Glowing Orb

The sun is creeping up over the one-story flat houses that line the opposite side of the street. I suppose my place is on a bit of a hill, because those flat houses, despite their stubby presence, seem to begrudge the sun and guard me from it's full obsession.

I'm wondering about cyclical behaviour and the preoccupation with developing familiarity in emotional habits that we work to hard to instill, and then work even harder to rectify: we call ourselves "reborn," "revamped," "reworked," "rejeuvinated," "respected." I don't know. It seems nausiatingly cliche to contemplate the meaning of life on a Thursday morning in my pyjamas, quasi-latte at my side since I forgot to buy cream; tiny sounds of my son breathing and preparing to wake coming from the other room; my back crooked from hours in this chair; cobwebs in my eyes from getting up early for "alone time"; writing extra-long sentences because I'm not sure where to end the purging of my idea. And on and on. And on.

I hear a sound. It's the shutter on my cell phone camera taking a picture of the dark. I am afraid for a second, like there's some intruder in my room with artistic inclinations. I go in. Kaeden is on the floor with my phone taking pictures of the space underneath my bed. He's got a soother in his mouth and two beside him. He's looking at the phone, as surprised at the sound as I am. He is one year old.

Snuggle the baby. Make yogurt and cereal for him to eat. Make his lunch. Wipe him off. Change diaper. Dress. Strap him into his rocking chair in the bathroom while I shower. Dress myself. Pack our bags. Get into the car. Head to school. Bye, Hunny, see you at 4. Light a cigarette and turn up the stereo. Drive away, think about work. The sun is above me now, taunting me for trusting long sleeves were necessary in the morning's tiny cold. It squashes any semblence of restriction the flat houses had, and guides me into seven hours of thinking like an adult.

The day has begun.

Five Moments

They flattened a penny for me and it's sitting on my desk. I'm squinting at it from the corner of my eye because I have this keen sense of awareness that invloves little more than it, because I'm talking about it, and the keys on this credit-borrowed computer. There have to be about 600 things on my desk along with the penny, but all I can see is it, a non-descript, two-dimensional thing I assign no meaning to except the immense comfort that my son isn't watching Tree House while I am flipping pancakes for members of the earth barely heavier than pancakes themselves.

***

I often wonder how I can bury myself in six years of intense schooling, which garnishes some kind of respect, mostly from people who chose not to do the same, but then feel as though I've gained a huge amount of intellectual knowledge when a 32-year-old sex trade worker addicted to crack informs me that when our thoughts and ideals don't fit into our values and morals we call them mistakes. Do I really find this earth-moving on its own merit, or am I superficially impressed because it came from someone who thinks flip-flops make her like Cinderella? If I do, I am oppressing her with my condescending admiration, and may as well take my place among the long line of people who have turned her heart to pulp.

***

Sometimes I think that in trying to escape meaninglessness I am fulfilling my greatest fear by working so hard for freedom that I miss out on the liberating moments of my life. Only _____ more _____ and I'll be free, time to settle in, flounder around in a bubble bath, hire a sitter and spend the time under a tree somewhere, get my hair cut by someone else. The time carries on and only the lies I tell myself can keep up.

***

I want to find the Maa words for "create" and for "peace" so I can introduce them to the average Canadian via a name for my freelancing enterprise and a tattoo on my left wrist, respectively. Maa is spoken by the Maasai, a tribe in Northern Kenya that have complex initiation rites into various stages of life and use pebbles against the cervix for birth control. They live with a simple abundance that inspires a shameful desire in me to go to them and beg them to make me a warrior princess. They probably would, in their kindness, and never teach me the word for "old maid" either.

***

I have decided to give up my futile hold on the shape of destiny and leave all the big decisions up to the Universe. I will continue to walk in time with my heartbeat, but there is no more room for expectations and other preconceived resentments in my life. Although I cherish them, as familiar as my mama's hands, I must let them fly away now, to the great resting place where negativity gets composted into little piles of that grogginess one feels after napping in the afternoon.

peace~

On a Break ...

