Dawn's Interesting Definition for the Day

Botox: An exchange of cellulite between the depressed and the truly twisted.

Spit and Apples

Oh, afternoons.

The bright sun belied the crisp of leaves, and slight breeze, as we lay the blanket amongst the trees. Strangely, I was unafraid, despite how intensely you were staring at me, smiling. Of course I was unafraid: it was you, and I had no need to fear you, despite your quiet, and mine.

You kept saying, "You know, I've never really been on a picnic before. This is almost surreal."

I laughed, and said you could not possibly be Canadian, never having been on a picnic with a woman before. You said that no one had thought it a good, valuable use of time. I sniffed, somewhat contemptuously, at the idea of someone being so pompous. Life is not complete with at least one picnic in one's life, particularly if one appreciates the simple perfection of feeding food to another person, savouring a swirl of wine on the tongue - with enough time to taste the one lovely glass of it, which accompanies the decency of a good meal - or something. (I tend to elongate, when I try to summarize what I thought at a given moment. I think in layers, and it gets difficult, particularly when you smell like strong sandalwood soap, which I adore, of course...)

I remember you said that you thought that cheese, bread and apples had never tasted quite so exquisite, as I fed them to you, but you kept rubbing your face against my leg, so I kept having difficulty getting the food into you, which was terribly frustrating, although it left me tingly, as I recall....I sigh.

In any case, I said I wanted you to tell me why you thought I was interesting, after all was said and done, and you got this funny smile on your face, when I said that I found it odd, considering what perfect specimens of womanhood with which you were constantly surrounded. I wasn't being mocking, or jealous, when I said it, either, as you know - which I think is a terrible waste of time, like being petty - just rather introspective, since I am not particularly stunning, physically, although I have some decent qualities, and my chest is still fairly decent, at 45 - which takes some work, and a small investment fund in good support bras, frankly.

Then I said I loved your hair, because you looked like John Lennon, and it made me want to roll us both up in the blanket and fall asleep, after some major exercise, as long as we were naked, and it didn't get too cold outside, that night. Also, I was somewhat worried that a dog might come and pee on us, for some strange reason, which I think ruined the romance of the moment, although you spit out your apples, and wine came out your nose, for a full five minutes after I said it, while you laughed and tried not to choke. I had to pat you on the back, and I got quite concerned, when your face started changing colour, although I really would not have minded giving you mouth to mouth, as long as you didn't try and bird share your chewed apple with me, which probably would have made me feel rather sick. (Some things are meant for one person to savour, and discuss with someone else. It's like sharing gum you've picked off the road; there's a reason your mother warns you not to do it, after all. It turnes out it's a little nasty, darling. Ech.)

Anyway...where was I? Right; apples spewing. When you had recovered from humourously regurgitating at a particularly awe inspiring moment of possible dramatic necking, etc., in which we did not engage at that particular moment, because you said you thought a bit of throw up had become lodged in your throat, which I thought might have ruined it, somewhat, despite me dying to, after all....well, then, you sighed, heavily, with tears in your eyes, and said..."Oh, ask me another time." (You were still trying to breathe.)

I said I would, and I mean to, one day soon.

Scrubs for Peace

Azure and agile, spark and murmuring silently, muse and moment,
Only speak.
Speak, and there will be a movement, here, in my quiet, that I have hidden,
Kept safe, guarded and shielded
Against Death.
Held here, in the ink of night, ink of heart, ink of flame and of flower,
It has watered the garden of forget, the blossom of try, and the field of hope.
It has danced, when my feet could not, dragging, like the awkward placement
of Me
in My own life.
I feel I intrude, somehow, without you.
See, here! Here is this small mountain, raised towards your hand. It is a proud breast, this.
Strange, how skin is current, then, after all.
Strange, this soft sweet now, and warm, and breathe,
When all the earth is shrieking with
Permutations of its Own Agony.
I want it to Heal Itself.
Circle's half, here is my piece; hold my hand.
We'll not know who is Assisting.
It's Irrelevant.

Self Defence

"What do I look like, a pussy?", he said, glowering.

She paused - as was her wont - thoughtfully, pursing her lips, and narrowing her eyes at him.
The words, when they rolled softly from her lips, were punctuated by perfectly enunciated consonants.

