slowly; Lo

We all walk, we all go places; or try to get there. Pens have been more faithful to us than man’s best friend. In fact, they honorarily hone that title in my books. Pens remind me of times. Like when? Blots of ink on this page. Stains of pasta sauce, coffee drips, they’re all romances reoccurring slowly, a fast paced upset moment of the past. They all remind me of Lo. Because in those widowed moments I know she was not mine, nor would she ever be.

interview par/ avec moi

1. scotch moss & plant shopping

2. greenhouse roof

3. grandaddy outfit doing grandma things

Today (the most beautiful); is one to indulge in. Birds are chirping away. Lawnmowers can be heard from all angles of the ear, and I'm soaking up this May sun as if it's my last moment on earth. Isn't that how is should always be. Besides living luxirously in my back yard... I have spent many hours thinking about me. What I want in that big long damn thing called "life". To get to know myself better, and also for you/whoever clue into who this ramblin' woman reeeeeeally is, HERE I GO:

Who are you? rL or Louis-L?

Technically, neither. Really, my name is Riel, and my Last name is Lynch. Riel, after the pride of Mantioba; Louis Riel. That's me.

What do you do?

I don't have a profession, yet. Just your medial 21 year old; trickling between serving jobs, trips, and  dousing myself with peculiar university classes.  I write for Stylus Magazine, which is more so along the lines of what I want to do.

Who's your favorite author?

Right now I'm positively fixated on Saul Bellow. But there are  others who have been prevalent for longer. Such as Micheal Ondaatje, Jack Kerouac, Richard Bach. Poetry is a whole different story as well. Favourite poet is hands down Walt Whitman. If I never received "Leaves of Grass", as a gift, I don't think I would think the same way as I do now.  He opened my eye to exploration techniques both in writing styles and truly exploring the great outdoors.

Which movies do you adore?

Jules et Jim. The Heathers. That Hamilton Woman. Butterfield 8. The Bicycle Thief. Barry Lyndon (and anything Kubrick). Anything by Woody Allen. Up! (the pick-me-up movie) & anything with Zooey D. Recent additions: The Lives of Others, Water Lillies, The 400 blows. I haven't seen anything in theatre since the live feed of King Lear at the Donmar in London.

Music?

Whatever I'm in the mood for, really. Mostly classical composers like Boccherini, Mozart, Strauss Jr, Rossini, Debussy, Chopin, blaaaaaah blahini. Newer artists? Bob Dylan, Led Zeppelin, The Shangri-Las, The Rolling Stones, Jethro Tull. Even newer or local are ever changing and inconsistent.

Food for thought?

Juicy pear jelly bellies. Real juicy pears. Mangoes, avocados. French toast. Thai food. Pho.

There we are! That is all and enough.  I must go enjoy nature as I've grown bored with myself and being indoors on a laptop..

little fridge lessons

what to do while it rains.

admire your bike.

stare into puddles. they're shallow but endless

 gear up and go for a regal walk around the block.

put your umbrella silly places

make nests in your hair and place birds there

day like a dream

 

day like a dream

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.

Lo,3

 

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 don't get what i want so i don't want you

simply frustrated

and 

sweetened
by

absence