Sun's long gone, but the air remembers the heat: heavy, sticky, hard on the lungs. Two kids on black and blue bikes, ball caps on sideways. Leaning against the wall in front of the A&W smoking cigarettes and staring at junkies as if memorizing the walk, the talk, the life ... for later ...

J shuffles by, bums a smoke, says his girlfriend's a bitch because she took his dope and sold his shoes for more when it was gone. His glasses are crooked and a month's worth of sleeping outside lingers in the air after he's gone. Used to be a mechanic, has a kid in Courtenay he pretends to visit when he's dope sick ...

... N is pulling her cart, her back is like a question mark and she wobbles back and forth like a dashboard puppy. Drunk. Pulls her gear through the front door: suitcase on a trolly, headscarf, torn dress, fuscia lipstick, leather shoes. She'll sit silently in a wathroom stall for at least 45 minutes before calling a Swiftsure taxi and climbing in it to take her ...

... Blonde woman, jean shorts, bikini top, ink scrolled delicately across her lower back. No shoes, packsack, tiny pink purse with make-up sticking out of the broken zipper. "Working." Say hello and she looks at me like she'd rather stick me than answer back. Avert eyes, kind of afraid: climbs into a pick-up truck with one of hundreds of faceless fucks who made her that way ...

... S limping away from G, who's shouting at him: "Fucking goof, I told you no middling, you piece of shit." G catches up, 1.5 feet taller, grabs S, slaps him: echo. S starts to cry, G pushes him down, walks away. S gets up, dusts off greasy jeans as if he's not been wearing them for two weeks, walks over. "Gotta quarter?" Hand it over, S says G's a pussy and offers to run to Co-op for me. "You'll hate yourself for ripping me off, S, so let's say no." He cries again for my mistrust but doesn't blame me. Whistles at a black Volkswagon, which slows down: he's laughing, gone ...

... Two girls, early 20s, jean skirt/lace skirt, tank top/t-shirt, flip-flops/plastic sandals: "Did you see Steve's face?" "No, what'd he say?" "He said she's a useless bitch, but I think he's fucking her." "Prick." "Who's playing at --"...

Here comes D, cheeks like pockets of death, hugs me then tells me to wash her off my clothes before I touch anything delicate. Hair fire engine red, lilac perfume, too many rings, finger tips black, cracked, broken. Used to give lectures at a recovery house and answer phones at a treatment centre you've probably heard of. Her teeth seem stuck together, smile frozen in place, as she asks questions about my life and doesn't listen for the answers. "Want a balloon?" I'm not sure how to answer so she says, "Oh. I thought I had a balloon." Looks around confused, embarassed, breaks a heel crossing the street ...

... Door opens, F falls out, pukes, wipes his mouth and asks if he can go back in for a tequila. I call him a taxi instead; he tells the driver to beat it. "I never come here, you know. I'm from Alberta." Pukes again. Came in three hours ago with a wad of cash, bought rounds for the house, more instant friends than hairs on his head. Now: sits down, pockets inside out and bare, alone in a doorway: friends on to someone new. S reappears, tries to fleece F for his cigarettes. I give S a look and he wanders off: F keeps his smokes ...

... Wide shouldered cowboy hat guy; frilly dress girl with squeaky voice. Walk up to the A&W drive-thru, shout orders at the orange and brown uniform behind the moveable plexi-glass. Car drives up, cowboy hat thumps on the hood. Girl giggles, grabs his balls and tells him she loves him. Guy abandons driver, who's about to get out and smash him. Cowboy hat and frilly dress shove tongues down each other's throats; orange and brown uniform waits patiently, brown bag and waxed cups in out-stretched hand ...

Break's over.

Glob of Blog

"My fingers are red and swollen from the cold,
I'm getting bold in my old age, so go ahead, try the door
It doesn't matter any more
I know the weak-hearted are stong-willed and we are being kept alive until we are killed
He's up there
The ice is
Clinking in his glass
He sends me little pieces of paper
I don't ask
I just empty
My pockets
And wait ... "

Everytime I open a new blog page that Ani DiFranco quote from her spoken word piece, "Up" comes into my head, though I don't know why. Maybe it's the candence, apparent only when performed, that sticks in my head, but why it comes out in blogging world is beyond me.