"Well", she mused, "my only other alternative was asshole, and it seemed rather rude, frankly."

Three people, struggling mightily to control their sudden coughing, left the room, as the door clicked loudly behind them. A muffled kind of strangled sound - rather like screaming laughter and choking - sounded from the hallway.

She smiled at him, fondly.

Brevity.

"What do you dream?" he said, softly.

"You", she said, quietly.

"Why?" he said, gently.

"Because" she answered slowly.

"Often?" he said, hesitantly.

"Enough, and always", she said, honestly.

"Is it good?" he asked.

"The best", she said.

"Do I wait?" he said.

"Unbelievably", she said.

"That's good", he said.

"I know", she said.

He smiled.

"Like life", he said.

She smiled.

"Now", she said, and kissed him.

A.I. Make Up, and self realization

What is this instant, sheen-like spin, that settles around my mind like vibrating protons
Urging blood flow, within the sphere that is my imagination's cortex?
I would say bees, but they are nothing, and everything, like electron mix
Of next, coaching towards Total Self, and Other Self, and Half.

Mad science, when pressed; yet not anything I am prior, only yet.
If air move dance is yet, and perhaps pause is then, then now can only be sigh possible
Hitting Matter.
Oh, then, Reaction is Opposite, and Equal, Truly, madly, Deeply:

Vortex, born Star, Genesis, and Shangri-La of Touch and imprint, and Mac.

Dent Progress

If I press my hand against your cheek, a remembrance of my body imprints, momentarily, upon your skin, and then you become yourself again.
I am just a momentary dent, in the beingness of your body, springing back into itself.
How different, my soul, when I softly open myself to your murmuring exploring,
And all that is new and wonderful about joining, and searching, and striving for more than dent - to closed eyes, to opened eyes, to staring, breathing
Straight stare, total tremble, at once, while so, at gaze staring back -
Is in the sigh, that always waits
For mine.

My New EBIKE!

Top speed, 32 miles an hour, Dawn sits astride her brand new e-bike (a prize won at work), excitedly strapping on her new helmet in the dark, so that none of the neighbours see her introductory ride...

Good thing, too: as she hits the pedals to initiate the brakes (which aren't located there, of course, as she remembered them being, on the bicycle on which she first began to ride) before actually going anywhere, panicking, she squeezes the ride hand control...which also happens to be the accelerator - how surprising! - slamming into the driveway railroad tie, and ingloriously managing to fall over, as the bike shoots towards the neighbour's porch, without her on it, rather like a sailing hand held car - without the remote.

Somewhat predictably, it moves amazingly faster, without an actual body on it. (Cough.) The body sits blinking rather awkwardly on the asphalt, looking decidedly relieved that the very first attempt at learning the controls - without an actual manual, with all visible directions in Korean symbols, on the actual bike - occur in the dark, without anyone actually seeing......

Three tours around the neighbourhood, after learning where the headlights and the horn are, and not mixing them up, finally, along with a worn down battery later, she also discovers that there is no reverse, and that speeding up while going around a corner can result in a Flintstone like-movement which causes foot dragging and a small amount of swearing, in order to avoid flying into a car or a sign. Also, sticking both feet straight out, like the flying nun, does not, contrary to the balance of physics philosophy, make things steadier, but it does cause both a windshift and a shimmy while heading towards the side of a barn. Again, experimentation in the dark is a blessed thing, and no actual collisions occur, as the finite aspects of learning where the controls are, and discovering the joy of small circles instead of reverse, becomes a learned, and precious dance movement on wheels.

Hurrah to ebikes! I think I'll like this.....wink. Ah, the speeding wind through the hair, mashed underneath my beanie!! Is this what the Model T felt like, as the scarf flew through the wind...? Be still my heart! (I think I came close to losing it, when I stopped jamming the pedals backwards to stop....grin.)

Oh, in Autumn

Oh, in autumn, when the leaves are painted with impending sleep
To brighten the sky, before the world draws in upon itself,
And Winter blankets all with a cool pause,
There is still time for crisp apple's juice, blinking stars,
and rose-cheeked smiles, amidst summer's plenty,
As we stroll down these quiet country ways,
Clasping hands among the trees,
Murmuring to each other of yesterday's youth,
And not minding its
Rebirth.

