girl friends (part 2)

where did i leave off? college girl friends ...
so what happened after college... marriage, of course.

so the next taxonomy of girl friends is wifey girlfriends

when ryan and i got married, we didn't have any married couple friends. ryan had just moved and didn't have many friends here at all in fact. we didn't even have that much of a mutual friends group. i was friends with all his friends and vise verse, but for the most part they were either mine or his.

but over time, through work and dreadcentral.com, we made some couple friends. in this group we have, most notably, Debbie the wife of Josh and Michelle the wife of a different Josh. There is also Debbie the wife of Steve and the rest of the dread central crew who are all fabulous people.

these women mix.



well, michelle mostly mixes as long as she's not at war with her stomach. aside from the ability to mix, michelle is one of my dearest friends. we share similar dissimilarities. i mean, we're compatible. we both appreciate certain aspects of life and love and vinyl collectors toys but in our own unique ways. i think she is the most like ryan as any women i've ever known. except ryan never gets mad at me, and michelle gets mad at josh lots. but i guess i'm not josh, even though josh and i are sort of similar in our need for constant huggings.

so the wifey girl friends isn't that big of a section... but there's some overlap with the next section, which we'll call girl friends by proxy. by proxy meaning nothing more than by close location (they all live on the cape, well, almost all). this group ranges... in fact maybe i should put them into subgroups...

(this is where things get confusing...)

1. girl friends with boyfriends



erin van pelt is my friend because matt is friends with jared who's friends with ryan through eb games
nikki baldwin is my friend because she's friends with alex who i work with
liz is jared's (see erin above) wife. we met when her and jared were just engaged. we hit it off, to say the least.

2. liz's girl friends
erin van pelt falls here again
deanna
sian
taylor (girlfriend to another josh)

3. girl friends from my part time jobs:
kristen, jill and melissa from the pizza place (nikki baldwin could also go here)
ashley and erin/buttercup from the polar cave

all these girlrs mix because i got to know all of them in the mix. these are the girls that become part of ryan and my group of mutual friends. they're the ones i call in the summer at 11pm after scooping ice cream for 6 hours to see if they want to go swimming in the lake across the street. these are the girls i go out for cupcakes with or bring home with me after work to help decorate cupcakes. they're my doctor who watching cuddle buddies.



these girls, especially those liz brought to me, are all generous and lovely and close... they're here. and hopefully they know they're always welcome.

for me, these girls are easy to be friends with because they are here, because they feel comfortable in my home and hopefully they always feel welcome.

girl friends (a traditional blog entry)

i have lots of girl friends. i love them all distinctly and individually, as well as in specific groupings. certain girl friends don't mix with other girl friends, others do.

let's start with high school girl friends.

even though she's my sister, i still count meaghan in this group along with danielle and lauren. these three mix with all other groups because they are all more like sisters than like friends. i have come to the realization that keeping friends (real friends, not facebook friends) from high school is a normal rarity.

what i mean by normal rarity is that it is normal to keep a few rare friends from high school. most people i talk to who have been out of high school for several years and, for the most part, have moved away from their high school home town, only keep in touch with a select few girl friends from school.

danielle and lauren were the only high school girl friends i invited to my wedding.

meaghan, my sister. she's beautiful and i love her and i like her more and more as the years go by.

danielle, my surrogate sister. we've been living somewhat parallel lives with the exception of my being married. we both went to school, both made lots of new wonderful friends and grew, both took some time off before grad school, are both still on the cape and watching sci fi television shows. danielle mixes in with all of my friends like a sister.



lauren, lauren is that person for me who i can not talk to for over a year and then when we get on the phone it's as though mere days have passed by. we just click. ryan's like this with his best man adam. lauren and i were buddies, we always have been, and i think we always will be. we're soul mates in that respect.

then there are college girl friends.



mary k, bunny, dina and rachel are my life time loves. i will travel to see them. i am close, still with plenty of other girls from umass, like andrea, maya, rachel lewis and shannon, but i could have listed all the girls from high school who i still talk to too.

