The Long-Awaited (or why I stopped giving myself so much credit)
This very morning I received an email of some significance. It was revealed to me that I shall be the Don of the most glorious 8th floor (in Pond Road, if this is all news to you).
Sooo... I'm in Francoise's old room: keeping the waterstrider legacy alive!
But that's all I know about that.
Yesterday I sat in a coffee bar in some part of Toronto I'd never seen before. These are the mislaid pleasures of my universe.
Yesterday, I sat at a table with the angel of inspiration and the devil of my maybe-future.
Yesterday that devil, who reminds be of my Dad and an old best friend, sat at a table with two envy-worthy poeticals and the devil of his maybe-future.
It was me, the poet who had just read her piece, a drunk with poetic aspirations and no-cofindence, and a more-drunk with crossed eyes and mumbled breaths.
That realization was a heroic plunge-of-sorts, a Dante-dally through the 9th circle and into Lucy's mouth - then the TTC ride home to my greatest friend and (only) lover was my catharsis (that's where the beast's arse is, which I climbed out of and into subway-purgatory).
That was last night.
Everyday or so I do something like that. I go to some part of downtown that I either recognize or don't. I sit in a "cafe" (that's Toronto-speak for "bar/restaurant"). I delight for a moment in the creation of swirls - milk in my coffee, words on my page. Then I listen to a few people who do it for a sort-of-living. There a few full-time poets.
Then I come home and smile as I drift from this waking world into that dreaming one - covered in bed by blankets and bliss, my best friend nuzzled close beside.
I stopped posting because I needed a little time to explore other media. I might do this again for a while.
Sooo... I'm in Francoise's old room: keeping the waterstrider legacy alive!
But that's all I know about that.
Yesterday I sat in a coffee bar in some part of Toronto I'd never seen before. These are the mislaid pleasures of my universe.
Yesterday, I sat at a table with the angel of inspiration and the devil of my maybe-future.
Yesterday that devil, who reminds be of my Dad and an old best friend, sat at a table with two envy-worthy poeticals and the devil of his maybe-future.
It was me, the poet who had just read her piece, a drunk with poetic aspirations and no-cofindence, and a more-drunk with crossed eyes and mumbled breaths.
That realization was a heroic plunge-of-sorts, a Dante-dally through the 9th circle and into Lucy's mouth - then the TTC ride home to my greatest friend and (only) lover was my catharsis (that's where the beast's arse is, which I climbed out of and into subway-purgatory).
That was last night.
Everyday or so I do something like that. I go to some part of downtown that I either recognize or don't. I sit in a "cafe" (that's Toronto-speak for "bar/restaurant"). I delight for a moment in the creation of swirls - milk in my coffee, words on my page. Then I listen to a few people who do it for a sort-of-living. There a few full-time poets.
Then I come home and smile as I drift from this waking world into that dreaming one - covered in bed by blankets and bliss, my best friend nuzzled close beside.
I stopped posting because I needed a little time to explore other media. I might do this again for a while.