camping with carlo rossi:
in which our heroine finds a leech on her ankle and gets falling-down drunk with Tracey at Namekus Lake.

in the consuming dark
I lose both
balance and shoe

tentscape plurality
bodies insulated
possessions encapsulated

carlo
we bested you
you laughed last

when gods awake
they must have
coffee, bacon

oh, duplicitous day
sun-obscuring grey
no match for she-wolves

now it's done
everything points south
for girls and geese

It's exhausting,

this business of feeling and not feeling. Feeling enough to be alive and to know it; not feeling so much that you bleed all over the fucking office and your unwitting colleagues are slipping and sliding in the mess, banging their shins on desk edges as they try to get out of the way.

Day, I love you

This is the kind of day that wants to be acknowledged. Hell, it was practically fishing for compliments from the get-go. Awright, awright.

Ahem.

Hey, Day! Right arm, buddy. You rocked out there. But seriously, thanks for the details -

the handfuls of silty sludge perfect for sand-lair building at cranberry flats (I said it was the beachfront mansion of the brokenhearted vampire - Kody said it was our fabulous Mexican fantasy home. Then I photographed him gleefully smashing it);

an 8-year-old voice piping up from the backseat: 'dude, this is really the perfect beach music!' (CSNY - Suite: Judy Blue Eyes, of course);

the freezing river rushing past my shocked flesh and into the city where pelicans jab it expertly for fish.

It was all beautiful. And I'm not just saying that because it was maybe the last day of unabashed summer frolicking before the long, serious winter sets in and new realities reveal all their fangs and scaley bits.

Chestnut brown canary
ruby throated sparrow
sing a song
don't be long
thrill me to the marrow

caution!

You may have had two punk bands sleeping at your house if you find:

a can of chili
mennen speed stick (musk)
a black sock behind the couch
a spiked leather bracelet
toothpaste that is not yours
the smell of tobacco, testosterone and anarchy in the porch

Thanks for folding your blankets and leaving the nice note, fellas. Everyone said, "Oh my God, you're letting a bunch of hooligans stay in your little domicile? Whatever are you thinking?" But it was fine. It wasn't them that stole my shit. It was some other window-smashing little fuck.

But I'm over it. I learned plenty. Don't leave shit in the van. And back things up.

PollyAnna over and out.

haikus du jour

blue hearse -
yellow-slickered driver
fondles moustache

this morning
catshit on the floor
smells of melancholy

weep for me

Once upon a time, I cracked open a fresh new line of credit to buy a laptop. I knew that in the years to come, it would deliver my first GCN*, bear witness to genius home recordings, and tuck into its bosom tokens of a life I love - photos and words.

Today, someone** stole it.

So, watch the web for my real diary. Yikes.



*great Canadian novel
**an asshole

a moving tale

I confess to my friend (we'll call him Mr. Smarty Pants) that my new roommate is, in fact, my ex. (See dating chronicles 1 through 5)

friend: Well, that's a disaster.

me: I suppose so. But he's got a table.

f: So I could have my table back?

m: Yeah, and he bakes really good muffins.

f: I see. You are completely deluded.

m: Well, we're all platonic and stuff now, so it'll be totally fine, and he's met someone else already, and incidentally she's young enough to be my, you know, niece or something, and I have totally moved on... Who's your new roomate going to be?

f: This girl I met three days ago. We're in love. She's dropping out of school and moving here from Burundi to be with me.

m: Aw, that's awesome.

Also, this:

I'll be leaving for Indonesia in 2 weeks.

What, didn't I tell you? It's going to be difficult, and weird, and good.

I'm going to Banda Aceh and a few other areas that were smashed to bits by the tsunami last year. A volunteer organization is sending a bunch of us to find out how the rebuilding effort is going.

I'll be posting my culture-shocked observations to http://www.bitlink.ca/mccs/ when I can, during the 2 and a half weeks that I'm there.

When I come back, I expect to be thoroughly ass-kicked, having observed real struggle. So, no bug up my ass, but maybe a parasite up my colon. I'll also be broke or at least badly bent.

This has been a shake-up summer, my darlings. I've seen thousand-year-old rock paintings and heard heart-breaking songs by a South African genius. I've dumped a canoe into damned cold water. I've changed a diaper. I've run 10 k without puking my guts out. I've let my heart be alternately eviscerated and coated in honey.

It's been a year since I donned cougar ears. Have I learned anything? I have my doubts.

It was the loveliest shitty time ever.

It rained and rained - and cold? Jesus, there weren't enough fleece pants in the world to keep us warm.

But we laughed and yelled and made like crazy amazons on the Churchill river for 5 days, and there was no way to repress our delight. That's the honest-to-god truth.

I was sent on this all-women canoe trip with my guitar as a campfire song catalyst. It worked - you couldn't shut these ladies up. From goddamn 'one tin soldier' to kumbaya (I shit you not) to all their favourite Simon and Garfunkle tunes, they just wanted to sing and sing. We sang while we paddled, we sang while we made supper in the rain, huddled around a woefully inadequate cooking fire.

Day by day, the bullshit ebbed away until just the essentials were left - humour, hard work and curiosity.

But how in the name of Artemis do I get that here, under my mask of makeup and civility?