mary, bunny, dina and rachel. i lived with them, i saw them find their way, loose their way, and i'm watching them grow into adulthood through marriage and careers now. they too watched me through the myriad shifts in those three years we lived together. They were with me when i got engaged and married to ryan. they watched me grow, struggle, fight and learn. they know exactly who I am because they've seen every part of me.

for the most part, they mix. but, all on my own part, i don't mix them with others because i enjoy being an entire katy when they're around. they are all the female equivalents to me as ryan is my male equal. i never pretend with them. if i am in a bad mood, i never have to apologise for it. ever.

big fish, blue fish - ekphrasis 11

for Adam Burnett



sharks are hungry creatures
when kept in small pools

in basements with sings posted
that read: Do Not Enter




post script: dear adam, i have been thinking about this cartoon for days. three to be exact. i must look like a complete creep because as i walk to my car, for example, i'll smile at myself because this cartoon is funny. i have been trying to think of a poem to go along with it. it's been harder than i ever thought because i keep getting side-tracked by the humor and imagining this actually happening. i am still afraid of babies. affectionately, katy

am reading things at moria

(don't need twitter, have a blog)

top poem with crackling

How Every Angle Blends Together by Kevin Drucas

Jack Status Report

jack seems to be doing really well tonight. i took him to the vet this morning for more fluids and another dose of stomach medicine. when we got home, he went straight for his food bowl.

ryan came home at lunch and fed jack some wet gooey kitty food with his usual medicine (for his upi eye) mixed in and he ate that all up.

as of now, he's not thrown up all day. i've not seen him have any water yet, but at least he's eating (that's a big deal).

i will keep you posted. assume no news is good news ^_^

local paper boy - ekphrasis 10

for Rowan Harris



as he fell from the sky scraper
pistol in hand, he punctured a whole
in the side of my stomach
which bleed until my heart
no longer beat
for anyone
but him

Cool is the Way

a poem for Kelly

we melt into the archetype
of homemade nostalgia

of gooey centers
and chocolaty pomp adores

in the kitchens of finer forms
the aroma takes him over

over the boundless scape
red with heavy desire

towards the grinding halt
that life makes us

when we come face to face
with a woman who bakes

dark sky's an undertow - ekphrasis 9

for Rowan Harris



the steep dish sides of a holding cell
waiting the breath for gluey bile

our secret city under constant watching
some tremor caused by urchins and flirts

listed on the sides of milk cartons
remind us of our green grass gardens

yonder the wondering corn meal cookies
we shared at the wedding in Wyoming

where there, there is no water to speak of
we made juice out of trees and rain

and sucked our thumbs as we dreamed
about such cities as this one

Jack Shouldn't Swallow Stuff

I brought Jack to the vet this morning because he's been throwing up all over the past two nights.

The vet says he seems fine, but he's to stay there all day so they can give him a dose of fluids under his skin before coming home at 4pm.



Ryan says he saw Jack swallow something on Saturday night. The vet reported seeing nothing on Jack's xray and is going to go on what Ryan saw and give Jack some medicine to line his stomach and stop him from throwing up as much. Also, Jack can't eat anything until this time tomorrow, so all the kitties will have to go without noms for the night. I'll make sure to give Rowdy and Alli a can of wet food to share before Jackie comes home so no one's too hungry unnecessarily.

Poor baby Jack.

Sang Fézi

counting time on yellow cabs - ekphrasis 8

for Sam Giffin



time can be counted on yellow cabs
and homeless men with dogs outside grocers' shops

my emotions are filed
under streets without names

and miracles happen in the fashion district
when little men find smaller women

fear revisited

we were up at 4am
because jack was throwing up
blood and slime on the tan carpet

today he sleeps sound
on top of a strawberry shortcake blanket
on the computer desk

he'll drink water from a bottle cap
taking small sensitive sips
before curling back into sleep

rumored - ekphrasis 7

for Jenni Baker

to see image click here

rumor has it that Charles is cracked.

the rumor first started when Ben heard from Sue
that Charles wouldn't sleep with her.

Ben told Janet.

