wheels rushing over pavement
stop in two languages
at the house on the high hill
in a wood awakening
from wintersleep
take the river road
cross the steel once, twice
see how the real ice has melted
from the banks where the red and white
treasure is kept
gather the loaves and the small fruits of the vine
hoard the smiles sold to lovers linked by hand
bench-perched
backs to the sun
lithe shadows cast long before them
and the water as their witness
past the the pastures where
iron horses graze by moonlight
beyond the red bridge covered
by the small magic of children
lies a house where music could live
in sun-soaked staccato bursts
(you can jump)
(it's deep enough)
(but you have to swim against the current)
and now the music of traded glances
sung across a crowded table
voices weave like cats through legs
nimble fingers strum strings
sleekly, sweetly like iced cream
savoured slowly in the dark
wheels rushing over pavement
winding westward with
twilight in gentle pursuit
happiness is hand-fed
on the road home.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Me, myself and pie
The solo, late-night pie excursion is imbued with an undeniable charm. I derive a great deal of satisfaction from occupying a whole booth by myself, spreading out my things in a decadent sprawl, a feudal lord presiding over a green vinyl fiefdom. I am separated from the rest of the room from the bridge of the nose down. It is perfect. The baby seal shirt will not offend and only I will know that I am not wearing socks.
My fortress walls are permeable, though, to snatched snippets of strangers' talk. High-pitched, frantic profanity and fervent, well-meant but misinterpreted advice mingle, penetrating my porous shell. Lives are happening out there, lives bathed in neon, stiff with product, barely covered by short skirts. Pastel polos, popped collars and two eggs over easy with two versions of the same meat. White bread. Wristbands. I bite my lower lip and caress my phone and consider pie.
And so I write, while pied lives condense, coalesce and trickle down the walls of my plastic paradise. It's bound to puddle beneath my seat, pool below my drawn-up legs. I'll walk through it on my way out and I'll feel it swirl around my ankles, watch it rise in curlicue clouds with each step I take toward the door, a dense fog parting and re-forming in my solitary wake.
(I had pecan pie. They didn't have strawberry-rhubarb or apple and they had never heard of cloudberry. The decaf was effete but I drank it anyway.)
I miss him. The cadence of his slumber, his sweet sleep smell. His hand, curled heavy on the curve of my hip. I would be there with him now, in the spare room, in the too-short bed. I would walk with him through the fog of others and our wake would be significant, as the wake of two tends to be.
I expect that I shall love him one hundred times over by the time he returns.
My fortress walls are permeable, though, to snatched snippets of strangers' talk. High-pitched, frantic profanity and fervent, well-meant but misinterpreted advice mingle, penetrating my porous shell. Lives are happening out there, lives bathed in neon, stiff with product, barely covered by short skirts. Pastel polos, popped collars and two eggs over easy with two versions of the same meat. White bread. Wristbands. I bite my lower lip and caress my phone and consider pie.
And so I write, while pied lives condense, coalesce and trickle down the walls of my plastic paradise. It's bound to puddle beneath my seat, pool below my drawn-up legs. I'll walk through it on my way out and I'll feel it swirl around my ankles, watch it rise in curlicue clouds with each step I take toward the door, a dense fog parting and re-forming in my solitary wake.
(I had pecan pie. They didn't have strawberry-rhubarb or apple and they had never heard of cloudberry. The decaf was effete but I drank it anyway.)
I miss him. The cadence of his slumber, his sweet sleep smell. His hand, curled heavy on the curve of my hip. I would be there with him now, in the spare room, in the too-short bed. I would walk with him through the fog of others and our wake would be significant, as the wake of two tends to be.