It's funny, this business of blogging. We begin because we feel the need / desire / curiousity to share ourselves with strangers, but ultimately create alter egos, hungry for little chunks of dismembered human persona. Yep, that's my name, that's my picture; yes, I'm really interested in ______ , no, I never wanted to ______ ... It's real but it's incomplete, and omission is guilty by default.

I am never going to talk about my most profound truths in this or any blog.
I am never going to tell any of you, in this or any blog, what makes me wake in the night gripped in horror.
I am never going to tell anyone about the things I have done that still hang over my head, nor will I share my greatest joys for fear of dibilitating them with words. At least not in this or any blog.
I am never going to post a picture of myself ill, hurt, crying, angry, or just barely awake.
I am never going to fill in any kind of searchable criteria that reveal anything about my height, weight, shoe size, sexual orientation, religion, ethnicity, or family of origin anywhere on the entire Internet, nevermind in this or any blog.

Is the story I tell of myself true, then? I continue to judge you all as I judge myself, choosing carefully what you might find interesting; what I feel safe enough to share. I create myself as I go, and what I create for this screen comes from me, and makes me too.

This chapter is over.

peace~

Ramble, ramble, sleep

I live in an urban jungle. Racoons scamper around under my car, staring at me like they can't wait to use their opposable thumbs to choke the shit out of me if I dare think about driving anywhere. They live under my car when it rains, which is handy since I tend to stay in when it does. Snails have invaded my recycling bags, which wasn't a big deal until they (the bags, not the snails) got tagged for having glass inside and I had to dump them out in the driveway and pick through socially conscious trash to find the offending babyfood jars. Four in total. Every morning I am greeted by a spider the size of a golf ball in my bathtub. I capture it and set it free outside, only to meet it's furry gaze again the next morning. This morning there was some big, giant, red and brown, spider-beetle-IslandofMorrow-type thing in there and I'm sorry to say, I couldn't handle it so I drowned it. My first act of intentional violence in about nine years. Everyone in this building has cats who seem to find more comfort in my backseat or in my living room than in their own overstuffed beds. That is, of course, unless they are chasing ferrets, which have also somehow invaded the neighbourhood. I hear there are ants upstairs. Can't wait to meet them.

***

A travelling evangelist knocked on my door this afternoon eight minutes after I put my son to bed for a nap. She was soaking wet, dripping from every surface, black strappy sandals, no coat. God held my tongue as she offered me an invitation to a religious conference, raising her voice just a little so I could hear her over the sound of Kaeden crying. "Thanks," I said, respecting her sense of obligation instead of innocently suggesting she go look under my car.

***

I feel safe with my head covered, so I'm wearing a toque with my jammies right now, which is what I do when I'm sad or grouchy, which is how I feel when my normally docile and friendly eight-month-old cries himself to sleep for a week straight, which makes me feel helpless, which makes me more grouchy, which makes me want to blog to feel better, which is an act made purely in the spirit of retaining my utopic bubble.

***

I bought apricots today for the first time ever. This is kind of funny because "apricot" has been the secret password between my sister and I for over twenty years, but I've never actually eaten one before. I wonder if she has? I finally found plums and peaches too, which bring delight to my day, so much so that I'm writing about it when really, it has no significance whatsoever to anyone but me. (That was painful.)

***

If anyone is interested, by "other" blog is at www.myspace.com/xziat but be prepared: I reserve it for purely meaningless meandering and save the important stuff for this one. So don't expect anything genius, as if you do already.

peace~

Cheater, Me

Okay, it's time to fess up. I've been unfaithful. Instead of paying strict diligence to this happy lil' blog 'o' mine, I've been fooling around on myspace.com, creating another blog. No, don't cry -- I'll make it right. I promise. I actually signed up over there because I have created a myspace for my work, and I wanted to make myself a profile in order to make my work account feel more at home by adding myself as a friend. As it turns out, there's a lot of action over there and although I meant for my diversion to be a temporary, meaningless, but immediately gratifying romp, I find I just ... can't ... pull away ...

