December 5, 2011

Zen for men

I lay in bed smoking over the edge. Embers coming to rest on a golden bird head perched on the edge of the dish. Can't sleep, in spite of the hour. In my head I remember a time when I walked home from a great tryst wearing nothing but black pantyhose and an oversized white t-shirt with the word Groomsman in royal blue across the front. Fur jacket, winter sling-backs. It was the dead of winter and blind cold. I walked past the back end of Bread & Circuses (the place that raised me into adulthood) and Brendan laughed at my exposed ass at five in the morning. I wore an apron the rest of the way home.

Things like that. It is wonderful to be asked to recall a story, any story.

Last night I dreamed of Deb Loewen's house. I have never been to her house before. I had a birds eye view of the house, open in it's concept. Big kitchen. No one had heads but all her family members were in the dream. Big play house. Her boys in pajamas. A wooden counter top.

I was a sleep walker as a child. Wandering camp grounds. Walking along water and waking with sand in my sleeping bag. Waking up on a beach in Thailand, having left my hammock after an unpleasant attempt to sleep. Adventure always appeals, especially in sleep.

Looking forward to the adventure ahead; walking home in the early morning and listening to the birds.

Once I fell into the embrace of a spruce tree after wandering off from a great party at Caycie and Emily's Arlington home. First time I ever two stepped with a man. Kip was his name. We danced. I love dancing, being led at that breakneck pace by someone bigger than me. There is no better feeling in the world. I fell into that beautiful tree and lay under there looking up at the laterals crawling up the spine of the spruce. Lost my keys and my money that night to nature but thankfully Frin had my spare after a long and sobering walk home.

Writing with heavy frames for concentration. A candle lit beside the bed. Don't worry, I will be careful. I don't think I looked at Simon when I told him I was moving to Winnipeg. Simon Richards, you beauty. I was wiping a low stainless steal fridge door vigorously and he was sweeping. We have worked alongside each other in that kitchen for eight months. He introduced me to some of the best people I have ever met. Steve MacLeod for one. Good men. I am grateful for the family of friends I have in Montreal.

Dayna are you in labor?
Sara are you in labor?

Strength be with you. I can't wait to hold your children.

I have been holding some babies in Montreal. I have been baby sitting the babytwins Leila and Malek. Each week their faces change! It is wonderful to watch. Ten months, just like Leo when we were starting out. It felt so good to feed those babes and then pluck them out full and happy one by one. Leo came over sporting a new look. Big boy. Short hair makes him look five! He harassed the babies and squished my face like clay.

Hay Leo. Fishlips always bring his guard down, I find. Leo and I don't see each other as often and he is always hesitant. So we learn each other anew each time starting with an espresso. Le Poulet's latest in kitchen exploration. He knows his kitchen. I love cooking with him. There is a new awareness of each other in his transition from baby to boy. Memory grows, information sticks. Pot. Pan. Lid. Please. Whip. Whisk. Milk. Egg. Oil. Salt. Pepper. Words tumble out. I can't even imagine what parenting is like.

Growing tired. Tomorrow is today already. Monday. Going to print and try to make something out of paper. I have been seeing all sorts of cool things on the internet (great ideas that have been done, that have been done, that have been done) like a horse jumping out of a large poster. Street art. People reaching out to touch, the questioning of reality. Is it real? Yes. I want to make art like that. How can I reach that within myself. Projects lie around in the pit of my body like piles of blankets. My ideas need a good beating, a hang in the wind, a clean fold. Time to organize the linen closet of thought. At this time of new beginnings, I am trying to figure out a way to combine my passion. Jack of all trades, master of none. Surely there is a balance.

Floral duvet cake.

Today I learned that the entree comes before the main. The explanation I am from Rosenort does not always hold water. Good to know the order of operations though. Sundays in the kitchen are always moody and quick and stern for me. I probably look angry but I am just thinking about bacon and potatoes and fruit and olives and red peppers and bread called baguette even though it's clearly ciabatta. Life is funny.

Can't wait to ride my bicycle in winter in Winnipeg. Quiet in a sleeping city like nothing else.

We sleep when we're dead.

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