Ms. Wordsmith's Cactus Juice Perfume

When you died I was born, given fresh breeze. Mourning sun. In trust.
You washed away my plans to fall in line. Find a louder call.
My heavy eyelids matter, when toothpaste in my hair does not.
We burn with mutual respect.

Spending time alone with trees and wind, flanked by flies drawn in by sweetness.
Passing not a single soul on a tangled path.
Crashing into dark just to see the barge's other side, the honey pot boat.
The landscape is renewed by a pan-seared sun.

Hot, warm, cool. And you. So far, you make me swoon.
Window-well guts fill up. Still, you make me want more.
Can you find room, the space to take it in?
Splashing back vague.
I sink. My underwater eyes gritty, opening very slowly.
I want excitement that comes from music, not from new.
Water meets the shore, the rocks, the spray...
... the end of today.

Pretend Pigtails and House of Honey

I don't understand fake hair.  I especially don't understand segments of fake hair.  In random places that you wouldn't think there would be hair.  I'm a little bit grossed out by it actually.

Yes, those are blonde ringletty pretend pigtails coming out the sides of this chick's helmet.  Huh, never saw that before.  But you know what?  Now I believe in all those People Of Walmart photos.  I used to think maybe some of them were staged.  Not so.  Because sometimes you can be driving along and you may see something "different" and exclaim "What the fuck is THAT???"  And you may very well have your camera in your purse, so you could say to your friend "QUICK!  Get my camera from my purse!"  But then ballsy chick on the bike is too fast so you say "Oh shit, she's too fast!  Wait until I get closer!"  And then you're a little bit tailgating the guy in front, but that's okay because man, what a photo op and you are just finally close enough to get a good picture, but the left lane is slowing down and "Shit! Hide the camera!"  So your friend makes the camera disappear (where did it go, did she just sit on your fucking camera?) until you can slow down enough to be just behind biker chick, and the girl driving behind you in the Cavalier looks a bit pissed off, but it's okay because finally again you are perfectly positioned for a perfect picture, so you scream "OK!  TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT!"

So yeah.  I totally believe in hilarious candids now.

Sidenote to the biker chick:  rock on mama, if dudes can put purple mohawks on their helmets, you can totally pull off these curls.  Also, have you ever considered getting pink highlights?  Just a thought.  And, how do you clean the bugs out of your hair?

Now, lovelies, I will be heading to an apiary in the country for a few days.  Shocking, I know - I bet you didn't know I love honey!  And how cool is it that these people have built their house with straw bales?  Very cool.  Because my bed and breakfast will be made of straw also!  And timber framing (probably, unless I decide to build a "Nebraska" or load-bearing style house), and plaster, and a foundation, and a roof, and so on... so please, no more stupid Big Bad Wolf jokes.  Honestly, you aren't the first person to think of such a dumb joke.  If you can think of something creative and witty to say in mock of my dream, then by all means, mock.  But really, if you're mocking my dream I'll probably think your stupid anyways.  Best to keep quiet maybe.

Love Light and Bubbles!

Lyrical Roundabout to the Extreme

Full of alone woe, essential grounds.  I did not bury, so I cannot harvest.   I wish to squish openly.  Homemade itch relief, I have a hard time asking.  So this is how to form the perfect fine-face-disguise.

Ripping apart, crushed skin is being shed.  Who besides me would care to see underneath?  I am selective of my loneliness due to what I need, understanding is not at hand.  Until it is and I find myself growing more concerned about myself.  More attached and wanting to spend and speed.  Near.

Double downhill to the graveyard pond.   Funny how the red shirt thought we could not be real, as much as we thought it of him.  Grateful for no reply to my reaching.
I make of my own struggle what I will.  Setting aside preservation to face the useless appendage growing inside.  I want to stay in it for now.

Open Weave Dance

Walking with eyes almost closed.  Posed in a wishing place.
The woods smell busy.
Keep me buoyed up to go, the toad breaking away from my palm.
The chipmunks breaking in to see, to smell.  They will tell me their truth.