Janet assumed it was because he didn't like Sue,
but to make Sue feel better, Janet told Sue she thought

it was because there must be something
terribly wrong with him.

simple glory - ekphrasis 6

for Beth Ayer



the oatmeal got cold this morning
sitting in the yellow chair

that by the stairs such an effect
as weather would procure on Sundays

memorable dates and clusters of
white laundry in corners hidden

from birds and bowls of sweets
with fashioned covers like lips

painted pink and pursed and kissed
until all the candy is gone

the wet mop bucket by the table
treater of song to dump the words

a poor man's wedding night to
the simple glory of a terrible storm.

noah rises again

Noah Eli Gordon in H_NGM_N

Noah Eli Godron was the TA who taught me that I didn't actually know what poetry was, and I blame him for many of my poetressings. I know "poetressings" isn't an actual word, but it says what I mean better than any real word.

Go read some of his pretty words.

bankrupt

the fingers are dry, the skin cracking

a play list of songs on going on the tongue
of the girl alongside me, i trade positions

and play her a song of my own to let
my fingers bleed on the strings and strands

when the brushed grain's oil dried to a crack
to match the fingers that caress the body

a fine piece of architecture in my lap
and a cat at my feet to her who cried

until the bed was wet with all the sad
songs we shared on this cold and dry morning

catch - ekphrasis 5

for Beth Ayer



waking up late this morning
meant a missed chance
at over-coffee flirting
with the fit girl from apartment 12

her sneakers are bright white
and well worn and i wonder
how does she keep them so clean
in such a shitty city

more than it seems - ekphrasis 4

for Brian Boutwell



hey!

you there!!

his tie flapped over his shoulder as he ran -
trying to catch the girl in the fitted dress

his french was poor - but he did his best to explain
how he'd ended up with her purse

she scowled at him - a white smudge on a black day.
her father died earlier - the tears still stung her face

he offered to buy her a coffee or tea - whichever -
he offered to impress himself upon her - make her forget

but she refused - took back her purse and cried
falling into the arms of the stranger who stole her purse.

flesh and blood - ekphrasis 3

for Nicole McLernon



she rose to the rhythm
of a gaining mist and weed

the trudge and trickle
down the back of her neck

the growing spine of a rose
bushed and thorned and beautiful

beside her - cupid's arrow struck -
a poor boy without a beard

between two white sheets his breath
heavy with the burden of bones

a man to become all flesh and blood
to the woman who feeds on light

he sleeps with a rose, a thorn
and the morning dew

like a weeping girl is all
a man could wish to comfort

stories - ekphrasis 3

for Ashraf Osman



dear friend, my feet are bare
and my fears are real. there's a war
in the distance, they destroyed the moon.

dear friend, there is a song,
sung by the warriors of plentiful nations,
about the sun that once shone.

dear friend, my feet are cold
and the sun is just a myth. but
we are true, you and i, to one another.

my dear friend, how i love the world
with you by my side, sun or no sun now
the scent of blossoms is a happy memory.

my dear sweet friend, let's carry on
caring and working and writing. or else
children might not remember the stories.

not so good at being bad

i'm not so good
it turns out

i'm not so good at being bad
so it turns out

putting it off
i'm not as pretty when i cry

not as well loved either

and this pitiful expression
in words and small graces

is unbecoming.

so i do it well, do it all
and hide my tears from everyone

except the cats.

to be like a cup is, at peace and beautiful

i would like to be like a cup is,
at peace and beautiful and full of itself

i'm covered in the shed hair of cats
that love me and purr when i stroke them

but the stray orange hair in my tea
makes the cup more like me than i'd like

we are too similar for me to want to be
like the cup filled with tea, hot and bitter

i would not like to be the tea, but the milk
perhaps, that gives the tea a mild natured way

to think of the world in meals and tropes
and i would like to be free from poetry

all the poetry that is better than mine,
and all the poets, better at reading it out

in front of small crowds of wine drinkers
at local bookshops that wave the flag

of denial in the face of a dying way of living
like students with pocket money left over

from dinner last night because the girl they wanted
didn't want to go home with them, with him

i do not want to be like him, i want to be like her
strong willed and pretty and dressed

with small shoes and a book under her pillow
innocent and longing for true love

i don't want to be too pretty, just the right length
like a song in a movie that plays over kissing

the part where the perfect girl
is wearing the perfect dress and sipping

the perfect tea over the perfect conversation
with the perfect college boy

who reads poetry perfectly and then kisses her
when she least expects it

so that finally, she can taste love
without thinking too much about it before it happens

a perfect, pretty couplet
at the end of a perfectly written song.

