Carolime Time

most of the time, i;ve looked at her with envy. i blow her off in a fit of spite, while admiring her from the corner of my eye. she’s everything i;ve wanted to be she’s everything im not. she does all the things i wish i could do, says all the things i’ve been unable to put into words. She has me rapt not with love or affection but with shock and jealousy. i used to hate her cause i was nothing like her for she was everythoing i wished i could be. the way she looked at the sky, the way her footsteps made a sound, the way she walked with direction, making heads turn from all corners and in all angles. the first time i saw her, i watched her. she watched me, too. we looked at each other knowing that we could either be the best of friends or the worst of enemies. she was my greatest competition at my prime, but i soon fell to the wayside, her longing spectator never asking for the time of day from her, i lost track of my schedule and soon lived by hers.
i’ve seen her grow, and even when she fell, her bruises made her beautiful. in fact she came out stronger, and i faltered in her shadow. i have taken from her and i’ll admit this…i need her. she has thickened my quest for survival, birthed and hardened my fearlessness and brought me back to life after being pronounced dead on arrival. i live for the day that she will notice me and learn from me.  till then, she is the force that lies behind my meager efforts at existence.

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God, I miss writing for the love of it. I never make the time these days, not even to write to myself. And when I do write to myself, they’re mangled indulgences text messaged to myself, often observations, regularly my internal conflicts. I am not emotionally nor mentally numbed, no, but I channel it… Read the rest of this entry »

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A poem

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blank board splintered on the side of the road sticking a nail out, departed from the thumb shouting for space on an already-hitched ride, stop. sitting on a discarded log left dried to the side, rising hurriedly at the roar of an engine. life passes by, shiny and new. slows down, backs up, rolls down a window. behind tinted glass, an eye, no, a shade peeks out, assessing the situation and the circumstances. can i step in? is there space in your trunk for a spare piece of me? a blank board? sand me down, shape me up, make me like new, paint me up, i’d look best in red, glossy. thrown in, gratefully amid peers, semblance of life and others that look exactly the same, in other shades of cherry, red, tomato, burnt in the heat to a brown, dried crust of blood, hanging from a nail, sticking out from a trunk of life, passing by.

thought skimping, be kind to me, i’m trying to catch up

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I have learned to love a man. The hard way. Born beside, inside, I wore his clothes and bore his bruises. I followed his rules and knew my role. Played a different game, trained my voice not to be the same, I crossed my legs when told and appeared warm when cold. I stayed fragile. Protected my bones and lowered my voice. Squealed in fear and left the bugs to crawl. I wanted to dig my fingers into the soft, muted ground, feel the dirt in my nails, wash my hands and find a trace of brown in the pathways of my palms. I wanted to wrestle in the basement, be thrown onto the hard, cemented floor and rise with all my anger. I watched from behind a hard plastic window as you triumphed, I sipped hot chocolate in your midst, I glowered in your shadow. I raced home with the girls and watched children at play from my window. I have learned to love a man. Twirled the frocks of dolls, tightened my belt. Held my shoulders up, perked my chest out. Fluffed my dresses, blended colour into my skin, put their arms around me and smiled uneasily, uncomfortably, unsurely, awkwardly, with nothing to say, I stood and pulled his arm around my neck until his hand dropped on my flat, untilled breast. I was mortified. Beyond belief, I went forward. I shed your scabs and came out clean. I bought tight pants and put away the loose jeans. My clothing clung to my waist and I folded my arms across my chest, tucked my hands into my pockets, hunched my shoulders till I showed. I looked at them all and I liked them all because I liked none of them, I could never choose one because to me, they were none. Instead I peered secretly at the ones that walked in late, I stole stares at their hair and looked for them when they weren’t there. I thought I just admired them for what I wasn’t, and watched them for what I could be. I definitely became it all. I have learned to love a man. I have chosen one that takes a long time to get ready, loves to dress up, puts more time into his hair than me. One whose voice is high pitched, giggles, lets me cradle him in my arms. I love a man.

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We went on a little bit of a Sunday adventure today. I introduced a dear friend to the Distillery section of Toronto, and came across a Scotsman along the way. This friend is a bit anti-social and I like to surprise him with all the little tidbits of the city he hasn’t been exposed to. I like taking part in someone else’s discovery, and I especially enjoy watching his expressions of delight when happening upon something new. Luckily, the weather was friendly to us and our whole day was blessed with that crisp autumn air that I favour so.

We met at the corner of Yonge and College and hailed a cab. I sorta jumped out of this particular cab’s way as it came damn near careening in my direction. I do think it was speeding, and the whole ride sorta sped past us in a haze. Honestly, I’ve grown used to talking to Toronto cab drivers and homeless people and all those other ‘characters’ you meet in a city, on a bus or at a bar. You know the ones I’m talking about, with the painful and similarly curious stories you carry around with you the rest of the day and reference when you think of every indigenous native’s plight and every new immigrant’s struggle. I know; we all have our stories.

Anyway, this cab driver was a wrinkled, rosy-faced Scotsman. In fact, he referred to himself as ‘The Scotsman’ on his business card, which matched the red tweed print of his hat. I don’t know how he managed it, but he finagled a conversation out of me! (ha ha?) He started telling me how he quit drinking 30years before, and I found myself sympathizing with him, throwing in my own family associations with alcoholism. At the same time, I wondered why he’d confide in me so easily.