I expect that I shall love him one hundred times over by the time he returns.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
streetsy
sittin' up here in my big office chair i stare
in my mirror you know i got that crazy bedroom hair from
wrestling in the a.m. and not playin' fair
fuck bein' in on time, even if i could
i wouldn't trade this shit in, it's all good
'cause we be sippin' java beneath the sheets
we be lockin' legs and droppin' beats
we got that precious hour if you wanna play me/delay me
i know you got the necessary will and power
to rock me straight up on one leg in the shower
you all that and a bag of fritos
a cool dude in a loose mood like chester cheeto
rollin' like a rock with a rhyme and a reason
changin' my world like a karma chameleon
got my camo tank 'cause you know it's turkey season
and i know you love it when i be teasin' you
with my wide grey eyes between your spread thighs
and my sighs while your fingers do the walking
you got me talkin', speaking in tongues
twisted, talented and various like Babylon
hittin' all my spots, spittin' white hot shots across
olive skin that's smooth like buttah
i'm lovin' it like McDonald's, don't want no other
check that clock - damn, i'm late for that reunion i'd sooner
sit here and groove but i gotta find the cheddar,
'cause i'm a public mouse in a brown brick house
across a frozen river, gotta give 'er
'til my liver shivers
peace
in my mirror you know i got that crazy bedroom hair from
wrestling in the a.m. and not playin' fair
fuck bein' in on time, even if i could
i wouldn't trade this shit in, it's all good
'cause we be sippin' java beneath the sheets
we be lockin' legs and droppin' beats
we got that precious hour if you wanna play me/delay me
i know you got the necessary will and power
to rock me straight up on one leg in the shower
you all that and a bag of fritos
a cool dude in a loose mood like chester cheeto
rollin' like a rock with a rhyme and a reason
changin' my world like a karma chameleon
got my camo tank 'cause you know it's turkey season
and i know you love it when i be teasin' you
with my wide grey eyes between your spread thighs
and my sighs while your fingers do the walking
you got me talkin', speaking in tongues
twisted, talented and various like Babylon
hittin' all my spots, spittin' white hot shots across
olive skin that's smooth like buttah
i'm lovin' it like McDonald's, don't want no other
check that clock - damn, i'm late for that reunion i'd sooner
sit here and groove but i gotta find the cheddar,
'cause i'm a public mouse in a brown brick house
across a frozen river, gotta give 'er
'til my liver shivers
peace
Monday, March 20, 2006
Joy
I am in love. Heart-thumpingly, Cheshire-grinningly, head-over-heels in love.
He told me without words. I heard him speak as clearly as if he had whispered in my ear. I answered in kind, the words that had been clamouring inside me travelling soundlessly, electrically from grey to blue and back again.
Epiphany. Ecstasy.
I am home.
He told me without words. I heard him speak as clearly as if he had whispered in my ear. I answered in kind, the words that had been clamouring inside me travelling soundlessly, electrically from grey to blue and back again.
Epiphany. Ecstasy.
I am home.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
You had me at "fishcakes"...
Last night was special. Crystal and china glowed and Cole Porter kept time. There were snowy linens and full place settings of cutlery. There was garnish.
He cooked me dinner, fed me morsels from fingers redolent of southern France and the sea. He moved crimson and unencumbered through the fragrant steam, hands gentle on tender greenery. The hot oil spoke and he listened. I was the knife he held, the bubbling pot he stirred. I was unprepared for him to have everything we needed.
Honeyed lips were licked while Louis growled in the other room. The last of the wine was golden and sweet and I was drunk on candlelight. He told me that I am beautiful. I didn't tell him that my heart is his if he wants it.
Is it time? Only Louis knows.
He cooked me dinner, fed me morsels from fingers redolent of southern France and the sea. He moved crimson and unencumbered through the fragrant steam, hands gentle on tender greenery. The hot oil spoke and he listened. I was the knife he held, the bubbling pot he stirred. I was unprepared for him to have everything we needed.
Honeyed lips were licked while Louis growled in the other room. The last of the wine was golden and sweet and I was drunk on candlelight. He told me that I am beautiful. I didn't tell him that my heart is his if he wants it.
Is it time? Only Louis knows.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Wakey wakey
You know you're in Newfoundland when, while in the process of rummaging through a fridge in search of breakfast items, you come across a cooked turkey neck.
"A cooked turkey neck?" Yes. I can see how some would raise a sardonic eyebrow or purse their lips in distaste. You see, where I come from, we cook and eat turkey fairly often. It's kind of a staple. This could be due to the fact that a large turkey feeds many hungry people, which is great when a normal Sunday dinner with the family is comprised of no less than 15 participants. It could also be argued that the turkey serves as a convenient vehicle for all the tasty stuff that goes along with it - pease pudding, greens (turnip, mustard, dandelion and various other permutations), salt beef, boiled vegetables (potatoes, cabbage, carrots, turnip, parsnip, etc.) Or, it could be just because turkey is frigging delicious, full stop.