So, I hope this doesn't put strain on our relationship. I mean, you could always join in the fun if you really wanted to ...

I just got home from Edmonton. Went to see my sistah and her snuggle bum, and to flail around in the West Edmonton Mall, just so I could say that I did. I thought that wrapping my head around the idea of a shopping center big enough to house a roller coaster would definitely be worth the trauma of being bombarded with three billion ad-like store signs, and it was. My favourite part was the sea lions. Even though I didn't actually see them, just knowing they were there was comforting. Yay, memories of BC!

My sister's dog, Hanna, and I have a lot in common. We are both snuggly, a little akward around people we really love, and appreciate the charm in a good, solid nap. I'm also not sure who looks more like a human ... it's kind of creepy in a loving, intriguing kind of way. I think Hanna knows a lot about the meaning of life, and that she is quietly seeking a modest way to share her gift with the world.

peace~

A List

Things I Have Done While Carrying A Baby On My Back:

1. Walked eight miles.
2. Painted a house.
3. Painted a bar.
4. Painted my toenails.
5. Put on make-up.
6. Gone to a job interview.
7. Conducted job interviews.
8. Packed and unloaded the entire contents of my house. Twice.
9. Attended a flamenco rock concert.
10. Performed in a flamenco rock concert. Just kidding.
11. Done the dishes.
12. Cooked spring rolls.
13. Visited a prison.
14. Swam laps.
15. Attended a poetry reading.
16. Attended class.
17. Attended to a bleeding junkie.
18. Carried groceries home.
19. Cleaned three houses.
20. Wrote seventeen newspaper articles and half a dozen blog entries.

I love being a momma.

peace~

Haiku

Silvery fishes
Silent in watered darkness
Stewie will catch them.

~For my good pal Stewie, a semi-retired fisherman.

Gratitude

My house looks more and more like me every day. Things are finding their way into the little corners and culverts of my various rooms, finding their way and making those spaces their own. I always guage my level of progress in a new space by the status and location of my tool kit. At the moment, it is sitting on a chair, tucked beneath my dining room table, with the lid half on. Translated this means I am not finished with it or the house, so it's out, but I'm getting there and not using tools all day long, so it's kind of tucked away. Once it is nestled comfortably in the storage space, lid snugly secured, I'll know I am finally at peace.

I learned something important today about single parenting. I was watching a woman angry with her ex-husband about his emotional unavailibility remind him mercilessly of his past transgressions. It was interesting because I feel her pain: I know how the joy of special firsts is squashed by the lonliness of no one to share them with. I understand the frustration of someone else putting your child to bed because you have to work. I have carried at once the baby, the groceries, the mail, the coffee, and the car seat, then dropped the car keys. I have paced for miles; I have cried in the night.

You only know these things when you have children of your own, so now, the children only see her anger and they don't understand it. She may have always been there, but she didn't own her aloneness, and being present in anger isn't enough. Today, this woman's children see only the kindness of a father trying to make up for his loss and the cruelty of a woman trying to escape the darkness within her. Do you see my lesson in this?

I have a lot of gratitude today for my son, my health, my home, and my independence. The kitchen I missed beyond belief is sparkling in the dim light of the oven lamp and the baby is sleeping perfectly in my room. I have been eating fresh fruit and buttery croissants all day long, marking my return to normalcy as my cycle has returned. It was a lovely holiday, but thank goodness I'm a woman again.

My commitment for today is to stop writing and speaking in cliches. I hope I make it.

peace~

Strawberries in my Golden Grahams

I moved. Again. Just settling in to my new place, which I love. It is a two bedroom plus storage space in a house with two other suites. Technically it's a ground level apartment, but my bedroom is underground due to a creative sloping of the front yard. I've painted it warm, yummy colours, which, incidentally and without intention, match perfectly with the hair and complexions of all my favourite people.