He was quite the talker, and moved into less personal talk. One story just led to another, and eventually he was telling me about his marvelous life as a confectioner of chocolates, and how he spent his youth going dancing and wooing the ladies with his chocolate-making skills. I really did feel like I was sitting at my grandfather’s knees, pushing him to tell me more. And I imagined this Scotsman from Glasgow, spinning young lasses in frocks around a dance floor, plucking his suspenders as he flirted with them and boasted of the different éclairs he could make with fresh cream. Yes, I did ask him if he regularly had fresh Devon cream with hot scones and jam!!! (I’ve never tried this and really want to) Apparently, in apology for a drunken spat at the fish and chips shop following a night of intoxicated Glasgow partying, he once traded a pound of chocolates for five pieces of fish from the lady of the shop. It was apparently the source of laughter for all his friends. Yes, before I knew it, we’d arrived at 55 Mill St. and the bricked pathways of the Distillery. It was at this point that he slipped us the business cards and I tucked it away in the safest place I could find in my wallet. Next time I’m lonely, I want to go for a drive with the Scotsman. We hopped out of the cab and my friend just shook his head at me, ‘cause of course, I’m a sucker for storytellers and characters.

For those of you who haven’t been to the Distillery Historic District, it’s an enclosed area just south of Front St. and east of Parliament, in Toronto. It is known as the Distillery District because of the grand Gooderham and Worts whiskey distillery and mill that once contributed hugely to Canadian industry. A couple of years ago, this was my favorite area of Toronto. It is great for tourists and taking friends for a short history lesson and stroll through a less-accessible side of Toronto. Less accessible only because it’s not on the subway line and not near many regularly visited sights. I’ve always liked the late Victorian-era architecture and small laneways. The Distillery is never too busy (unless you’re heading there for Nuit Blanche), and very accommodating to the common spendthrift. I can’t promise much activity, though. There are a number of theatres, including the ever-active Soulpepper Theatre and Young Centre For the Performing Arts. Cute cafes, restaurants and shops pour onto the pathways. The reason for my visit on this day? The Boiler House Restaurant! A review of this restaurant is to follow:)

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I wear a body that does not look like me. the only thing that matches is my skin with its pigment, and my hair with its roots. i look at things from the inside out and i touch that which is soft, and sink my fingers into flesh, that welcoming, engulfing sensation–so that I cannot return.

i am back, i am back.

and i am touching rough again, calloused and faded, i am touching burns and shadows, can’t put my finger on it so I trace lines i won’t cross, i’ve simply tread along the edges, tiptoeing along the truth.

my hands are searching for responses, so i grasp the first thing i can hold onto for dear life. and i ask if it hurts, tell me if it hurts when i hold you. i shouldn’t have to ask.

I wake up with a start, to eyes, staring at me curiously. They are his, and i am his.
“What?”
“You were moaning in your sleep”
“i was having a nightmare”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
No, I scream.
I turn away and close my eyes, willing my nightmare to return. I’ve been having dreams,
but i tell him they’re nightmares.

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be still..it is a mirage, it is misleading, it stands in your way and you, you must be the force behind your actions. you must stand in the clear, of a desert, with no such thing as walking distance, you must conserve your last sip so that you may survive, and walk fiercely into the sun. there will be more. there will be others, there will be such grandeur that your cup will never run dry again, your lips will never drop petals, and your throat will never grate and rattle and shake and lose weight. you will be more. you will see it all. your eyes will squint at the first look. it will hurt, you will be weary, but you will adjust. you will see colours like never before. they will appear as daubs of paint, from an artist’s sword, and you will take shape, to never again be depicted in black and white. for you will be seen. and your cup will spill over.

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The trains are each arriving,
one by one, they part ways with my eyes,
we drag them along not looking too far,
I wait for the smoke and I watch for the grind,
I expect a stop and sudden halt,
I wonder who it is this time
and if they’ll write about it in the news,
but they never really do,
so I’ll make faces at those who pass
and never know where they’ll arrive,
I brush shoulders with zombies
and it’s a circle of retreat,
they each come back
to be consumed by time
and make the same rounds.
An officer dives and I realize
the rest of us have survived,
while he’s watched our demise,
day by day he stands there,
pushing us along,
sometimes jamming us in so tight
that we can smell each others breakfast,
other times muttering things over airwaves,
knowing none of us listen, sure that none of us can hear,
they could tell me I’m going to come back to life
if I leave
and I wouldn’t bat an ear.
are you singing us your death song, sir?
what’s that you said? i didn’t quite hear
We each crunch pages
and grunt at the slightest touch,
narrowed looks of disdain
mark our way,
don’t stop walking, don’t stop walking,
if you dare I’ll shake my head and drop a groan.
I’m walking too close to the edge of the tracks,
I wonder if today I’ll fall
and if so, who’s going to take the blame,
there are too many people.
So I stand as close as possible and think,
maybe today’s the day,
but once again that swift breeze comes
and catches me offguard, so that my fair hair
brushes my face
and my eyes close,
till the doors open
and I’ve entered the world.

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Every so often, I am propelled by the churning in my stomach. It is a fusion of bile and butterflies that makes me rush from the comfort of my back against my bed and write. It is the emerald green flush that follows the downpour and violence of pounding concrete on my ears, the hopscotch roofs with one leg pointing upwards, tiled along the streets, upon which i walk hand in hand with my muse. It is the safety I look forward to and to which i hold tight. the sound is always so close that i can hear it lurking behind the doors we pass. we walk faster, taking turns on each others shoulders as we make haste. i am getting tired of running, and the impalpable is growing tired of trying to keep up with me. i am sorry for taking you everywhere i go.

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