I won't go into a lengthy dissertation of how one actually eats a turkey neck - it's an ugly, ungainly process. There are vertebrae. There's also a spinal cord in there, which will vary in length/thickness/revoltingness according to the size of the bird from whence it came. You basically just haul the cooked neck out of the roasting pan (the neck always cooks faster than the rest of the turkey), scoop a ladlefull of dressing out of the exposed arse of the bird, throw the two into a bowl and eat it in one of two ways: standing over the stove like some sort of starving convict a la "Great Expectations", or, sitting down at the table in a darkened, fragrant kitchen and sharing the pickings with somone you love who also loves the neck. It has been my experience that neck folks are usually excellent people. My mother and her sister are neck people, as was my late grandmother O'Neill. Lovely ladies to a one.
Why do we love the neck so much? I have a couple of theories. One stems from the fact that we are not a wasteful folk. We share an inherent frugality that stems from a heritage built on large families from outport communities who lived off what the sea and land provided on a seasonal basis. Not much went to waste back in the day - there were no supermarkets in these tiny, isolated outports. Refrigeration was a bit on the sketchy side as well. So, if you turned up your nose at a nice bit of meat from whatever animal was on the menu, odds are you'd go hungry. Eating the neck just made sense.
A far less noble/romantic hypothesis can be attributed to man's basic survival instincts. The human race has been housebound for quite some time now, but if you strip away the iPods and trendy shoes, we're basically just a bunch of animals milling around waiting for the meat. What does a lion do when faced with the plump carcass of a freshly-killed ruminant? The lion feeds. It doesn't push aside what isn't boneless or skinless or grain-fed for its enjoyment. No, the lion gorges on the ambrosial organ meats, the rich, dark viscera. Bones are crunched and salty marrow is slurped and savoured. Tender stalks of necks are mouthed and mascerated by bigger animals with bigger teeth. That is, I think, a big part of what the turkey neck means to me. It's primal. The turkey neck is my right as the animal at the top of the food chain.
Animal though I am, I cannot overlook the social aspect of the neck. I mentioned previously that my mother is a neck person, as was her mother. The neck constitutes "a moment" amongst women in my family, shared amidst the ordered pandemonium of clanging pots and rising steam of dinner preparation. I was raised in warm houses filled with the laughter of grandparents and parents, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, untold cousins and their significant others. We grew up around the communal table. We laughed and sang, told stories and danced to music scraped from fiddles and squeezed from accordians. It was a never-ending cycle of food preparation and consumption as a family unit.
I learned so much from being with my mother and my grandmother in the kitchen at our various houses. I learned more than how to prepare the food that we would share - I learned about life, about being a woman. I learned what it would mean to be a matriarch presiding with love, pride and and aching sort of joy over a boisterous, brilliant family. The joy that I took from sharing tender, salty bits of meat with these women in a kitchen filled with the smell of their love of family is indescribable. I still have that with my mother. It is precious and beautiful and delicious.
"A cooked turkey neck?" Yes. I can see how some would raise a sardonic eyebrow or purse their lips in distaste. You see, where I come from, we cook and eat turkey fairly often. It's kind of a staple. This could be due to the fact that a large turkey feeds many hungry people, which is great when a normal Sunday dinner with the family is comprised of no less than 15 participants. It could also be argued that the turkey serves as a convenient vehicle for all the tasty stuff that goes along with it - pease pudding, greens (turnip, mustard, dandelion and various other permutations), salt beef, boiled vegetables (potatoes, cabbage, carrots, turnip, parsnip, etc.) Or, it could be just because turkey is frigging delicious, full stop.
