grandparents, hipsters and hippies all sharing the same experience and all (as far as I could tell) loving it. During "The Water" a screen was put onstage right in front of Feist, so that while she sang at the piano we only saw the silhouette of her profile. The guitarist in her band accented the song with hypnotic guitar work that was stunning. It was so beautiful I think I might have seen a huge imposing looking man at the front wipe a tear from his eye. It was enough to send chills down my spine and remind me of why I fell in love with Feist's music in the first place. It was enough so that as Feist sang us away into the night and the projector artists turned their sky from red to blue, I thought about the childhood wonder we seem to lose as we get older. I thought about my will and passion to write that doesn't grip me like it used to. I thought about the feeling I had when I was four when I swear I saw a unicorn. And in that one small moment (as grand as this seems) I smiled knowing I won't let those things die. I won't let it die.