Wanderlust; I awoke. Many a thing on the menu (to eat and to do). I gather my bones assemble myself. I reckon with the day as it's just begun. Pho 4 us. CurriedsweeTOFUgood. To my bike; I belong! Across bridges, through parks, down rues. Getting home against the wind was a victory. One that deserves a medal. Or something gold. praise to the lemons (and lemonade stands). Little girl, little boy building an empire (if only in my heart). Walking the dog. Reading Montreal mail.
Impromptu you call, and soon together we are. Cravings for such, such sweet things. With espresso in tow, the day becomes fast. Then there is two. Candy apple walks; short and sweet (both the distance and the treat). A walk becomes necessity, we head to the park. I found it strange, as there were so many people gathered around the foot of the bridge (old train tracks to cross the water). Smoke, dozens of red lights. Fire by exalt? Or average arsonist. Who knows. The interest of what's going on drives dozens driving to stop and question about (or get out). We watch as it's put out. Walk away, talking all day. In a diamond we were; sitting and grinning; perched on a batter's bench. Smoke again, but from a cigarette lit by Diamond girl we talk of the day and all that we've done. But to me it felt like the night had just begun.
Her youth was long lost like the moments between when the recess bell rang and the clearing of the field. She went from being humane and orderly, and committing the usual conducts of a young lady, and began running rampant. Spirited, was her holy freedom.
It’s a playground. Even Air says so, “you’re my playground love”. Between here, now and never I will think of her. Soft sweet lips, hips curved like pedals of a flower (is that why her nickname is Flora)? My mind moves like a mailman, from one hollow home like thought to the next. Nobody’s here, but I’ll watch for you; I’ll wait for you until you answer. I’m loyally, royally yours.
i ate enough halupki, brussel sprouts, deviled eggs, chocolate eggs and apple crumble to last me 'til next year. i decided go to to the park down the street from my granny's after dinner (like i did when i was little). i was shocked to find a new play structure and a different swing set. there were these two bobbing structures (one a motorcycle and the other a plane) that you would sit on, like an idle swing. they were made of wood and painted fun colours. those are gone. but replaced with this seat i thought was for parents to sit on and watch the kids play. but really it is slightly lopsided and it's like a carousel on crack. my stomach rumbled, i looked like i drank a mickey of rum. the night is done; reality bites and i lost my appetite (the ability to not feel nauseated) like when i was young..
I wanted to feature Saul Bellow. And in my spastic anticipation I planned to write a piece of great length on him for tonight. But I brushed with reality with the thought of my affair ending. I don't want to write just one, but manymanymany! And so I shall.
The thought of that girl has made my heart itch. It’s like a stinging sensation, a reminder of the sweetness that was. That kiss, she bit my lip, and I furled up in bliss. She flutters off. Like a bit from a bug that’s what it was. That kiss was a way of sinking her venom in. But it’s not poisoned unless you make it so.
I often write of mammals, amphibians and more, & I noticed this whilst gazing out an open window.
It's far too much of an occurrence. I'm human; and I all too often animalize (everything). Characteristics, movements, actions and clouds. Teacups, passions & on on on. It's a childish way (out this window) that I realized I long to be more like Saul Bellow..
"Love and thought complete each other in the human pair, & something like an exchange of soul takes place."
Hiding in crevices at Nerman's. A place that currently reminds me of the tower that Merlin is given in the Sword and the Stone. The one with leaks and drips and hosts an angry Archimedes. In the 'art' and 'foreign languages' section there were multiple buckets and drapes of fabric. My day of semi-solitude prevails with correlating drip drip drips and floorboard creaks when the Keeper or I stir.
Rainy day writing with and about Lo. Espresso with a dearly sweet girl. I wish there were more like this. Where I have the leisure to sit, drink merrily, converse and then watch through the windows at the world. Through my lens it looks grim & grey, yet containing life. A vivaciously still moment captured by chance. The rain won't bring me down. It's the most opportunistic weather forecast, pour moi. I don't feel like I'm missing out on something if don't spend all day outside, or if I'm stuck at work. You can catch up on chores, with friends, and act all le mis about it. It's when time slows down enough to grasp hold of reality.
(Leonard Cohen, Saul Bellow, Sylvia Plath, Jack Kerouac, Ayn Rand)
We have it made. Literally, if we want something we can have it done promptly. Usually in under an hour we can have something typed up (with no worries of grammatical errors because spellcheck will catch it for us), we can have a roll of film or "card" printed (even if there are 100's). Need I say more? In this hour we complain, whine, whatever. We're lucky to live in such an accessible and easy era. The list we could do is try to sustain some of these ways.
I was getting filmed deveveloped in California this past winter, and I was getting teased:
"Why are you buying film, it'll all be gone in a couple years any ways. Five years tops. Waste of time to buy/ fix/ spend money on film. Especially when your shots don't turn out. Digital, they always turn out."
A complete stranger said that to me. A service representative-stranger to be exact. Guffawing as he gave his persuasive spiel, yet managing to be pleasant with a "matter-of-fact" tone.
I was nearly persuaded, except I don't have $1500 to buy me a nice SLR. Film'll do for now, thank you.
But the novelty and nobility of the act OF using film is what pushes me. I like not knowing what the prints look like. Not being able to edit them to perfection. They're raw, they're real. What do I want?
Juxtaposition between modernity and the "old days";
"He wanted to know more. He had felt her kiss once; her lips with an essence like the seal of an envelope. To know her, you had to be somebody. He wasn’t, and it was a fact clearer than the June sky that shone down on the day he met Lo."