Oh, I’m going to miss this kiss of light falling down on grey purple ducks.  Asian strangers taking photos.  Me, getting one of the group then disappearing by the side of the trail, falling down, into the marsh.
Meeting a savoury physician.  Draping me in gowns.
A pearl in the dark.

End of Something That Was Not

This destiny to challenge my strength hurts.
Frustrates, not having a better grip.
Is this my wide open place?
All I do is tell.
Gush.
Flow.
Empty.

When I’m done cracking up I can see which rodents still try to salvage my inhospitable field.
They look for me, for tufts of my hair.
Clues that I once was.
The figure I took.
The melodies I sang along to.
Adrift and always loved.

Dig in to see my rocky skin, my sandy hair, my trapped words.
The silence they mimic is just for this moment.
You don’t want to miss it.
It’s clean.
The way I was.

Further I go…
Beneath less waste…
Moaning, for the sake of bathing in a last lungful of your breath…

Now shut.

Parts of My Body That Look Weird Now

Trampolining for adults.  Cool, I decide I must try this!  I walk into the SportsPlex with my equally un-trampy friend, JoJo.  We locate the tramp-training area, and watch in awe as men fly through the air in flips, gyrations and multiple somersaults.  Wow.  Seriously, howthefuck do you make your body spin so crazy outta control and then land on your hands doing a Donkey Kick/Handstand?  Whoa, intimidation?  Check.  But the girl there says beginners stick to just straight up and down jumping.  Whew!  Not that I'm too worried.  I mean, I do yoga all the time so me and my body are real close & connected.  We'll be fine.

We all warm up a little, stretch and chit chat with the coach, who is a super-cute-as-a-button-cheerleading-LuLuLemonwearing angel of reassurance, called Coach Sweetpea.  Well, only I call her that.  And only in my head.  Anyways.  Coach Sweetpea insists that we will be fine, and people almost never fall off!  By now the other 4 adults in the class are already on the trampolines.  JoJo and I nervously make our way up.  We watch.  We ooh and we aah.  I think, hey it doesn't look so bad! 

Finally, it's our turn.  We get onto our respective tramps and start to really go for it!  And hey!  Turns out jumping straight up and down on an elastic band is NOT THAT FUCKING EASY!  Soaring through the air like the bird I was in a past life, I am not.  Struggling to stay in that stupid little red rectangle, I am.  Then I hear JoJo chirp, "Weeeeeeeeee!  What's next?"  Uh, what's next?  "Bum drops ladies!" shouts Coach Sweetpea.  Oh my good gravy.  No.  I won't. 

But yes, I do!  I do the Bum Drops, and I do it Doggy Style and I do Belly Flops.  Well, maybe the last two moves aren't really called that, but considering how awesomely I perform, these terms I shall use.  I also did a move called the Face Plant, but that wasn't at the request of Coach Sweetpea.  And one of the other ladies DID actually fall off the trampoline!  But that was only because she was trying to do some fancy-pants three-quarter barrel roll F-18 something-or-other maneuver.

After an hour of us all taking turns, and me eventually feeling pretty good up there, the class draws to an end.  We have a few minutes of free time, then cool down and more stretching.  Stretching I need a lot of, because, man am I ever stiff.  Great workout, thanks Coach Sweetpea!

When I get home I am in urgent need of a hot epsom salt bath.  Drop in a bit of relaxing lavender essential oil, and aaaahh... heaven.  But then, what the fack is that?  I notice my tramp knees!  They now look reminiscent of the time I had erythema nodosum.  Big-time yuck!  I didn't take any pictures of my legs back then to make comparisons.  You just have to trust me.  Besides, even if I had the pictures, I wouldn't post them.  I wasn't able to shave my legs for about a month.   

And since I'm showing off parts of my body, I would now like to boast about my first sunburn of the year. It is a very delicate burn, residing only on the area of hand directly below the thumb area.

