Is this something we can get through?

Can people change?

today, I am looking at cognitive process. NebRa is now 7 months old and I have noticed a shift from the home to the outside world. Up until now, I have been clear about the environment in which he needs to develop. I must keep a constant check of my mood and the energy I am putting out, being sure it is kept positive and nurturing, always. You realize just how vulnerable babies are to the energy and influence around them; any space they occupy must be filled with love and encouragement. I have kept things quiet and calm, limit television and radio in favour of simple songs I sing out and dance to, and gentle talk and conversation between us. It has been a world of internal exploration- understanding the body and communicating with the body; motor skills being honed. I feel as a result, NebRa has developed a strong sense of Self and an understanding of his own rhythm. His crawling has led to the exploration of everything around him, and with that comes a kind of reaching out into unknown space. That space now needs to filled with family and friends. New faces mean new lessons in communication, new boundaries to be tested, new language.

This shift to the outside has led me to neighborhood programs for babies his age. Story times at the library, games and play at the early years centre. Watching him interact with the 'new' is exhilarating. You can almost see the neurons firing and creating new pathways in his mind.

I have not written a word in quite some time, nor have I posted the writings I now have piled up from the year before. This past year, from start to finish has been all about the internal struggle as I prepared for my child to be born. For nine months I just couldn't get outside the confines of my own body- to be constantly reminded of it's parameters through pain and just plain discomfort. Now that I am a mother, I find that the challenge is trying find time to focus my energy in ways that lie outside that motherhood.

Creative output no longer seems frivolous; it has become a necessity.

I'm telling you...

there are at least a thousand things that women "forget" to tell you about being pregnant.

Ladies, once you hit month seven... the gravy train is OVER.
There is a whole world of uncomfortable that I did not, in fact could not fathom.

fast food love
throwaway cardboard container love
b-line to the golden arches of
corporate takeover love
flat tasteless salted with disappointment
eat quick
choke chew swallow
thoughtless lump
down your throat love
get it down
push it down
throw it down
fast. food. love.

Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting for your call,
Your knock at the door,
Your kiss,
Your,
Everything...

Your name is agony.

I'm waiting to speak it aloud,
To scream it,
To strike it down,
And be done.

morning haiku

Your breath calls the Sun
as dew drops on floating grass
sing to the heavens

I had a strange time getting to work today. I always get on at the same spot when I take the train, so that when I hit my connection north, I am closer to the ascending stairs, and don't have to fight the crowd so much. Everyday it's the same thing, I can almost count the steps and actions with perfect accuracy, but today... something happened that left me completely disoriented.

I walked up the stairs, I got to the top and looked around. Everything felt off; the walls weren't the right shade of yellow, the cigarette shop wasn't where it should be, the signs all looked different more scuffed up and dirty.

I stood there for a moment confused. I assumed I had taken the wrong stairs, and immediately walked back down and started over. But I hadn't made a mistake- it was exactly the same stairs I had always taken. They did in fact lead to the correct platform- the one I take every single day of the week. I walked back up those same stairs and lo and behold... everything was right again. But, now I was suspiscious, like I couldn't trust what my eyes were seeing.

Maybe this is some kind of sign that I need start paying attention and stop taking my existence/my perceived reality for granted. Perhaps I need to be disoriented in order to tune in to my own senses. This was a moment of true clarity; I saw just how banal this bubble of my life has become.

I am shocked at my own complacency, my own willing submission to it.

I'm not going down like this. Somebody get me my sword...

I was...

I was thrown from the roof by love
Pushed out the window
Stabbed in my sleep

I was suffocated in the midst of love
Stained pillow held tight against my cheek
Infinite kiss on these dark
breathless lips

Out of the darkness I remember
Resounding sweetness I remember

For love has slain me a thousand times
And a thousand times again
Broken, beaten, and burned- yes
The last of my body consumed
As I cry out it's name

It's the sound of my own voice
The taste of my blood
That wills me ready to believe
Ready to die again
for love

Summer rain
Dark drops falling
On a lush green of ruination.
Black fruits lie in wait,
Heaving under shadowed tendrils.

I'm afraid to go out there at midnight,
Into this jungle of my own making,
This pulsating coven of stems and stamens.

I stand back to watch the night unfold,
As the waters rise,
And rise,
Apocalyptically.

Grandfather

I remember your face,
Your reflection burnt into my skin,
My blood teems with memories,
They remain silent until they hear your voice.

I will listen more often.

I will remember to look in the mirror.

I write

I write always with some reluctance...
Each word an unwitting guest,
Plucked from the crowd
To deliver
The expected
Punchline.
Glaring spotlight
Butt of joke.

Those distant thoughts stand alone,
Naked, over-exposed,
Lacking the depth
And shadow
Of my consciousness.

Storm is rising,
Violent,
Powerful,
To strip bare,
Start new,
Crack the wind
And blow.

Parkdale


Street.
Car.
Sunlight reflecting off elementary school windows.
Dog shit.
Greasy glass case holding the Virgin Mary.
Crumpled potato chip bag.
Roses blooming their last.
Brothers drinking Heineken outside the autobody shop.
Traffic light.
Left turn.
Graffiti in the underpass.
Pigeons making amends.
Sweaty men wrestling at the dojo in white uniforms and black belts.
Dirty black gum pounded flat into the sidewalk.
Pop stains.
Pumpkins.
Spit.
Waiting for a fix by the coffee shop.
Newspapered windows.
Rockabilly from the back.
Liming at the roti shop.
Hairdressers on the steps smoking cigarettes.
Curry.
Piss.
Full moon.
No wind.

I looked up- the sky
was all water and sand.
I stepped on glass
And breathed in stone
and reached the paths ahead.

on my way

I walked past a dead racoon,
lying stiff and bloated in the street.
It faced the curb,
Nestled into the wet concrete,
As rainwater
Rushed past
Its body.

Tip of my Tongue


I had a dream I was searching for a magic herb. I had forgotten its name, and each time I tried to curl my lips around that name- it escaped me. I imagined its bright fragrance, it's freshness, and the desire for it almost consumed me- I could think of nothing else. I remembered the tale of Rapunzel's pregnant mother, whose want for such a wonderous green caused her to give up her unborn child. This was the strength of its power.

I kept searching- asking everyone-but I learned nothing of its whereabouts. I could describe it down to the finest detail, but without the name I was lost. At last I stopped and just simply took a breath...

Reverence.

This was the name, the word, the fresh green of my mind.

As I awoke I let reverence escape my lips, and was satisfied.