Toronto Travel Blog› entry 4 of 47 › view all entries
"YOUâ€™RE DOING WHAT?"
I hafta convince my mother this just isn't the time to lock me up. With a half-hearted scowl, I pull the telephone receiver from my ear, glance at the ceiling, half listening to the shrill echo of her words. & I rub my jaw. [my mother's voice has a way of entering thru the ringing in your teeth]
"How can you leave? What about your school? Where are you going to put all your books? Where are you going to go?" (silence) "Is it because of that man Johnny?"
In fact this is just vaudeville between us now, my mother having weathered too many of my storms to abandon ship for real.
"Well--" she sighs, "I should have expected it. I always said you were a little nuts."
When I was twelve my mother began to think seriously about me in conjunction with psych wards.
...no this is not the time to lock me up...
"...Seriously mom," I whisper, hanging up the phone, "I'm finally breaking free."
I am my mother's daughter, however, & I am not immune to her unease even if I usually hold it, like the telephone receiver, at a healthy arm's length during times of controversy. So, after shutting down my
"It's like, there's so much rose in these glasses I can't see the gold of the wheat fields anymore," I'm telling my little brother Doug while we're walking the Saskatoon city limits with his handful of a samoyed puppy
Prairie people don't speak cute riddles, even if the metaphor is an old cliche.
Don't know when I started courting danger, exactly. Didn't like the way my life was reading & that probably had a lot to do with it.
female. turning thirty.
failed marriage. fading. faulty.
renter, reader. latent liberal.
student, tenant. daughter, sister. no one.
No. "On the Road" sounded better.
on the road
A woman making her way alone.
Like cup-a-soup: me, I'm adding water. Instant identity shift. The 21st century quest metaphor. [not exactly Walt Whitman. Then again, itâ€™s not Jack Kerouac, either.]
Looking back--muddling thru my muddling thru--I think those Western filters were not rose-coloured glasses, at all. In the cynicism of my youth, they were techno shades: ominous as pre-programmed billboards, pretending to colour the world with new promises when really they're set on selling the same shitty stuff.
just add water. a traveler's convenience
so: â€śon the roadâ€ť
just me and my circumfusing pop-culture expectations of love-story.
if anyone asks, tell them i'm searching for crisis
a parting shot
"What? NOW? I mean so what happens the next time we see each other?"
His long hair & slim form: a silhouette, framed by the orange of the hall light and the cold arch of my living room entrance.
â€śso soon the distance magnifies?â€ť
"your bare skin is fibre-optically colour-coded in shades
"Probably I'll say 'hello,' Michael."
your lips are made of powder forgetting, i know.
their touch soft as snow. fleeting as cocaine
"I'll smile and ask you how you are.
--Okay, I know what you mean. The 'after-that' would depend on how you look at me, I guess... Go. I prefer not to do goodbyes."
it's there tho :
in the way i can't quite focus.
not on your hand, nervous, pulling at that cigarette
as if it were a microphone able to amplify the unspoken of a drawn breath;
nor on your forget-full lips. inhaling a last smoky mention...
Just before you slowly shut the door.
All leavings lug "a moment ago" around. Like so much excess baggage.