A Layman's Post

Would you please write something
I can understand, Andy asks.

Cause the last blog
was a little obtuse,
scrambled even.

Well, last night I dreamed:
Climbed up a slide
and swooshed down
a slippery silver slope.
Met my friend Helen
halfway down.
"Write," she said. "It's time."

Today on CBC Radio I heard
a documentary about Bountiful,
a notorious polygamous community
of Mormons in southeastern BC.
A few people get out.
And then, what?

They don't know what to believe.
They've been taught not to think.
It's a life's work to erase the grooves
and create a new overlay.

My mom and I talk about this:
She said she remembers:
she was two, and her life as a Mennonite
didn't seem to fit. Whatever she was
in a previous lifetime, it's clear that this time
she came to scope things out for the ones
who came next.

Andy, are you still there?
I don't want to lose you.
I can finally see what I have:
who you are.
A year later it's stronger,
more delicious.
You. Real.
Me too. Wholly.
Us, holy.

Sacred, not scared.
When I'm so open,
it feels like fear --
the same frisson --
and I am not afraid
of it anymore.

That's what I'd like to tell
the emigrees from Bountiful:
there's no way of knowing
until you go forward.
Try. Make a few mistakes.
Learn about real life consequences.

Be a friend. Dream. Make love.
Travel. Spin. Pray. Scream.
Laugh. Wear what you want.
Be confused. Try again. Sing.

There was a time when it felt
like I was wearing someone else's skin.
And tears, I have learned,
keep the face young and beautiful.

I crave relevance, meaningful communication.
I want my words to matter, to me, to you.

When I know that Andy loves me,
even when my cheeks are red after wine,
then I understand God.
There I go again, a poetic orgasm.

"I love you so bad," he says, and laughs.
If you've never had a really wild night,
you've never had a Mennonite.

Sometimes I want to know why,
why is it so important
to love him well?
And I think I know the answer:
it's because I'm not just getting older,
like the Clairol ad said:
I am getting better.

A Leprochaun I know
says there are no mistakes.
Seriously, this is how she's lived her life.
One thing leading to the next.
The only reason I thought they were mistakes
is because the minister said so,
and I believed him.

Challenge. Reject. Refine. Rejoice.
Life is so much more than we'll ever know.
Even when I think I choose,
I know I am as unconscious as
that cyanobacteria who thrived in the
warming global ocean, reproduced
prolifically and caused the planet to freeze.

You can't fault a one-celled organism
for following its coded genetic destiny.
And in moments of clarity --
a nano-second every now and then --
I know that my coding is elastic and erasable,
rewritable, dendritically
capable of instantaneously transforming
my wishes into reality.

To the brave souls from Bountiful:
be strong, be weak, be brave, be meek.
Write your own story,
become who you are.

How's that, Andy?

could this be it?

i think i'm starting to grow up a little, but only enough to keep up with the children.
i blog at night via email, personal exchanges that stay in my inbox for some months.
that's the only record,
other than this.

claire birch is my son rio's teacher. she's been doing this since she graduated
from university. she's very good at it. earth day, this month.

do you feel connected to the earth? can you feel it?
i'm so not a snob. look over my shoulder, at my age?
approval, disobedience, i turn my back on god.

really. i mean, when i was a teenager i played loud organ music
in a crepuscular church, and taunted the devil. and worse.
cate and i blasphemed the holy spirit. wow. were we stupid.
and brave. fucking looked at it in the face and said, no.

tough little fuckers, we were.
still are. it's her birthday this week.
we were 15, 16. met in church. recognized each other.

if you read this you will know what's happened for me.
i don't even know. please, share it with me.
remind me. it's all coming back now.

i remember the stippled wall,
my cousin larry's house on lakeshore road.
i go there in a minute: he ate live fish outta that creek.

one of my cousins said to me, don't eat the cherries,
look at that white stuff. you've gotta wash them first.
i just fuckin ate those little crimson sugar bombs.
said, no i don't.

that's how strong i am.

come party with us.
andy is man enough to take me on.
i come with two boys, i said, early on.
august 23, 2008.
canmore.

grief

handprints in chalk
on the side of the television

my old imac, cd drawer inoperative
the marimba in many musical pieces, up high
the alphabet scrawled across the blackboard
a pirate ship, a magician's black hat, curious george

my heart open, full of joy, tears spilling,
melting diamonds, i wear the garnets,
crimson welts of pain

this is not sadness, this is the pure ache of love
contacting the heat of my heart
and rearranging itself into
pure gold

in the middle

The sun rises.
Spring thaw waters
my camas lilies.
The forest rings with birds.
Peach trees blossom.

I may—I must be--

Fuck, I am happy,
plugged in to me, myself, and I.

On the ground.
I look no more to God.
I have turned my face from him,
moved on,
so way beyond.

Wherever you stand in the universe,
you are in the middle of it.
Physics proves this.

Maybe God is standing there too
and he just doesn’t know
yet of his vast and infinite grace.