In general the more I do something the more I want to do it.  And the less I do something the less committed I become to doing it anymore.  This works for lots of things... writing, for example.  And running.  Eating popcorn and drinking wine.  Sex.  The more I do these things the more I want to do them.  I wonder what that is?  Is that OCD?  Or am I just forgetful?  The things that become my focus overtake other things that become utterly neglected.  I think and behave in repetitive patterns.  When I break a pattern it is difficult to start it up again.  This observation is borne of the fact that I am struggling to write anything lately, here, or there, or anywhere.  (I think it proves that my brain is probably about 85% lizard.)

*

The sound of our voices made us forget everything That had ever hurt our feelings

Sometimes when I am walking on stairs I make the mistake of thinking about what my legs are actually doing, thinking about how the steps work, and when I do that I suddenly find myself in fear of stumbling, forgetting how to navigate stairs, forgetting how I do that so often without thinking about it at all.  And then I have to stop and think for a second, picture myself finishing the flight of stairs without falling, and then force myself not to think about it anymore, trust my legs to do what they do without my telling them, and let my mind get out of its own way.

(Sometimes I have the same feeling when I think about breathing.  When I think about what it feels like to draw a breath, to hold it and to let it go, sometimes then I think I might easily suffocate or hyperventilate because I can take control of my own breathing and that means I can do it wrong.  I only do it right when I forget about it.)  A student in my class says Inhale, Outhale, aloud to herself when she struggles with stage fright and this always makes me laugh. 

*

Turns out I was wrong when I looked into the future and predicted a rejection from Dr. Brilliant.  This is surprising, truly surprising, given how poorly I felt the interview went, in particular the part where I did an impression that was totally inappropriate and not at all funny (for crying out loud, who does impressions in an interview?).  But today Dr. Brilliant phoned me and said he wanted to work with me.  So now I am scared which is a far more active feeling than is feeling rejected.

*

When I think about your lawn I can almost see it.  I probably project mine onto yours, overlay the pictures in my mind, a collage of faces and warm June sunshine.  It's good.  I wonder if disassociation is the same as rewriting history to make oneself easier with the role one played.  Sometimes I want to correct other people's version of the past but then I wonder if I have any reason to assume mine is the one that is most accurate.

*

Our financial planner put down Shawn's middle name as (None) on the initial set of forms.  Now we occasionally receive mail from his office addressed to Shawn None.  The recent Spawn-mail was followed by some mail for Shawn None.  This kind of thing is so much fun, and my overeager iPhone auto-correct made a hilarious and pornographic suggestion when I was texting this news to Shawn, one which he wanted to hold me to.  (Why does iPhone have such an extensive sexual vocabulary?)  I love words.  If I was a word I would be lugubrious, not because I am lugubrious but because I like the way it tastes on my tongue.  What word would you be?

*

Anthropic Fallacy

Cold outside this morning, cold and misty grey.  My breath hangs in the air a moment before it dissipates when I step outside to refill the bird feeders.  I like this weather; the birds crowd and huddle around the feeders singing that they do not mind the rain, and I live indoors so why should I?

It is a coffee and toast morning, good coffee that warms me from inside, good bread with honey and sunflower seeds.  (Sunflower seeds, I eat them too.  As well as sing I do not mind the rain.)  It is a blue sweater morning, blue jeans, blue coffee cup held in two hands, eyes meeting over the cup rims, eyes that look like crisp blue mornings.

A morning with clear purposes like chapters and phone calls and all these things are manageable, not too much but just enough to make the morning last.  I gather clean laundry from the dryer in my arms, its warmth soaks through my skin... I bury my face in it and breathe.






*

Words have meaning and names have power.

A piece of addressed junk mail came to the house on Monday for Shawn.  Except it was addressed to "Spawn".  This was my favourite thing on Monday.  Spawn did not find it nearly as funny as I did.

*

Things I cannot do:
-    like math
-    and physics
-    (embrace a sine wave,
-     climb inside, wrap my limbs around)
-    sleep past 7:00
-    find my keys
-    follow action movies
-    and remember being born


can take a breath away that always finds the centre
feel you itching like a phantom limb
stitch broken back together roughly
raising temperature with small sibilant breaths
(raising goosebumps on your skin)
disguise myself as mirrors,
make a promise that you keep



.

se geler les miches (à l'heure du laitier)

Hot and cold are dependent on each other for contrast which supplies meaning and it becomes evident that when I said it was cold there, I only meant I felt cold there, and my perception of cold was not based nearly as much upon temperature as it was upon colour (cinereous skies and skeletal poplars, grey). But by the end it felt less cold, the sunrises were melting fire, and the coffee was very very hot.