Leon - a drabble

“Leon, do you love me?”

His feet felt like roots, like bricks in the pavement. He couldn’t move. What could he do? What could he say? How in the world could he answer a question like that?

“Leon?”

He looked her in the eyes, those big beautiful eyes. She looked at him with those eyes when she sang. The lyrics hurt with love: “it’s like running through deep water, trying to look into your eyes”.

Her eyes were soft and wet, threatening to tear over.

So he said nothing. He looked at her, in her eyes.

And he kissed her.

you're not who we thought you were - ekphrasis 2

for jenni baker



we're not who you thought
when you pulled the last petal

tore the breath from our breast
the beating hearts of coffee mugs

a pretty thing in a vintage dress
and the heady fragrance of spies

on the veranda, a breakthrough,
i think i'll love you anyway

the ekphrasis project

Give Me a Title, I'll Give You a Poem was a successful little project resulting in 27 original poems. each poem was written for the person who provided the title, and with the title the dedicated donated, naturally.

this is the squeal. give me i'll give you round 2

and here's how it's different: ekphrasis.

ekphrasis has many applications in the arts, and you can spend lots of time with wikipedia trudging through un-sited greekology. basically though, it's when one artists (be it writer, sculptor, singer, poet, bard, watercolorist, photographter, etc) attempts to capture the spirit of a piece of art from a medium other than their own in an original piece (in their own medium).

here's an example of some ekphrasis i've done

i love inspiration, so here's where you fit into the ekphrasis project: link me to a drawing or photograph online and i will write a poem to go with the visual.

if the picture or drawing has a title, i will use that first. if there's no title, you may create one, just like last time.

i will probably do one poem a day (not as swift a turn over as last time), but send me your images as soon as you can/want.

ekphras away!

by the bird - ekphrasis 1

for john bell



an economy of star falls
freezing wages on the border

for the nesting patterns of squirrels
troubled with hiding trinkets

from owls and local authorities
with missions and research

into the mortality rate
of douglass furs

baring all fruit
to the goddess of lies

a small bird carves drawings
depicting the true nature

of life in the woods
when the stars go on strike.

my little brother isn't little

in fact he's a hell of a lot taller than me, and he's 18 now!!!

in celebration of his old age, i made him these chocolate-chip cupcakes with cookie dough frosting.

mos def - ms fat booty

some rap is this good:

neck brace

the maroon around the left ear
holding the curious tilt
of a tea drinker in conversation

the milk matches the cream wool
woven with even hands
and brings out the white in her enamel

the bull of the beautiful

for Ana-Maria Bell

there are beautiful people
singing beautiful songs
amidst the din of students between classes

papers rustling and a conversation
on the ethics of bull fighting
versus the cultural value

one singer stops because
she has an opinion
she is strongly opposed

and in her argument
she rides the pathos
of baby cows in spanish dress

this isn't any old scarf...

a few little links

wicked alice -thank you jenni

and white winter hymnal -thank you kilgannon

broccoli cheddar soup

he held me like a child
as i wept just like one

over pennies we've saved
and the soup burning on the stove top

letting the world be my torture
i wish to fall asleep

so that when i wake
it will all be all better again

but fairies are not real
and the soup is still burning

pink bullets by the shins

how i got this wish coin

the eagle caught me off guard
when he asked me my nationality

i told him, American
but he persisted and asked again

what is your nationality?
so i told him, again, I am American

angry with my answer
he flew away

and as he ascended
he dropped a coin

and i heard him yell out,
make a wish or i won't come back

i still have it, i keep it in my pocket
but the eagle hasn't come back yet

"Because someone has made up the word "wave," do I have to distinguish it from water?"