I won't go into a lengthy dissertation of how one actually eats a turkey neck - it's an ugly, ungainly process. There are vertebrae. There's also a spinal cord in there, which will vary in length/thickness/revoltingness according to the size of the bird from whence it came. You basically just haul the cooked neck out of the roasting pan (the neck always cooks faster than the rest of the turkey), scoop a ladlefull of dressing out of the exposed arse of the bird, throw the two into a bowl and eat it in one of two ways: standing over the stove like some sort of starving convict a la "Great Expectations", or, sitting down at the table in a darkened, fragrant kitchen and sharing the pickings with somone you love who also loves the neck. It has been my experience that neck folks are usually excellent people. My mother and her sister are neck people, as was my late grandmother O'Neill. Lovely ladies to a one.
Why do we love the neck so much? I have a couple of theories. One stems from the fact that we are not a wasteful folk. We share an inherent frugality that stems from a heritage built on large families from outport communities who lived off what the sea and land provided on a seasonal basis. Not much went to waste back in the day - there were no supermarkets in these tiny, isolated outports. Refrigeration was a bit on the sketchy side as well. So, if you turned up your nose at a nice bit of meat from whatever animal was on the menu, odds are you'd go hungry. Eating the neck just made sense.
A far less noble/romantic hypothesis can be attributed to man's basic survival instincts. The human race has been housebound for quite some time now, but if you strip away the iPods and trendy shoes, we're basically just a bunch of animals milling around waiting for the meat. What does a lion do when faced with the plump carcass of a freshly-killed ruminant? The lion feeds. It doesn't push aside what isn't boneless or skinless or grain-fed for its enjoyment. No, the lion gorges on the ambrosial organ meats, the rich, dark viscera. Bones are crunched and salty marrow is slurped and savoured. Tender stalks of necks are mouthed and mascerated by bigger animals with bigger teeth. That is, I think, a big part of what the turkey neck means to me. It's primal. The turkey neck is my right as the animal at the top of the food chain.
Animal though I am, I cannot overlook the social aspect of the neck. I mentioned previously that my mother is a neck person, as was her mother. The neck constitutes "a moment" amongst women in my family, shared amidst the ordered pandemonium of clanging pots and rising steam of dinner preparation. I was raised in warm houses filled with the laughter of grandparents and parents, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, untold cousins and their significant others. We grew up around the communal table. We laughed and sang, told stories and danced to music scraped from fiddles and squeezed from accordians. It was a never-ending cycle of food preparation and consumption as a family unit.
I learned so much from being with my mother and my grandmother in the kitchen at our various houses. I learned more than how to prepare the food that we would share - I learned about life, about being a woman. I learned what it would mean to be a matriarch presiding with love, pride and and aching sort of joy over a boisterous, brilliant family. The joy that I took from sharing tender, salty bits of meat with these women in a kitchen filled with the smell of their love of family is indescribable. I still have that with my mother. It is precious and beautiful and delicious.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Home
There are too many good things about being home with my parents in St. John's (NF) to list in one post, so I'll just go with the top ten:
- The air smells and tastes better here
- It's cold, but not Ottawa cold
- Flannel sheets
- Fishcakes for breakfast (yummers!)
- The smell of my grandfather's Brylcreem
- My brother and sister, who are both crazy like me
- The ocean
- The streets, lanes and terraces of Old St. John's
- Normal drivers who stop to let you cross
- My parents. The best people in the world.
My next few posts will no doubt be flavoured heavily by all of the above. Be ready.
Friday, February 17, 2006
a.m.
Warm, tangled limbs. Hair tousled over eyes closed.
Lashes luscious smudges on pale cheeks. Peony
lips parted in chai-scented dreams.
Mmmmmm.
What time is it, baby?
Lashes luscious smudges on pale cheeks. Peony
lips parted in chai-scented dreams.
Mmmmmm.
What time is it, baby?
Our long lines run parallel in repose.
Mouths find hollows of throats, necks as hands skim
skin in quivering glissandi. Breath is liquid
in the shell delicacy of an ear.
Just ten more minutes,
baby.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Dinner for two
I am having dinner tonight with a man who makes me positively weak in the knees.
He makes me laugh. Uproariously. It's not everyone who can make me laugh like that.
It also bears mentioning that he is highly intelligent, extremely articulate and more worldly than most.
This is a dangerously heady combination.
Hmmm.
He makes me laugh. Uproariously. It's not everyone who can make me laugh like that.
It also bears mentioning that he is highly intelligent, extremely articulate and more worldly than most.
