Sunday Morning in Kensington

I ate my entire breakfast. Four buttered halves of some compact and perfectly-square loaf of commercially-baked whole wheat bread, two small round pieces of peameal bacon, three over easy eggs, and a nice mixed green salad with a light vinaigrette which I sprinkled with siracha sauce. I sat there and ate my Sunday morning post-Saturday night much needed comfort meal at KOS in Kensington as couple number one arrived and couple number two arrived and couple number one left and couple number two left. I sat there with my book and my breakfast and blankly but contentedly ate the whole thing. It was good. Then I took my coffee and paid my bill and sat on the patio in the warm Autumn wind and drank my coffee and took a photo of the red and yellow and orange leaves that had fallen from the trees overhead and had gathered into a pretty pile against the brick wall. It was nice. Then the rest of the world began to wake up and invasively dot the peaceful landscape. So it was time for me to go.





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Micro-fiction 12: The Muse

Coffee breath, whisky breath. Long, dirty fingernails. Bushy beard and moustache. Untrimmed nose hairs, untrimmed ear hairs. Ghastly skinny, he forgets to eat but not to drink. He is unkempt and indifferent. He is a genius, a prodigy. They’ll see! He creates, he truly exists. Anything else is unquestionably irrelevant. He is not gross, not disgusting, not even strange! He is dedicated, he is obscenely focussed, he is proflific. He is mixing oils and having visions and existing in a quixotic place, far and distant. I lie prone, naked, perfectly still, mind dreamy, heart heavy. He is God. They’ll see!

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Protégé : Unfinished

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Indian Summer

It waited for me the rain this morning I told him yesterday I am going for a walk in the rain at dawn you are welcome to join me. And in my first few steps fell the first few drops and then more and then harder. In the first few minutes, fully-formed streams flowed beneath my feet that’s how hard the rain fell. Big drops from trees and the smattering of smaller drops on my umbrella it was exactly like the sound of fireworks. But closer, blunter, the sound of mud, of peace.

Bukowski wrote, in Women: « Most people are better at saying things in letters than in conversations, and some people can write artistic, inventive letters, but when they try a poem or novel they become pretentious. » That’s me. That’s what I think. Suddenly his sweet, numerous messages have stopped and I am saddened by the silence. I both embrace and hate how affected I am. By this, by everything. Yes, I have learned to say: « I am sensitive. » But to be a good writer you have to be tough. To not care what other people say, the judgments, the criticisms. « Be prolific » the guy on the subway with the Hemingway tattoo had said to me. But I’m too busy paying the bills. And falling in love with strangers who aren’t falling in love with me.

In seven weeks I will be forty. If Bukowski were still alive he’d be ninety-four. I wish I could have a word with him. Would he objectify me? I’d be devastated if he didn’t. Will I live to ninety-four? Why do I not like the boys who like me and love the ones who don’t?

Sunshine and high twenties all week.

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A fine mist, a grey sky, an unconsciously slower step induced by the bruine the blanket the beauty of a peaceful morning such as this where the sun is not orchestrating productivity and profitability of a beautiful day but the clouds are saying there is time to repose to go slow to lay low. Today there is time.

It is the last day of summer and the first day of September. It is the perfect place between what has passed and what will be, one day of time standing still. A whole day to breathe. A whole day pretending it is always early morning, the purest most precious time of day. A whole day spent this way!

Thank you mist thank you sky thank you fog thank you I love you, Sun, but then I love the rain greatly too and I’m awed I am moved thankful to be so calm at this junction.


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Protégé : The Sun Will Rise Again

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A finger up the nose, a tear down the cheek. Social ineptitude, a bruised knee. People I pass on the street. Questions in my head, and a quivering soul. Catching each person I pass at specific and singular moments in time. Sometimes these flash glimpses become meaningful evidence in the cases we are building in our minds. Against a suspect lover, for example. All signs point to whatever we design or interpret them to point to. And when our spirit is not in flux, it is simply a digit, a nostril, a child’s face, and some salty water.

Another summer in Paris. This will make three. I leave in seventeen days and I can no longer tell if I go due to undying passion or simply out of habit. It’s just that I’m thirty-nine and more than a little lost. Life is relatively easy and outside of work, I am free of responsibility, dependants, lovers, commitments, or even ailments or things to be upset about. I am bored. Allow me to quote myself: Depression is the North American luxury. It’s gratuitous, ridiculous. But this is where I live and this is how I feel.

A sense of purpose. Belonging. Being needed or instrumental in a greater good. Creating something noteworthy, contributing to the world in a meaningful and important way. I am the servant who was given one bag of gold and buried it and returned it to my master upon his return. I did not fail, nor did I prosper or even wager. Inconsequential. My master was angry, and I understand why! What will I do with my bag of gold? At thirty-nine, I am panicked because I still don’t know.

Friday the thirteenth, two thousand fourteen. Full moon. We won’t see this eerie pairing again until two thousand forty-nine. I stayed home tonight. Growing up, my mother would blame her crazy, violent outbursts on the full moon, when she could. So I have an aversion to assigning responsibility to the skies. However, when I am eighty and he is eighty-five, perhaps we will look upon that moon together and I will assign significance to such an event after all. For now, I gaze into the sky and I see rays and clouds and I do not see the moon but I know that it is there and that he sees it and in that way it is beautiful.

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