I was reading a daily affirmation by one of my heroes, Melodie Beattie, in which she suggests the idea that things happen too slowly, too quickly, at the wrong time, or whatever is an illusion. Timing is perfect, says Melodie. With this in mind, I say, the place from which I just moved and all the chaos and heartbreak generated there was exactly where I needed to be at the time, because it led me here.

The neighbourhood is interesting. There's a park a block away and a primary school that I will not send Kaeden to, but is nice to have around anyway. There is the Typical of Nanaimo Token Crack Shack two doors down, which is okay since it makes for delightful evening entertainment in case the satellite ever goes down. That's the other thing: the rent includes heat, hydro, laundry, and ... wait ... satellite TV. I won't get into a big schpeal about the evils of TV; it's nice to have for babysitters and for myself when I'm in the mood for a movie.

I can walk downtown from here in about sixteen minutes. I haven't tried it, but I'll bet Kaeden's grandparents are about the same distance walk in the other direction, and there is a store close enough to walk to in case I ever have a burning desire for candy worms or a tabloid newspaper. Across the street is a guy who has been cutting down and into pieces the hugest tree in the city (just a phrase; don't call the historical society to fact check) for about a week. In the dark the twisted, masticated trunk looks like a medium-sized elephant.

Upstairs is a girl I used to work with and her boyfriend. They are extremely cool and like to listen to death metal. I don't know a lot about this kind of music, but I'm looking forward to learning. They've invited me to let Kaeden play in thier part of the yard one day, and that sounds good because they have a nice garden. In back is a woman who rides a moped and is equally pleasurable to live attached to. She cares a lot about this house, I can tell, and is constantly giving me little tips on how to settle in with ease. For example, she suggested I not park so close to the road because people use our driveway for a turnabout and might take my car out. Also, she warned me about leaving things outside, in light of our twitchy neighbours two doors down. In all, I am in a good place, surrounded by good people, and I am going to stop using the word "good" now because I'm reminding myself of Martha Stewart.

All right then. Typing makes me tired for some reason. I've finished my cereal and am going to take one last look around for a little bag of screws I've been searching for since seven o'clock, then maybe head to sleep.

The night is just another way to experience day.

peace~

Twins

Well, now ... don't I look like I haven't slept a full night's rest in seven months. Wait a minute ...

As Kaeden gets older, we look more alike. I'm told babies are meant to look like their dads when they're born because in the wild, if a baby animal doesn't look like its dad at birth, Dad will eat it.

All the male members of Kaeden's dad's family have stopped licking their lips when we come over, so I assume the coast is clear. Thank goodness. That was close.

Mini and I are on a mission to find a copy of William S. Burroughs' Naked Lunch. All seven of Vancouver Island Regional Library's copies are missing, and the used book store guy laughed at me when I suggested he may be able to find a copy or even keep one on the shelf for more than thirty seconds. Little do I know about cult books, I guess.

[editor's note: for the sake of my christian readership, let it be clarified that "cult" in this context is meant to denote a book popularized by its obscurity and lack of reason, so much so that all seven of one Island's copies are stolen, and does not refer to a book about people to have group sex with antelope while burning images of mao tse tung into the flesh of their asses. thanks.]

As much as I hate the thought of it, I am officially part of the work force once again. I swore I'd stay off for a year, but the bills are piling up and it's starting to make me want to vomit. So, barring divine intervention, I will reclaim by Beer Slinger's Brownie Badge on Wednesday from six-til-close. *Sigh* I'm quite crushed about it, actually, because I don't want to miss a single minute of Kaeden's growing up, or at least babyhood. I suppose that's just the way it goes and I should get over myself; it's just hard, is all. I am taking pleasure in the fact that I will only work 2-3 shifts per week, and that my EI benefits still go until July. Perhaps I can find work where babies are welcome in the meantime.

Alright then, speaking of babies and working moms, it's time for me to pump. I feel like I should be mooing while I do it.

Be safe, speak the truth, and if you can't pronounce "anonimity," just say "broccoli."

Stop it.

Here it comes.
Cosmic repetition,
New order confusion,
Karmic retribution.