The Day after Your Birthday.

"What exactly gives you impetus?" He said the words softly to her, but the quizzical look was genuine, and urgent.

She breathed quietly, drew her lip up over her teeth, sucked in the offending lip briefly, narrowed her eyes, and stared up at him. He was standing over her, shifting slightly awkwardly from one foot to another. She thought he looked slightly like he was waiting to receive detention. She smiled, and he stopped shifting from one foot to another, smiling back at her.

"Your ass", she said, blinking at him. He coughed, suddenly. "It's a perfect personality." He blew air out of his nose suddenly, expecting pith and profundity, and receiving an example of it, wondered at its simplicity.

HAPPY 45th BIRTHDAY, CHARLIE

September 2, 2009

Well, I was going to write a poem today, in celebration, but I kept seeing these little blurbs on all of the rag mag pages..."What do you think of Keanu Reeves?", to the point that I was moved to paragraph: an infrequent, if enjoyed, stylistic stretch.

So..."What do I think of Keanu Reeves", on this, his 45th birthday?

Hmm...


Here is effort and success, in the face of fits and starts: indeed, in spite of them.

Here is respect for craft, sincere submission to the progression of it, in one's self, and a genuine love of challenge within its confines. It is a lack of fear, and a striving, within its midst, and amongst its practitioners.

Here is compassion, and encouragement, and appreciation, having achieved a level of success, and this same combination of states of mind, within one's own sphere of being, for others'- without patronizing them, or minimizing them, or characterizing their own striving, their own evaluations, and valuations of their own work, as unimportant. Here is true comaraderie, and trust, when exploring, creatively, from another, as a result of that implicit, and noted, respect. Here is real regard, and sharing, as its reward.

Here is passion, restrained, and ardour, controlled, to just such an extent that it is a part of vitality, and effort, and need, extended - and becomes a sense of, (in connecting with that sense of being, in the face of Death, and Loss, and Pain,) its defiant excitement.

Here is Quiet Admission, and Wildness, in sync, meeting its Other in Places, and Faces, and Moments, and its gentle protection of them, in a personal, and loving way.

Here is the Coolest of Breath, in the Heat of Life, and Love.

Here is Keanu.


----------
Happy Birthday, Charlie. Many more, filled with all of this, and more, is what I wish for you, on this day.

xo

Cloud Busting

A streak across the ink...it is breath, there in the blackness of night canopy;
Breath - when you spoke a moment so near my neck that
The hair stood on end, straining nearer to your lips:
Fast cilia, waving, and sighing....so fine that
Shadow suggestion made my
Skin
Quiver, in its
Wake.
And then, the earth turned....was turned.
Suddenness, and I had
Taken Your Breath for
Mine,
with just a glimmer and Twinkle in my Eyes
For Comfort, amidst the
Pure Jewry.

Chevalier

In this strange moment of victory,
Vetted pit of animalia discovered,
Amidst the viciousness of vile and venom,
When I cannot celebrate, only vomit, and I turn to you, my darling,
For a kind of sanity,
Remind me, with quiet depth and rumble,
That I am feeling, still; am loved, am something other than
Some wild animal, bared teeth, wild eyes flashing,
Seeking prey,
For the squirming innocence of birthed filth that will be
Our reminder of
Nature's error.

Ambrosia Latina

See that star, love?
In this ink black night, when jewels adorn the sky that is this blanket, keeping,
It blinks, and, sending twinkle on twinkle on twinkle
Waves for me, washing, separates space into moment.
Perhaps this quiet touch, soft as liquid ambrosia reaching for your lips,
With trailing fingers painting,
Languid, lingering, limbering, (in measure, for oak's aged finest)
Will speak what I might, in my absence, caressing,
And, eyes closed, swirl and dance in the glass,
Like warm honey on a liquid night of
Bees knees, whispers and
Christmas sighs,
Suddenly there.

Inverted First and Last, Steamed and Sauteed.