This is a dangerously heady combination.
Hmmm.
Monday, February 06, 2006
I believe in people
My friend/colleague/fellow blogger colouringitpurple recently posted about an experience we shared late last week ("Why don't people care just a little more?") at a local fast-food joint. The incident and fallout have been on my mind since then.
There are cold people out there. There are people who pretend not to notice as they walk past an outstretched hand. There are people who turn up their iPods or pull out a cel phone when they see a homeless person on the next block. There are people who don't hold doors or give up their bus seats for for the elderly or infirm. There are people who don't step out of line to help someone who really needs it, no matter how easy it would be to do so. It is wrong and it is sad. However, for me to sit here and pontificate and pretend that I've never been one of them would be hypocritical in the extreme. I could do more. A lot more. Everyone out there who is as well-educated, well-paid, well-housed, well-fed and able-bodied as I could do more for those among us who require assistance. It's not always about spare change. It's a steadying hand under the elbow of an elderly or disabled person on an icy sidewalk. It's a coffee or a sandwich for someone who says they are hungry. It's helping someone get a drink of water when they are thirsty. Sometimes, it is simply a smile.
I stood in line and watched my friend's face tighten and go red with shame, anger and sadness. I watched her step out of line to try and help someone who needed it. I sat across from her after and watched her cry over the injustice to which we had just borne witness. I asked her to tell me what she was feeling and I listened, meekly dunking fries one at a time. She told me that it makes her sad to see people being overlooked. She told me that it breaks her heart to see a person who obviously needs help from someone - anyone - being judged or looked down upon rather than being lifted up. She told me that she has been that person, the one who needed help but was helpless to ask. I felt humbled.
My friend is a scholar and an activist and an artist. She is fighting for social justice both at home and abroad. She is a woman with a disability - although I don't think I've met anyone more 'able' than she. I sat in that restaurant and looked at myself through her and saw a need for change.
Thank you, my friend, for making me believe in the good in people...and for taking some of the chill out of this city of ours.
There are cold people out there. There are people who pretend not to notice as they walk past an outstretched hand. There are people who turn up their iPods or pull out a cel phone when they see a homeless person on the next block. There are people who don't hold doors or give up their bus seats for for the elderly or infirm. There are people who don't step out of line to help someone who really needs it, no matter how easy it would be to do so. It is wrong and it is sad. However, for me to sit here and pontificate and pretend that I've never been one of them would be hypocritical in the extreme. I could do more. A lot more. Everyone out there who is as well-educated, well-paid, well-housed, well-fed and able-bodied as I could do more for those among us who require assistance. It's not always about spare change. It's a steadying hand under the elbow of an elderly or disabled person on an icy sidewalk. It's a coffee or a sandwich for someone who says they are hungry. It's helping someone get a drink of water when they are thirsty. Sometimes, it is simply a smile.
I stood in line and watched my friend's face tighten and go red with shame, anger and sadness. I watched her step out of line to try and help someone who needed it. I sat across from her after and watched her cry over the injustice to which we had just borne witness. I asked her to tell me what she was feeling and I listened, meekly dunking fries one at a time. She told me that it makes her sad to see people being overlooked. She told me that it breaks her heart to see a person who obviously needs help from someone - anyone - being judged or looked down upon rather than being lifted up. She told me that she has been that person, the one who needed help but was helpless to ask. I felt humbled.
My friend is a scholar and an activist and an artist. She is fighting for social justice both at home and abroad. She is a woman with a disability - although I don't think I've met anyone more 'able' than she. I sat in that restaurant and looked at myself through her and saw a need for change.
Thank you, my friend, for making me believe in the good in people...and for taking some of the chill out of this city of ours.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Out the wazoo
Some people probably think it's lame to post music lyrics and quotes and stuff, but I don't. There are times when others have just said it better. Case in point: the Stars lyrics I just posted. Delicious in a sweet/salty way. Like kissing someone who is crying.
When there's nothing left to burn...
God that was strange to see you again
Introduced by a friend of a friend
Smiled and said 'yes I think we've met before'
In that instant it started to pour,
Captured a taxi despite all the rain
We drove in silence across pont champlain
And all of the time you thought I was sad
I was trying to remember your name...