Taking
Making
Breaking

Me.

Like waves.
Omnipotent gifting,
Transcendental haunting,
Inner evil boiling.

Poring
Goring
Luring

Me.

Take it away.
Prophetic selfism,
Lethargic deflectism,
Indifferent survivalism.

Downing
Drowning
Clowning

Me.

Abjugation

How do I explain, in 2500 words or less, how power is abjucated, never taken away? When looking at a bunch of street kids and how they are treated by the police, the government, the public, and other such "good guys" it's hard to make the case that the kids have simply handed over their power without force or coercion. That is my assignment for today. Nine pages, double spaced, 2.5'' margins, please. I'm all over it.

Besides staying up late rotting my stomache lining with coffee, extra cream, this day has been a good one. I had a long, dreamy, steamy bubble bath while my roomies watched the baby. It was amazing and as I frolicked happily in vanilla-honey goodness, I had for a tiny moment a glimpse of life before motherhood. Strangely, I had no feeling of nostalgia or longing for what was; I seem to fit sharing my life with another human quite nicely. But really ... look above and tell me if you blame me.

My new place is fabulous. I like the company, the space, the yard, the view of the mountain ... I even like the thumps and bumps coming from all over the house. Makes me feel safe and stimulates my chronic Small Town Syndrome, symptoms of which include ear straining, eye popping, and neck twisting to find out what's going on with all people, in all places, at all times. I took a walk downtown today in the ghetto and felt quite at home. Every second person on the street was someone who had touched my life at some point over the past 1.5 years -- at work, in volunteering, at school, rolling in their own vomit below my bedroom window -- it's nice to be back.

Enough shinannigans. I've got a paper to write. Live free and eat asparagus.

Peace.

Not So Fast!

Hi, Kiddies. I'll bet some of the less hopeful thought I'd abandoned my lovely new blog in favour of something more trendy and enticing like wearing thong underwear with low-rise pants. Not a chance. Truth be known, my laptop has gone to the Great Electronic Heap in the Sky. Also, I just moved, so connecting to the Internet meant crawling under boxes of stale cereal and oven cleaner to get to the modem. Anyhow, here I am, safe and blogger-happy sound.

I am enjoying watching my new digs come together, although a slightly melancholic yearning for my church of solitude in the woods still abounds. I realize now how much I enjoyed my alone time. Not that I have any gripe with my roomies - who are great - I just really loved the quiet, the bunnies, the darkness, the lonliness. Things are different now: more active, more cars, more unidentified midnight thumps. It's new and old and interesting and familiar all at once. I think once my things are all put away and the carport (currently overrun with the World's Largest Supply of Abandoned Cardboard) is clean, I will settle in with a piping hot green tea and a good cry for the old and the new. I'm funny that way.

So it's Super Bowl today. Or, it was. All that fuss and it's over in a few short hours. It's a lot like Christmas that way, except no one feels inclined to buy plastic trinkets for people they don't like in order to commemorate a football game appropriately. Sometimes I wish I understood the game; other times I figure it's just as well. Does the world really need another obnoxious, over-caffinated sports junkie obsessing over grown men in tights fighting over a dead pig? I think not. Besides, learning about football would cut into my hockey-watching time.

Well, as much as I am enjoying sharing my little tidbits with the cyber-world, I am exhausted and must go to bed. I did a Step Two today and there's something about risking emotional vulnerability in order to attempt to reverse thirty years of painstakingly developed negative behaviour coping mechanisms that simply wipes a girl out. Imagine that. That's all I've got for today. Walk tall and have mercy.

Peace.

Che Baby Che

It's late. For me, anyway. Kaeden has just fallen asleep and I am contemplating the richness of Japanese Sour Cherry Green Tea within the confines of a tiny pot and an even tinier mug. Makes me feel exotic to drink from a vessel smaller than my dog's paw.

