Kosher Salt. In my eye.

What I liked about the past 3 days:

A Comprehensive Listing:

• i like that Levon sometimes wipes his boogers on flowers. i like that his curls make my heart sigh and his eyes make me feel comfortably and wonder fully lost. i like holding his sticky Popsicle juice hands. watching his wild dance moves. i like when he has lengthy conversations with me about cats. i like when he squats and u can see the waistline of his big boy underwear. i like when he sings songs about peeing to his "wiener" as he pees, to encourage and praise the pee to come out. i like when he smiles and the world feels like it was made just for him. i like that he thinks the John A MacDonald statue in the park is really a statue of Old MacDonald. i like that he still drools on my thigh. that sometimes he seems to know more about life than i do. i like that we get to be friends.
  
• i like that laying in a field of dandelions makes me feel powerful. i like finding little yellow and orange spiders on my arm, remind me of ordinary miracles. i like that sometimes i find myself eating a hot apple on a hilltop and feeling as if life doesn't get any better. i like that there are moments like this past weekend, that make me feel as if I'm complete.


• i like when people named Al gives me surprise and delicious books that change how i see the my world. i like that when i read a good book i have spirit spasms that my whole body feels.


• i like that my life has been blessed with alot of AMAZING succulent women.


• i like that sometimes eating a mango naked is healing


• i like that blenders are magical. i like that i can put in pineapple and kiwis and grapes. and make juice. i like that i can add rum. and make even better juice.


• i like that fiddle heads are CREAMY and gorgeous. and remind me of eating shrimp. sort of.
• i like that beets taste like the earth's womb. i like that they bleed purple. i like when i "accidentaly" rub beets all over my arm so that i too am purple
• i like that i've been sleep walking lately. i like the places i end up.
  
• i like my mini flower and herb garden that hangs off my fire escape
  
• i like that i looked outside my bedroom window and saw a middle aged woman's naked buttocks. i like that she didnt feel the need to wear underwear with that kilt. i like that her partner decided to spank her on the sidewalk at midnight while making out below


• i like that from my window, i am invisible and can watch creepily. i like that im a border line pervert. but not really. but sort of. i like that thats ok.


• i like that i wake up in the morning next to a very large tomato plant, that my friend Julian gave me from his garden. i like that julian exists. i like his arm full of beautiful and vibrant tattoos. i like that they reflect his equally beautiful and vibrant personality and soul. I like that he notices things i dont. I like that he hates the my gaudy decorative wooden spoon. i like that he loves the earth enough to treat it right. i like that he built an natural eco-shower in his backyard. i like he has a bazillion pets. i like that when we talk, i feel heard.
  
• i like that i can go from being in the heart of kingston, the busy bustle of downtown life, to the middle of farm land, in a matter of minutes. i like that the ferry to wolfe island is a skip away. i like that andrew and i rode our bikes around the island as the sun was setting and explored secret hidden graveyards. i like being around tombstones. alot. i love the power that oozes from the earth. i like the life. i like the promise. i like the comfort. i like that there are stories there i dont know. i like pretending if im quiet enough I'll hear them.


• i like that Andrew and I made homemade pretzels last night and that they were delicious. I like that i fretted all afternoon cause the recipe required a "dutch oven" and i thought it meant i had to actually buy a brand new oven/stove. i like that andrew made me feel better. i like that he had a secret dutch oven under his bed that i didnt know about. i like that he's a better cook than me.


• i like the dinner i made last night: cous cous, with garlic, lemon and cumin. on a bed of fresh spinach. with lightly grilled eggplant, fiddle heads, and red peeper, in olive oil.

i like getting unexpected cards from friends I havnt seen for far too long

• i like that i now have a beer diary. i like that im going to eventually try every bizarre and unusual beer at LCBO and that andrew is going to keep a detailed record of my experience, as well as a detailed rating system.
  
• i like when i smell something good in the air, and then realize it's my own armpits.


• i like that humans can actually drink cat nip, and that its a natural anti-depressant.
  
• i like reading about vitamins while your babies sleep.
  
• i like the feeling i get right before I'm about to go home to the Soo-- i like that over the years, miguel has become part of the family i come home to be with.
• i like my grandma and I's friendship. I like that talking to her feels like chatting playfully with a bestfriend. I like that we have weekly phone dates. i like that she knows all about my life, i know all about hers. I like our conversations. i like when she gigles. i like when she tells me cute stories about her dog moochie. i like that we've ended every phone call with "i love you", since i was a tiny little girl who just learned how to talk.
  
• i even like that i have kosher salt in my eye.

real

There is in my life two distinct worlds-
the "real" word, as they call it
logical, practical, tangible, painful
real, as real gets.
And the "dream world", as I imagine it,
creative, emotional, mystical, strange
surreal as surreal gets.


The second i find home,
the first, i am alien
thrust into
against myself
a foreign space to travel cautiously
with eyes closed, and fists clenched.


I float in, i drift out
between these worlds i find myself
but often
my dreams, are my powerful than my legs
and they carry me further into the imagined
further away from the world you know as real away from the judgment and the jadedness
away into a place where bravery isn't necessary

and doubt isn't possible.

It's hard to stay there,

cause the man keeps bringing me down

down down down

to the space

where they take me down

and steal my mind

corrupt my thoughts

with mindless hate and apathy

with money, with greed, with war

with indifference disguised as comfort

with complacency and the bullshit of "Independence"

These are the shackles

bound to my wrists

my ankles

tying me down down down

to earth

to ground

they can tie me ,

and try to domesticate

train

and strip me

but they can't pillage my dream

they can bind my ankles together

but they can't stop me from dancing

No, they can't tie my spirit down

down down down

cause my spirit -- it wanders

it tip toes fearlessly into the thin spaces

into the thin places

where the real

becomes the surreal

it tip toes into the hard realization

that perhaps one world is enough

perhaps these worlds - the real and the dream

collide.