i want this

instead of dedicating 100% of my focus and attention on what i really ought to be doing, i decided to discover something. so i discovered Kabir. i want to study Kabir the poet and understand him and be able to quote him. why? because anything is better than working on this.

hannah

i've had this song stuck in my head all day...

new settings

new student settings
including new cutlery

and a change of curtain color
over the claw footed bath

all together forgetting
the drama that resided here

not weeks ago yet

dream in

we float
in a boat on a sea
of sweet leaves

stuck on plywood stems
with carpenter's glue

you lean forward
to stretch your back
and feed in on

the rudder of my affections
flattering the scent

of your wisdom
at 7am on a sunday.

honey bees

erin has a whimsical dad

Erin spread the black current jam on the toast evenly from side to side and all the way to the edges. She hated to get a bite of toast without jam on, but she was far too economical to ditch the crusts. She’d heard on the radio once that women in Haiti ate cookies made of mud and grass. Just the thought made her queasy. She couldn’t save the world on her own, especially because her allowance was only enough to buy new stationary—on recycled paper of course—to write to her newest friend Janet, but at least she could be economical. 

“DAAAAAAAAAAAADDY!” she hollered up the stair case to her dad, as the kettle started to whistle. She’d gotten really really good at making breakfast for her and her dad since her mom had left them a few months back. Erin had to be the strong one, she decided, because he dad was so busy with his research at the University in the city. She got really good at breakfast, except for pouring the boiling water—the steam was too hot—so she still needed her dad for something. She liked to think that her needing her dad a little bit for breakfast made him feel special. She always felt special when he asked her to help with his work, or with the laundry. They were a team.

Dr. Patel, Erin’s dad, rushed down the stairs to pour the water for the tea. His tie was loose around his neck and he’d only found one shoe so far. Erin had handled the divorce so well, it astounded him. He’d handled it pretty well too, he thought. Work helped. Erin helped. 

“Toast again, sweety?” he asked gently, patting Erin on the head as he poured two cups of extra-hot tea. “You’re off to your friend’s tonight, is that right?”

“Yes. And you are going to pick me up at the Smith’s tomorrow at lunch time. Right?” She was always having to remind him about the little things, but she thought it was sort of charming. She hoped that the Smith’s wouldn’t mind her dad’s absent minded way because he was such a good scientist. 

Turns out, the Smith’s didn’t mind at all. They didn’t mind having to wait while Erin called her dad at the University to ask him to fax a note to her school saying that she was allowed to go home with the Smith’s instead of going home with her after-school nanny because he’d forgotten to sign the note in her bag. They didn’t mind him calling twice late at night, once to ask Erin where the remote control to the telle was and the second time to wish her goodnight… at 11:30pm. They didn’t even mind that he’d locked his keys in his car and wouldn’t be able to pick her up before the Smith’s lunch engagements—they just dropped her off on their way.

Janet told Erin that she thought her dad was whimsical. Erin thought whimsical was a great word. She also thought that whimsical wasn’t the best thing for a single dad of a 6 year old girl to be. 

“Daddy…”

“Yes, sweety? What’s wrong?” Dr. Patel turned The Iron Chef off and turned to his little daughter.

“I was thinking about what makes a family.” She waited to see how he’d react. She knew she’d need to stop if he looked too upset. “You know, not that we’re not a great family, because daddy we’re really great.” 

He took her hand and waited for her to go on. He was so proud that his little girl was so mature, despite the terribly immature way he and his ex-wife had acted around her since she was born.

“Well, the Smith’s are a family too. They’re a really great family too. I am not saying that one family is better than the other, okay?”

“Of course.”

“Just… Daddy, I think because there are only two people in our family, and there are four in theirs, and all those animals, well, I think they don’t have to work as hard to be a great family.”

“But we do have to work hard, don’t we?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry sweety. I think you work really hard to make us a great family. Maybe I could work harder too.”

