I'm never going to sleep tonight

My brain is crazy. My heart is crazier. Full, so full.
Yesterday was my birthday. I'm 31.
I didn't think I would make it. But I did. With the help of so many friends, good friends and family, people who listened and let me founder, who offered a hand when I stumbled, who took me out for movies and wontons and pints of beer. People who make my life full and beautiful.
People like you, Gentle Reader, who read and give value to my voice in times when I do not.
So thank you, friends.
Here's to 31 more years. At least.

poached pears

Maiko invited us over for dinner. John, Benjamin, Maiko and me.

She cooked chicken, rice and roasted vegetables. She refused to let our wine glasses sit empty. John and Benjamin told us the sad story of putting Zelda to sleep. I laughed and cried and we remembered our dogs and the roles they have played in our lives. And the roles this dearly departed canines still play – returning to us in our dreams, energetically populating our apartments in ways we've never imagined.

I made poached pears for dessert from a recipe book Jamie gave me. Skinless pears poached in red wine and spices. They come out deep burgundy, steaming, moist. And then, when you cut into the pear with the side of your spoon: translucent white flesh. Like a person inside out.

And the flavour: there is so much going on in one bite. Sweet and tart, spicy and red... deep deep red.

These are the times.

joke's on me

So I was just sitting here reading Maiko's blog and thinking – wishing really – that someone would send me an email. A personal note. Some kind of proof that at this moment, out there, somewhere, someone is thinking about me. Isn't that what we all want. Reassurance that we are not (and will not be) forgotten.

Then I flip back to email to check if someone – anyone – has emailed me. OH! OH! OH! The thinking bar is flashing blue, a message is coming through. What could it be? Who is it from?

junk mail

So the joke is on me. I was being greedy. I have my lovers. They don't have to tell me. I just know who they are.

spinning

like a top
my head
hair on end
the world a blur in front of my nose
unmelted snowflake
cold against freckles
that are actually sun damage
and never used to be there before

these calluses never used to be here
before

i lost the poem i wrote about
the fence and the apology
about
the flowers and the snow

it'll turn up

snow

The flakes are so big that they cast shadows.
A shadow play of snow in the alley.
Maiko and I walking arm in arm, the boys chatting behind us.
Look look look! we shout.
They are not impressed.

It doesn't take long for a drift to form on my turquoise tam
(imported from Flin Flon MB)
A snowflake lands on my nose.
I leave it there.
They don't so much fall as float down to us.
Filling the sky.
Padding the streets.
Slowing down and muting the city.
It never snows like this in Calgary.

Home now I've turned up the heat.
My tam dries on the rack.
A cup of tea.
Pyjamas.
And then sleep.
And dreams of snow.

A huge improvement upon the dreams of last night: me planning conferences. I am so very used to sleeping alone that one other body has the impact of a convention. A pleasurable, joyful convention. With lots of balloons and free food and drink. But busy and full. "Just rest," I tell myself, "you don't need to sleep. Just rest." (But don't feel bad, because I do rest and the recharge is slightly different, a different power source we're hooking into.)

I covet the memory foam pillows.
one day... one day...