How did I create such a precise reddening of skin?  By fishing for 6 hours.  Awesome, right?  And yes, I did catch two real live fish, but I chose to let them go, without going through the hassel of actually getting them up into the boat.  I thought it would be better for both me and the fish that way. And of course, it isn't all about the fish you catch, it's about the experience of being out on the water, with good company, on a gorgeous day!

So, to sum up:  tramping will hurt your body, tramp knees will eventually fade (I hope) and Mr. Sun loves to cook pieces of me.  Happy springtime!

Emailing at Work. And Tweeting to the Universe.

I leave unnamed the party with whom I email eighty million times at work.  But I share a bit of today's unproductivity.

Me: I have a random stranger follower on Twitter.  Weird.  And cool.
She:  I saw that... at least I thought I did.  Or maybe it was a different blog.
Me:  twitter is not blog
She:  I thought Twitter was a blog type thing.  What would you call it then?
Me:  twitter

She:  My (tax) stuff is in two places, my blue filing thingie and that maple leaf hanging madness on my wall.
Me:  you hang your madness on the wall for all to admire.  I admire that.


Also, note to Universe: Sending one old lady into the bank to tell me this wind will be nice during the summer just isn't clever.  Therefore, you are a little bit sucky at showing me why I should love wind.  I am disappointed. 

Love, light and bubbles.

Because It's Pretty. And Summer is Coming

A Gluten-Free Puddle

Shortly after Christmas (oh, delicious Christmas...) I realized I had to take another close look at my dietary habits. I was feeling that slump of energy, constantly. I was familiar with some food intolerances, as I had been doing lots of reading for a course in Herbalism. I learned wheat and cow's milk products are not easily digested by many people who aren't even aware of the sensitivity. Could I be one of the unaware?

So I removed bagels and ice cream from my grocery list. Along with the other wheaty and milky treats I love. A challenge, yes, but wow... I soon noticed that I was no longer falling asleep amid little nests of cheques and deposit slips at work!

Eventually cheese and bread found me again. I don't know how, because I sure wasn't looking for them. Multiple loaves of sourdough bread, fresh from Ida's oven. Cheese curds which I made myself on a farm in British Columbia. Toasty cinnamon buns, with melted butter. Hot caramel sundaes. Muffins of the week at my favourite tea hang-out place. And a recently discovered recipe for soft pretzels. (Seriously, so good that these pretzels were the entire meal once!)

Which brings us to my recent visit to a doctor of naturopathy. She has a similar hunch as I did back in January about wheat. Only she's taking it a step further. Not just wheat-free, but now entirely gluten-free! FOR THREE WEEKS! *Sigh* At least milk gets a green light.

I would like to able to report that I have been a diligent little foodie. However, I may have sampled a bit of bruschetta on Thursday. And I may have accidentally ordered a chickpea enchilada yesterday (which only had chickpeas IN it, and the wrap itself was NOT made of chickpeas) at the spa. And I may have just had a beer. Dammit. Barley.

Oh yeah, so the spa yesterday...... Le Nordik. Bathing cycles of hot, cold and relaxing. Repeating. No talking. Sounds of nature filling the air. After my fourth round of eucalyptus steam, I realized I was probably impaired. Yes, I ended the day as a puddle of melted butter. A puddle with slightly limited mental facilities. And no room for worries. Weird smell coming from my car? No problem, we have CAA if it explodes. Gas tank almost empty by Gananoque? That's okay, we'll see how far we get before the light goes on. Maybe I shouldn't have been driving after all.

Which reminds me - I had a dream last night that my car had no brakes. I should call my dad the mechanic now. And I should build my own steam room. And I really love eucalyptus.