I am moving soon. There is a duplex with five bedrooms, two bathrooms, two living rooms, one kitchen, a carport, and many doors in just the right places, simply dying for the arrival of my son, my friend and her daughter, and I. It's been a long time since I lived with anyone and I am looking forward to the company, but will also savour the privacy of the arrangement. I am going to miss my little church, partly because it's beautiful and partly because this is where I first brought Kaeden home from the hospital. It will, in a sense, feel like I am leaving a part of our short history together behind. Good thing I have a camera and a strong will or I might chain myself to the front door on moving day.


I was thinking about buying some rubber pants tomorrow and taking Kaeden to the pool. The pants are for him, silly, not me. Mind you, it would be an interesting experience in human behaviour if we both wore rubber pants and peed in the pool anyway. We could giggle and snicker. Until we got caught. Imagine: photos of us being tossed from the Nanaimo Aquatic Centre together. Would that require a page in the baby book reserved explicitely for deviant behaviour or would that just go under the general heading of "firsts"?

There was a time in my life, not too long ago, when I felt that I was as perfectly satisfied and beautiful as I would ever be. I may have been about 23, and filled with a new found ability to express myself in ways I never knew imaginable. I travelled and wandered and partied and laughed and cried and did just about anything that tickled my sense of wonderment, even for a minute. It was during this time that the garden gnome you see above in james' picture made his journey across BC, with a brief stop in Seattle, WA. When things began to change, I was afraid everything I had learned would change too, but lo and behold: I have only compounded on those discoveries and added an inkling of maturity to the potpourri of developmental scraps we collect like bag ladies along the way. I love who I am now and in seven more years, I can only dream that there exists enough beauty in the universe to expand this same feeling expotentially.

Where did that come from, you ask? I have no idea. I just sit in this chair and wait for the words to tell me what to write. Perhaps moving makes me melancholic; it exacerbates the duality between my insatiable hunger for diversity and desparate clinginess to familiarity. I should have been a Gemini.

I'm finished now. Che Guevera is waiting for me in my bed. According to the New York Times, this John Lee Anderson masterpiece is the most extensive, well-researched biography ever written about my little Argentine hero. I question how many biographies of left-wing guerilla revolutionaries this right-wing, ultra-conservative newspaper is actually familiar with, but anyway ...

... there is Love in everything. Can you see?

Newness

Everybody loves it. There is a certain charm, excitement, mystery about the new: an irreplaceable opportunity to wash over past transgressions and start again like babies.

A new day: today I'll start running, stop smoking, remember to pray, forget to be miserable.

A new relationship: this time I'll assert myself, live in the moment, be playful, not do anything psychotic.

A new car: I'll keep it clean, offer to carpool, get regular oil changes, name it something other than Betsie.

A new diary: keep it current, draw pictures in the margin, save it for my kids, hide it from my partner.

A new garden: plant early, remember to compost, don't slaughter slugs, water every day.

A new home: put my clothes away all the time, do the dishes every day, leave no opportunity for dust bunnies to stage a coupe d'etate, relax in it.

A new moment: react gently, notice beauty, breathe first, stop counting backwards.

A new year: resolve to ________, make plans but not plan the outcome, aim for progress not perfection, stop making resolutions.

We mean well, I know.

I have a personal fetish for new paper: crisp, clean, flat, smooth, enticing -- waiting, beckoning for words, pictures, scribbles of brilliance. Stationary bliss.

I love new books: smell of ink, flawless pages, shiny covers -- standing tall and proud on the shelf or table, begging for someone to suck up their message. Literary opium.

I feel excited about new spaces: hidden alcoves, closests full of other people's secrets, walls screaming for colour -- begging for someone to brush and stroke their idiocyncracies all over smooth, inviting surfaces. Structural ecstasy.

We live for fresh new moments, second chances, opportunities to forget. There is nothing wrong with the old; that is where the magical place between knowledge and wisdom resides. Drawing from that which was, if we're smart, we bound like puppies into the new, full of anxiety and optimism. It's challenging. And delightful. And scary. And unavoidable. And delicious. And unworthy of human-made, egocentric adjectives designed explicitely for asserting our superiority over the omnipotent complexity of symbolism.

But anyway.

Happy New.