This scar is a fleck on my porcelain skin
Tried to reach deep but you couldn't get in
Now you're outside me
You see all the beauty
Repent all your sin
It's nothing but time and a face that you lose
I chose to feel it and you couldn't choose
I'll write you a postcard
I 'll send you the news
From a house down the road from real love...
Live through this, and you won't look back...
Live through this, and you won't look back...
Live through this, and you won't look back...
There's one thing I want to say, so I'll be brave
You were what I wanted
I gave what I gave
I'm not sorry I met you
I'm not sorry it's over
I'm not sorry there's nothing to say
I'm not sorry there's nothing to say...
(Stars, 'Your Ex-Lover is Dead')
Introduced by a friend of a friend
Smiled and said 'yes I think we've met before'
In that instant it started to pour,
Captured a taxi despite all the rain
We drove in silence across pont champlain
And all of the time you thought I was sad
I was trying to remember your name...
This scar is a fleck on my porcelain skin
Tried to reach deep but you couldn't get in
Now you're outside me
You see all the beauty
Repent all your sin
It's nothing but time and a face that you lose
I chose to feel it and you couldn't choose
I'll write you a postcard
I 'll send you the news
From a house down the road from real love...
Live through this, and you won't look back...
Live through this, and you won't look back...
Live through this, and you won't look back...
There's one thing I want to say, so I'll be brave
You were what I wanted
I gave what I gave
I'm not sorry I met you
I'm not sorry it's over
I'm not sorry there's nothing to say
I'm not sorry there's nothing to say...
(Stars, 'Your Ex-Lover is Dead')
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
If / Then
I was the still one
sitting quietly
Bench-perched
Alone but not lonely.
Your smile was brilliant
You poured it over me like warm honey and
I wanted to consume you
I wanted to eat you whole
right there
in the lobby.
You are
sex and sushi
tattoos and croissants
weed/caffeine/cigarettes
books and Perl and porn and
the Internet.
That is your algorithm.
sitting quietly
Bench-perched
Alone but not lonely.
Your smile was brilliant
You poured it over me like warm honey and
I wanted to consume you
I wanted to eat you whole
right there
in the lobby.
You are
sex and sushi
tattoos and croissants
weed/caffeine/cigarettes
books and Perl and porn and
the Internet.
That is your algorithm.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition
Everyone's talking about it, so I won't bother with a lengthy regurgitation.
The Tory margin was smaller than many expected, which can be directly attributed to ass-puckering fear at the ballot box. Harper will run a watertight government until he decides to pull the plug and orchestrate another election while the Liberals are still floundering in post-Martin disarray. He'll decimate them. I give it a year.
Paul Martin did a surprisingly honourable thing last night by announcing his resignation as Leader - I'm not sure that many of his supporters were expecting it, but it was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do, as a matter of fact. It's going to be a torturous Leadership race for the Grits while Paul Martin sails into the sunset under a Liberian flag (merci, Dr. J!), cackling madly while wiping his arse with wads of hundred-dollar bills.
The Bloc went down. There is simply not enough of an appetite for another referendum. Duceppe took it well, delivering a fiery, near-militant speech the likes of which we haven't heard in quite some time. We haven't seen the last of him.
The NDP did well, as expected. They are still everyone's best friend. They'll whore themselves out to the government in exchange for writing the next Budget and all will be love, peace and s'mores. On a personal note, it was intensely gratifying to see Paul Dewar kick Richard Mahoney's ass in Ottawa Centre. Buh-bye, you big frigging loser.
I spent the evening with my political junky friends, hurling insults and slanderous jibes at the many TVs and laptops strewn around the well-appointed living room of a certain residence in the Lees area. There was wine. There was cheese. There was a taco platter, the contents of which I could have easily consumed by myself, had I been alone. There was also a rousing (if slightly slurred) rendition of 'Afternoon Delight' on the back patio for which I can not be held accountable. Thanks to the hosts for doing the voodoo that they do so well, as well as to all the sexy bitches who drank, swore and pretended that they didn't notice me eating all the Mexican dip.
Good times.