“No Daddy, you’re a really hard worker. I don’t think you can work any harder.”

“So… what do you think we can do? Think we could use a holiday?” he smiled, he would love to go on holiday!

Erin smiled back at her dad, he was so whimsical some times. “No, daddy! You’re so funny!” Erin giggled.

“So what do you think would make us a better family?”

Erin paused for dramatic effect, she just new her dad was going to love this idea… “A DOG!”

happy valentine's day 2

i had a really great valentine's day. first of all, i got to sleep in until noon (or was it later than that?). when i finally got up, ryan offered to fix me a cup of tea--which he never does, but it's valentine's day so he was being extra sweet. 

i had some breakfast and had been in the kitchen about half an hour before i realized all the dishes were done. the stove was even cleaned!! ryan got up early and cleaned everything; a whole week's worth of dishes!! this made me happy. i am actually still happy because of this. ^_^

then ryan, matt, erin and i went to Two Brother's (where i work) for lunch/dinner (i brought everyone mini cupcakes, as i'd promised). then we went bowling, which was a lot of fun, and detoured into the candy store on the way home. 

now everyone's over, and we're going to watch 300. a lovely ending ^_^

happy valentine's day

i am the ant

i am the ant
that which nature made me

an army of strength
i carry you with me

the heavy, the light,
the dark and the forgiving

lists of stuff - and i'm in them

at http://www.shadowofiris.com/, Matt's compiling lists of "worthy" poetics/poetry/creative wonderment, and by golly, he's included me. twice.

got the shivers?

check this out: The Year that Europe Froze

from newscientist.com

taste testing

our friend Jared came home from boot camp for the week, so i decided to take the opportunity of having people over to experiment.

i made whole wheat buttermilk lemon pancakes:



the Pancakes were pretty good, but not as good as my regular buttermilk pancakes. also, i used 3 cups of buttermilk, instead of 2 and a half cups.

blueberry syrup:



the Syrup is really really nice... if you really like blueberries. next time (and there will be a next time), i plan on cooking the berries longer so it doesn't come out quiet so runny.

and spicy chocolate chunk cookies:



the cookies are awesome. i am going to try another batch with no cinnamon, just cayenne. we'll see how that comes out.

Bleddyn Gway

and again with the prose...

Bleddyn dropped his bags on the top step and looked up at the gutted factory building in front of him. Red Welsh brick, built by Welsh working hands. The stench of the bay swept passed him in gusts, reminding him how much he utterly despised the sea. How much he despised brick. And clocks.

The building had been remodeled to accommodate a collage of colorful low-income renters—single mothers, students, his brother. Since the textiles industry faded from prominence, more and more people started living in places never meant for living. No parking, cold metal railings everywhere, ornamental clocks that don’t keep the time and far too close to the stinking sea.

He pulled down the plastic case covering the bells and pushed the button labeled “Gway”. Number 14.

No answer. Figures.

Bleddyn sat next to his bags and reminded himself of all the other stuff he hated. He hated women, he hated coffee drinkers, he hated email, phones, people with phones, buttons, zips, anything practical, anything impractical. Shit. He hated everything. Fortunately, he was able to focus all of that hate on his queer little brother who, unfortunately, wasn’t even home for him to hate directly. Bleddyn just sat there, thinking hateful thoughts towards the ginger bastard.

And then the door opened. And what he saw was unlikely, repulsive and sort of beautiful. A young woman in a dress opened the door, unprompted, and looked down at him—the displeased lump of human being squatting on the front step of her building. What repulsed Bleddyn wasn’t the woman herself, but the dress. Why the fuck was she dressed in an Elizabethan gown? If she’d just been dressed in jeans and a top he’d have been able to hate her, like he hated everything else. But she wasn’t dressed normally, she was in a gown. He wanted to hate her so much for it, for denying him easy-to-dismiss hatred that he’d been growing accustomed to, but he couldn’t hate her the same way he hated old clocks. She was beautiful and probably mentally unhinged.

“Um, hi.”

“Do you want to come in? Do you know someone who lives here?”