Cannot Look Up

Mishear my meaning to walk a longer way.
The revolutions of your disc blur my already uncertain focus. Puffs of butterscotch and lies.
Leave it all to me, to make it something pleasing.
Those subtle sounds.
The beat is solo strong, readily shared. Flung.
The trick is whispering common sense syllables into old ears.
What you think you hear deep within is leaving no surface scratch.
No trace that I am here.
Hunker down and stand tall.
Work your way into a fish tail fall.
My underwater breathing fears return, when I remember what I am.
One that sinks.
Far.
So I whisper when they no longer hear my shouting.
In darkness I dive again.

Fully, Fast and Hard

Tucked in together.

Sharing a twisted breath.

I saved mine for one like this.

Does it really hurt less in the tall grass hiss?

I rose, to have my toes compose a soft curl.

Fully, fast and hard.

Left a useless shell.

My insides poured into you, and I like them there, as their burden was great.

Thinking about us that have not been.

Clenching you inside me yet.

Looking in.

Phenomenon Specific to my Cut

Dust blows in my hazy star-gazing eyes.
Tell me which songs you play over and over.
Quietly marching in long grasses, these gazelle legs.
I ask for nothing more than to be held up, without asking.
Safe with your watching husk.
You are fuelled by mine, my universe, my one.
Our dream tempo drones on and we tilt a little nearer.
Play that demo once more, or for as long as others still exist.
Making me drift clearly, alert to incoming birdsong.
In it, in it, in it and not all together.
Belief in some furiously romantic thing is easily bruised.
Repeat this soundtrack back to me.

Little Pictures and the Big Unclear One

Without sounding too judgey, I state: online "dating" is the weirdest lollipop I haven't licked. Obviously the crazies go fishing for love just as frequently as anyone else, and they are easy to weed out. I'm not looking for anything in particular, just to connect with people. No expectation. One man asked me (prior to meeting in person) if I was ready to settle down and take care of him and his son. Uh, really no. And one guy told me that he is a "starchild", but didn't stick around long enough to substantiate his claim. Yet another guy wrote to me, only to say that my profile was "messed" and "weird". And his profile picture was gross and shirtless.

All this gets me thinking again about The Twelve Tribes. And that if I didn't mind living a wholesome life lacking inquisitiveness and debate then I could very well settle snugly into a pretty piece of land, making cheese and following the teachings of Yahshua for the rest of my mortal days. Hmm, close. So close to seeing an even bigger picture. So I keep looking. I remain open, receptive to what the universe is whispering in my ear.

Looking at where I am, I see that I am in the centre. I am the centre. Giving birth to the world between my hands. I create. And of course, although there are plenty of crazies, there are also plenty of lovelies.

Loving every step of this journey.

Oh yeah, and Jesus is over on Lava. Serious.

Seaweed Stalking

Lurking in the depths, my heart is blinking, moving over.
Hard hit from the beginning.
Time stopped in the night and I do not know how to keep it.
Adjust my position as passenger for this bit.
Let us leap-dance-fly by the shallow, or sink far into the time banks.
We idle on a low flame, not clogged for long.
Sit nearby; we can watch the catastrophes co-mingle.
Safe for this moment.
My choice is a handpicked conversation and soft voices blowing by.
You whittle me down, collared up to die.
Then I feel that leap and surge back to the top.
Drum-holler comfort.
Moving boulders by arrow point.
Twisting above my mat and leaping from that cushiony spot.
I will be littered with golden meaning, in it fully.
Far-seeing goal, this journey and how I love each step.
Glad this script has been written, since I don’t mind throwing myself from that snowy summit.

Burnt Cinnamon

This silent soliloquy I share with the vivid one.
All ears taking it in, but no eyes to judge.

You hear me shuffling in the dark, you offer up your light.
You make the maples lift me up, we dance in secondary colours.
You smell my sweet spicy mix, but can’t remember what you used to have.
You follow my trail of smoke, and wonder what keeps me burning.

I saw what kept you tall when it was so easy to fall.
I bruise and cry for its strength.

Plus another day without, and I greet it warmly.
The woods, your autumn kiss reaching.
Golden questions, stretching and reasoning.
I smile and embrace this spinning place.