Writing Class

I used to take this writing class where the instructor would encourage me to write more of what was happening around characters in my stories.

I have this tendency to get swallowed by myself.

Today hovers on the line of day break and twilight, you know those early November days.
The sky is wispy and the leaves are all fallen; it's mostly quiet.

I'm reminded of this strange dream I had this morning were there was a hidden shark infested water hole that our boat had been ship wrecked to. The conditions were very rough but I decided to dive into the cold to retrieve a red canoe that had sunk deep into the dangerous waters.

Throughout my dive, which was not actually shark infested at all, I was delighted to find a secret portal into a dry (but underwater) department store, where I fondled red wedge shoes and delicate fashions from up and coming designers.

When I awoke I was groggy and restless and immediately in search of online affirmation;
realized dreams, you speaking some strange psychological language to me?
And then I looked at job boards and dreamed for hours of working abroad.

November, you are one of those bitch seasons.
I remember many, November, and you always evoke in me plans to escape.

Where to:
Interested in Caribbean islands, specifically Barbados and St Lucia
Italy
St Elsewhere...

The surround of November:

Ian Brown's Boy in the Moon
a book I devour with oily black espresso and a racing mind, this man can write sentences to knock em dead. Gruff Globe reporter, one of the many from the boys club of yore, I bet.

Using leftover applesauce to make butter squash soup
Tasting, hoping, tasting, hoping that it won't end up tasting too fusion-y and dessert-like.

Avoiding bathing dog
Cause he smells like a barn that has a swamp bubbling through the middle of it.
Damn the hose for busting, and damn the damn hot water tap in the upstairs tub for not working because..

Wanting bath of my own
But cannot do that here, not until there is cash abundance.

And yet just last month we thought of so many things to be thankful for:

Laundry laundered, CHK
Flowers and plants watered, CHK
Dinner dreamed of and possible, CHK
Bed linens fresh, CHK
Domesticity mildly adept and steadfast, CHK
Morality " ", CHK

This afternoon it is my quest to do like that Huey Lewis and the News song and...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F_BVYgA-ZnM&feature=fvst

Planet Perks

Machu Picchu, the gateway to spiritual renderings and body work.
It's been raining here, hard and relentless;
drenching a life time of forgetting into wild manifestations.

Listless sleep on neither right nor back nor belly.
Imagining Esme climbing, yourself upwards to hilly exhilaration and vomiting.

Are you really happening

Machu Picchu that place I've never seen
Vows, and jungles away

I wish on eyelashes and synchronized times
The pendulum swing to period.

Autumn Awareness

I can hardly deal with the beauty;
HENRY IF YOU REALLY LOVED ME YOU WOULD GIFT ME THESE COCLICOS!!
J goddamn K

UGH....

One thing I like about today:
jasmin green tea instead of coffee.
Good idea, JP.

One thing I don't like about today:
When people call breakfast, brekkie
UGH!
It's not adorable, it's AUSTRALIAN, no?

Just sitting here at my computer biting my fingernails and drinking some eau de source..
My mind is racing:
Should I run for Council in 2010?
And WTF is up with this Michael Bryant case?

If I go for Council, much more organizing I tell you.
I cannot find any of my University records anywhere.
Careless Joe, Momma HP used to call me.

I'll also need a proper office.
AHEM....

Then there is the wardrobe conflict;
very conservative dress and pant suits I don't like.
Can I pull this off without looking clownish?

I shall look to some role models:
1. Her Worship, EA - - has been photographed in cowboy boots and ten gallon hats.
2. Fatima Boujaneh, youngest female Councillor of Rural Tata commune in Morraco

September is here; time for heady decisions and apples!

This labour day long weekend, I remind all of you:
IT IS YOUR LAST CHANCE TO WEAR WHITE!

Until the next,

Doily.

FYI Ima Voracious Reader

IMA VORACIOUS READER
Did you know?

I read constantly.
Atwood, the other day in an interview was saying things like:
O yes, I'm a voracious reader. I read subway cars, internet news, posters, the like..


Well, PHEW!
I was getting scared as I was thumbing my way through Finnegan's Wake

'cause it's Frightening, no?
And I didn't feel very voracious, rather stchoopid.

Anyways, I'm fumbling through these pages of demented Irish dialect thinking, am I reading this?
Then I put it down, paced a bit, and picked up the Two Mrs Grenville's and then (GULP)
an unnamed book by Plum Sykes.
PLUM SYKES!
Who am I?
A voracious reader, that's who.

In related/creepy news, Dominick Dunne died the day after I borrowed TMG's!!
How odd.

But then a very special book arrives and takes the edge off:
The Almond Picker by Simonetta Agnello Hornby
So I'm back to intriguing fiction and will likely drop the Plum.

These days...
There is never enough BLT in my life, NEVER.
When the short seasons come, so do the cravings for rich and satisfying comfort foods.

And one chilly Thursday recently I tried so hard to send Henry telepathic brain waves about Top of the Rock Pizza but he was bass fishing, and alas, no pizza.

Can you tell my guts have not been satisfied today?

It's a rainy Saturday, late August.
Everyone has forgotten summer and is now bracing themselves for sweater socks.
I have just this morning drooled over several bath tub variety.

MY GOD ANOTHER RENO COMING.

Thoughts and Wishes to the farmers who lost their plenty in the tornado, Touties.

Until the Empires,

JP

Rest in Peace

Forever my favourite farmer.
My true love and blood will swirl around you with your ashes
until it is my day too.

Preserving Jars and Memories

The dirty C eats at Gramps.
The work and legacy of his life time sits unkempt and weedy in 100 acres.
I go over to the farm while he is having his treatments. I walk the back lot with the black dog and notice a fellow farmer has hayed his one field into approximately 15 tidy round bales.
There is a meaty turkey vulture perched on top of one bale which delights PAP into a short chase.
I see the farm, this intricately woven maze of secrets and history, waiting for its master to come home.
Tell us one more time old man. Please.
Tell me that you want to be weeding out the raspberry bushes.
Like a stubborn man you swing your hatchet and pile wood high

In your hospital bed I feel your strong & beautiful hard working hands grip onto mine,
and we pile our history like your wood.
I go to your berry patch, long down the loamy slopes to the sun burnt gully.
We pick until our hands are stained.
Not the greatest crop this year
but
you know it cause it wasn't done your way, and the rain got bad, the temps too low
and you got sick with C.

Quiet hands-can man;
The berries went to an old clasp lid jar,
and I poured a heap of sugar over top of them and stirred it around some.
They say six months before you have a fancy liquor like chambord.
but I say it takes a lifetime.

To the classiest guy I know,
Raspberry liquor I toast
To our blood and belonging.