The Tory margin was smaller than many expected, which can be directly attributed to ass-puckering fear at the ballot box. Harper will run a watertight government until he decides to pull the plug and orchestrate another election while the Liberals are still floundering in post-Martin disarray. He'll decimate them. I give it a year.
Paul Martin did a surprisingly honourable thing last night by announcing his resignation as Leader - I'm not sure that many of his supporters were expecting it, but it was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do, as a matter of fact. It's going to be a torturous Leadership race for the Grits while Paul Martin sails into the sunset under a Liberian flag (merci, Dr. J!), cackling madly while wiping his arse with wads of hundred-dollar bills.
The Bloc went down. There is simply not enough of an appetite for another referendum. Duceppe took it well, delivering a fiery, near-militant speech the likes of which we haven't heard in quite some time. We haven't seen the last of him.
The NDP did well, as expected. They are still everyone's best friend. They'll whore themselves out to the government in exchange for writing the next Budget and all will be love, peace and s'mores. On a personal note, it was intensely gratifying to see Paul Dewar kick Richard Mahoney's ass in Ottawa Centre. Buh-bye, you big frigging loser.
I spent the evening with my political junky friends, hurling insults and slanderous jibes at the many TVs and laptops strewn around the well-appointed living room of a certain residence in the Lees area. There was wine. There was cheese. There was a taco platter, the contents of which I could have easily consumed by myself, had I been alone. There was also a rousing (if slightly slurred) rendition of 'Afternoon Delight' on the back patio for which I can not be held accountable. Thanks to the hosts for doing the voodoo that they do so well, as well as to all the sexy bitches who drank, swore and pretended that they didn't notice me eating all the Mexican dip.
Good times.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Bring out your dead!
It's Election Day, which to me is the equivalent of combining Chrismukkah/Kwanzaa, St. Paddy's Day, the May Two-Four long weekend and my birthday into one glorious, spite-filled, booze-soaked Day of Goodness.
The Paul Martin sleaze machine will be brought to the grinding, humiliating halt we've all been predicting for years. Note to The Board: You are MORONS. You deserve to lose.
The Liberal Party will get the enema (sans lube) it so desperately needs. I want my Party back, dammit!
Canada will have a Conservative government. Say what you want about them - they can't do much worse than Team Martin (those words will continue to make me throw up in my mouth for a long, long time). My advice to voters? Hold your nose and swallow quickly. You'll barely notice the taste.
Tonight, I'll be glued to the results with The Best Friend, His 'Other' and the rest of the sexy-ass political animals that comprise my peeps. Hot politics and cold vodka. There is no other way.
I'm off to my local polling station. Get yourselves out there and VOTE. I'll leave you with this inspirational tidbit from another oh-so-quotable Conservative leader:
"We've climbed the mighty mountain. I see the valley below, and it's a valley of peace. "
- George W. Bush
(insert diabolical laughter here)
The Paul Martin sleaze machine will be brought to the grinding, humiliating halt we've all been predicting for years. Note to The Board: You are MORONS. You deserve to lose.
The Liberal Party will get the enema (sans lube) it so desperately needs. I want my Party back, dammit!
Canada will have a Conservative government. Say what you want about them - they can't do much worse than Team Martin (those words will continue to make me throw up in my mouth for a long, long time). My advice to voters? Hold your nose and swallow quickly. You'll barely notice the taste.
Tonight, I'll be glued to the results with The Best Friend, His 'Other' and the rest of the sexy-ass political animals that comprise my peeps. Hot politics and cold vodka. There is no other way.
I'm off to my local polling station. Get yourselves out there and VOTE. I'll leave you with this inspirational tidbit from another oh-so-quotable Conservative leader:
"We've climbed the mighty mountain. I see the valley below, and it's a valley of peace. "
- George W. Bush
(insert diabolical laughter here)
Friday, January 20, 2006
The webs we weave
"You have been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what's a life, anyway? We're born, we live a little while, we die. A spider's life can't help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies. By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone's life can stand a little of that."
- Charlotte, from 'Charlotte's Web' by E.B. White
I am unbelievably fortunate in my family and friends.
Thank you to the beautiful people in my life who listen, talk, or are just 'there'.
- Charlotte, from 'Charlotte's Web' by E.B. White
I am unbelievably fortunate in my family and friends.