Yes, they collide.

Maybe what the "real world" needs is a little more imagination

a little more dreamin
a little more heart

A hole,

in the earth

for the surreal to seep through

into the pores

and the veins of a very real world.

maybe dreams weren't ever meant to be something to escape into,

but rather something we use to confront what we're trying to escape from, in the first place.

maybe it's our dream worlds,

that can unshackle our wrists, so we can write boldly against bondage

maybe it's our dream worlds

that untie the rope around our ankles,

so we can walk courageously

into reality, towards freedom

on legs that know and resist

with each step

the tragedy of imprisonment.

Maybe it's dreaming,

that makes the real world

real

after all....

...I often wish beets were big enough to hug

deflated

Is it weird that while I was showering this morning, I caught myself drawing in the steam on the shower doors, a chart that compared the pros and cons of Marxist and Existentialist feminist theories?

Nah...it's gotta to be normal.

P a t

My friend Pat has schizophrenia,

though he'll tell you he's just

crazy.

My friend Pat likes orange juice

without pulp,

and carries all his belongings

on his back

in a pack sack

my mom bought me

in 10th grade.

My friend Pat

has more bruises

than teeth

more cigarette butts in his pocket

than money.

He told me the angels don't talk to him

as much as they use to

anymore

and I believed him,

that they use to.

My friend Pat sleeps under a tree,

at Skeleton Park.

Sometimes I see people step over him,

as if he's just an inconveniently placed

pile of dog shit

and I wonder sometimes,

if that's how he feels

crawled up in his sleeping bag,

waiting for the angels

to speak to him again.

He came to church once,

but left early

because he was having a bad hair day.

He came to dinner

drunk

and read us poetry,

he unfolded from his back pocket

he found it

but there weren't really any words,

he read anyway

and I believed him

I believed the words were real

because he said they were.

My friend Pat,

he'd often speak of Marie

his old lover,

he hasn't seen in years.

I wait for Marie to come home,

wherever home may be,

and though some say she

isn't real,

I pray anyway

for her to come

quickly.

to prove them wrong.

My friend Pat,

he'd come by for a red-rose tea bag,

once a day,

and then another

just to wash his hands.

He'd tell us stories,

about his childhood

and leave abruptly,

after filling us in

on the latest conspiracy theory.

He'd keep his shoes on,

cause he claimed his shoes

were cleaner than his feet were.

He'd fall asleep in our couch,

in the middle of the afternoon,

and hide his books

under our barbie-Q.

My friend Pat,

once said he loved us

and I believed him

because I felt it

even though everyone just says he's crazy.

lesbian nation.

I've spent the last 2 and 1/2 days, locked in the dark isolation of my room, writing about lesbian-feminist separatism of the '60s. Eating easter chocolate and drinking two-day old tea for every meal, and neglecting to shower for the past weekend, i no doubt by now smell and look like the inside of someone's spread butt-cheeks. Though i'm disheveled and hungry now, I'm really going to miss moments and days like these, once I'm not a student anymore. I realized today, that this 30 page paper of goodness was my very last essay that I'd ever write about sexuality for school. Much like the dwindling down of the sixties, I too am dwindling down, and edging towards the turn of a new decade. It makes me already miss weekends like these. Weekends where I have to pull down the blinds in my room, so I won't be teased by the flirtatious sunshine seeping through. Weekends where I leave my desk only to pee. Weekends where the whole world disappeares, pauses even, and all that matters is words on a screen. Words that somehow end up making sense, creating meaning and in the end changing me.
They show up in weird places. like when I'm riding my bicycle for instance- i noticed there was a man on his bike who was going to pass me on the street, and for some reason, i instantly caught myself sizing him up and thinking there will be no revolution, if this man cuts me off. So i sped a head full force, passed him, and for the moment, felt as if i myself had secretly just conquered patriarchy.
the lesbians cheered.
Even though I'm fully aware of the pitfalls of the lofty ideals of lesbian-feminist-separatism, I'm nonetheless deeply entranced by it. There's a big part of me that feels sad for them. Sad that their Utopian never came. Sad that they are always so quickly dismissed as the "wacko crazies" of the women's movement: The demonized man hating dykes. Even though I don't agree with all of their politics, they stood for something. I'm a reckless sucker for idealists, no matter how radical they are, that risk everything to stand for something. I guess a small part of me identified with their desire to separate. Part of me desperately wanted to see it work out-- wanted to see the world they'd re-create. A world they envisioned would be "non-hierarchical", and non-exploitative, both sexually and economically. A world where capitalism would not work, and sexism would not be possible. A world of healing, and interdependency and community. Connection. I guess i see myself fighting for the same type of world. and so, that's why i cried a little, when I had to write about how the lesbian-separatist communes crumbled.
I felt strangely connected to the frustration and jadedness they must have felt. I felt oddly connected to their warrior calls for change. In a weird way, pouring over their manifestos, and journals, minutes and memoirs, I felt as if I was tapping into the history of my own. and in a way i was. My identity as a feminist now, is so deeply bound to and implicated by these women from the past. In understanding them, I somehow began to understand more about myself, despite how different we are. I am not suggesting that I'm going to run off into the rural landscapes of Ontario and start a lesbian commune, but I'm saying, we can learn alot from the "crazies" who did. I wish more people lived boldly and radically for what they believed in, even at the cost of a sane social reputation. I wish more people lived with same reckless and wild passion.