This could be the first time I have tasted.
Before, the food, like the movements I made, filled space.
The space was me, before you: a void, with lined curves and spaces covered with something alive that made a white spot, when you pressed it hard, seeking pain.
It was an absent reaction, that; a kind of spasm protesting a state of prefrozen fish packets, with freezer burn.
Funny: I never thought of myself as a frozen dinner foil packet, stored too long somewhere...
All shrunken peas, like small heads, glaring out, balefully, and horrid dried flaked bits of chemical potato slices, jammed in, for something akin to a lack of boredom, ice crystals glazing the whole mess, with congealed gelled sauce of mystery meat eyeballs dumped over the whole thing, like some angry food processing plant workers' finger painting.
No wonder I worked nights, ate chicken sandwiches, dreaming of nicoise, and rammed cabbage salads down my throat with green tea for two years, until I shed the other self I grew around me, because I was so startled at it all.
It was very strange, stepping out of myself, and all that baggage of loss and agony.

There you were....with a beard, and everyone shocked at facial hair, which made me feel safe. How can you possibly explain something that silly to anyone, while I was becoming a less supersized version of myself? I cannot explain being shocked at my own timidity...you'll have to, for me, oh Thespian Mine. I'm still afraid I'll dislodge something, if I do it.

Now? Well....now I search in vain to add to my collection of Butter Cookie and Caramel spray cologne, thinking myself some kind of freak dessert, like a wild raspberry tart for Sunday tea.
I may even design a whipped cream beret, and flaunt it, while driving the new EggMobile down Main Street, daring myself to try out the electric windows again: Ms. Creme Caramel, grooving to George Clinton and varying versions of "Peg" blasting out of the windows at three a.m, as I careen down the road....sadly, the dog died two years ago, otherwise the picture might have almost been pastoral, except for the still-perpetually shocked farmers, the electrified funk and acid jazz wafting out of the raising and lowering glass, and the secret way I have of keeping time with internal technological devices with which I have recently become adept. I pretend they're very small flip tambourines.

I've only just graduated beyond Amish roll up window status, after all, and I am the only person I know who is still fascinated for minutes at a time with the fact that I have windshield wipers on both ends of my car...it's an odd thing to explain at parties... this wild positional cleanliness. (I feel I must qualify this, and roar loudly, lest my shattered reputation be further mutated into truly decent, newsworthy, rag mag tart status.)
It makes me feel wild, like ...oh...I don't know:finding a hotter Szechwan sauce, just to see whose eyes will tear up first - knowing I'll win, of course. It's the same with horseradish, so you really should just give up now, and accept it calmly, with suitable male grace. You won't though; you'll make me eat suicide wings until I can't breathe, and try and kiss me at the same time, you beast. And me attempting controlled weight! Ah, life; ah, struggle...ah...lip locking in mid-tingle burn.

I, contrarily, am the only person I know who promises a complete body cleanse with every meal consumed. It's become a very odd source of pride, like in Homemakers, or something...I fear you're laughing, now, in the doubly funny way you have of doing nothing, and exploding inside, retaining gas, until your ears feel like they're going to blow out, so no one knows you're roaring inside.
I worry for your arteries, frankly.

Oh....cook me stir fry, and eat butterscotch sauce off of my navel, till you make me yell, and we'll call it a day, you darling, darling wonder in my life. How I adore you.
I'll even be the Cherry on top, if you promise not to throw financial reports at me.

Seasoning

I am of spring, of flowers, and growing things, and possibility, budding green of shoots and yawning, bursting out of the sleepy earth;
I am of fall, in crisp golds and greens; olives and burgundies, and all good celebrations of good work and plenty like honey and rose noses on a crisp afternoon of favourite sweaters and kisses, feeding each other with crunches of bread, sweet onion soup, apple juicy slices on warm tongues, and sharp wine nectar;
I am of winter, when ice fire and mellow fire mix and gleam in candle's glow,
and all good things and good loves, and goodness, find their Noel magic;
I am of summer, when hot sweet moments dive in water's comfort, refreshed,
and gleam with bronzed summer sun on hot sweat skin, when lips meet, and youth is reminded of itself, in the torpid twirls of passion and rhythm, on a fevered night.

I am all these things, and more, to you; and I have seen them, reflected, and known, somewhere,
the circle's match, and measure, and May, in the Deep Quiet and Flicker there.

Dawn Nevills, August 15, 2009