Thank you to the beautiful people in my life who listen, talk, or are just 'there'.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
La douleur exquise
And so it is
Just like you said it would be
Life goes easy on me
Most of the time
And so it is
The shorter story
No love, no glory
No hero in her sky
Can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you...
And so it is
Just like you said it should be
We'll both forget the breeze
Most of the time
And so it is
The colder water
The blower's daughter
The pupil in denial
Can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you...
Did I say that I loathe you?
Did I say that I want to leave it all behind?
Can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you...
('The Blower's Daughter', by Damien Rice)
Just like you said it would be
Life goes easy on me
Most of the time
And so it is
The shorter story
No love, no glory
No hero in her sky
Can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you...
And so it is
Just like you said it should be
We'll both forget the breeze
Most of the time
And so it is
The colder water
The blower's daughter
The pupil in denial
Can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you...
Did I say that I loathe you?
Did I say that I want to leave it all behind?
Can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you...
('The Blower's Daughter', by Damien Rice)
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Basic instinct
Where do you go when your heart leads but your head is too scared to follow?
It's survival instinct. Fight or flight. There is quicksand between the two. There is no middle ground, no safe zone. The harder you struggle, the further you become mired. Survival handbooks state that the way to get out alive is to stop struggling, stop fighting it. Stay calm. Don't move. Someone will come to your rescue.
But what if nobody is there? What if, after an eternity of sitting quietly, waiting for salvation, you realize that nobody is coming? Shouted pleas dull to hoarse whispers. Whispers become whimpers and fade to stunned silence. Night falls. The darkness swallows your frightened noises but offers no solace. Nobody is listening.
'Forever' does not exist. It is a fiction, a fairytale. 'Forever' is the space between one heartbeat and the next; it is fleeting, transient. It is a tempting myth, red and round and alluring like a ripe apple - we crave it as a means to assauge our human hungers, but beneath the perfumed skin lies galling, poisonous flesh. The taut, shiny exterior belies the rotting core. 'Forever' is a bitter fruit best left unplucked.
It's survival instinct. Fight or flight. There is quicksand between the two. There is no middle ground, no safe zone. The harder you struggle, the further you become mired. Survival handbooks state that the way to get out alive is to stop struggling, stop fighting it. Stay calm. Don't move. Someone will come to your rescue.
But what if nobody is there? What if, after an eternity of sitting quietly, waiting for salvation, you realize that nobody is coming? Shouted pleas dull to hoarse whispers. Whispers become whimpers and fade to stunned silence. Night falls. The darkness swallows your frightened noises but offers no solace. Nobody is listening.
'Forever' does not exist. It is a fiction, a fairytale. 'Forever' is the space between one heartbeat and the next; it is fleeting, transient. It is a tempting myth, red and round and alluring like a ripe apple - we crave it as a means to assauge our human hungers, but beneath the perfumed skin lies galling, poisonous flesh. The taut, shiny exterior belies the rotting core. 'Forever' is a bitter fruit best left unplucked.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Help
I want more than anything to know what I want. I want to be the one whose actions match the confidence of my words and the image I try to portray. I want to be honest. I want a happy life. I want to be loved as much as I love.
I don't want to be scared. I don't want to be angry, jealous, doubtful or bitter. I don't want to fear the future. I don't want money to matter. I don't want to be a convenient solution for someone. I don't want to be an emotional landfill for others for the rest of my life.
My tears are quiet.
I am so tired.
I don't want to be scared. I don't want to be angry, jealous, doubtful or bitter. I don't want to fear the future. I don't want money to matter. I don't want to be a convenient solution for someone. I don't want to be an emotional landfill for others for the rest of my life.
My tears are quiet.
I am so tired.
Friday, January 13, 2006
The heart of the matter
The human heart is an organ of exceeding delicacy. Yes, it's a big lump of hard-working muscle (probably wouldn't be too tasty on the eating side), but I'm talking about emotions here. Feelings. We know that emotions are essentially a series of chemical reactions which emanate from the brain. Why, then, does the heart feel hurt by emotional upheaval? That tightness, that ache...where does it come from? Why does it hurt so fucking much?
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