“Why are you wearing that dress?” He didn’t move from his slumped position. He couldn’t. He was paralyzed with disgust and wonder.

She smiled. Goddamn it she smiled at him. Goddamn her, she’s pretty. He was hopeless.

He sort of smiled back. He hated women. He hated her, and her breasts. Goddamn women and gowns. “It’s, um, nice. Sparkly.” She smiled at him again. “A bit… unusual though?”

She stepped out onto the step beside him and sat close enough that he could smell her. She smelled like a woman, like a woman who used nice shower products. He hated women, and showers. It occurred to him that he hadn’t bathed in about four days and probably smelt worse than the sea. He shuffled away from her. He hated himself.

“Um, are you okay?”

“yeah.” He wasn’t okay. Where the hell was is brother and why the hell was she wearing that terrible gown? “where’d you get it?”

“hun?”

“Your dress… where’d you get it? You an actress or something?”

“Oh, no, I’m not an actress.” She smiled again and he cringed despite himself. “Are you sure you’re alright? You want to come in? Tea?”

“Why are you wearing it?”

She stood up and unlocked the front door. “Come on.”

He hated her, he hated himself, and most of all he hated his brother.

And though he hated everything and everyone, he followed this girl into her apartment and let her heal him. Let him forget why he’d come to see his brother and forget about the clocks and the phones and the sea. Let him undress her, though he still had no idea why she’d worn the gown in the first place. He convinced himself that she’d just lost a bet or some utterly mundane and normal thing. He let himself think she was something sort of normal, and that it was entirely normal to follow a stranger in an Elizabethan gown into her apartment and stay there for two years.

the smiths

how about some fiction for a change? it happens oh so very very rarely. enjoy!

***

Mr. and Mrs. Smith grew up together. She was the Mary Jane to his Peter Parker all through secondary school. They shared a secret life together, even as very young children. When it was uncool, at the age of 7, to play with girls, Mr. Smith still went over to Mrs. Smith’s to color and make up stories with her. It was around that age—the distinctly uncool age to be with the opposite sex—that Mr. and Mrs. Smith promised to marry each other, and shared their very first kiss.

There were rough patches in their relationship, as in any. For example, Mrs. Smith went through a particularly academic phase while away at a big, snobby (in Mr. Smith’s opinion anyway) university where her dreams were filled with philosophical musings. Meanwhile, Mr. Smith apprenticed at a mechanical engineering firm which specialized in motion-sensor soap dispensers while attending night classes at a small, local college. At this time, they both saw other people.

They saw each other at the holidays, when Mrs. Smith came home. They humored each other with pleasantries, but learned how distinctly incompatible they really were. Though sweethearts, and terribly fond of one another, Mr. and Mrs. Smith expected different things from life. Mr. Smith wanted to invest in property while the market was good. Mrs. Smith wanted to travel obscure corners of the globe. Mr. Smith had a steady job, a car, drank coffee he made at home each morning, and enjoyed Douglass Adams novels. Mrs. Smith had two degrees in the humanities, a friend with a cottage in Greece, drank matte yerba after a long night of political discussion with visiting scholars and spent a lot of money on odd looking shoes.

Both lovely in their own respects. Both secretly admiring the strength and fearlessness of the other.

There was one whimsical summer romance between Mr. and Mrs. Smith. But as the leaves changed color and the cold set in, Mrs. Smith grew restless and Mr. Smith grew tired of her fancies. They split again.

They had, at once, given up on each other and dismissed their promise to one another of marriage in a heated battle of words and one unfortunate platter which, at the time, was covered in an array of sticky cheeses which, try as they might have, could not keep the platter from shattering into a significantly large number of small pieces. The carpet also suffered from the incident.

After many years of dissonance, Mr. and Mrs. Smith came upon each other in an office of all places.

This little office belonged to a coroner. This coroner, whose office was set adjacent to the hospital where both Mr. and Mrs. Smith had been seen into this world, had asked both Mr. and Mrs. Smith into his office to confirm the identify a body.

In the weeks previously, Mr. and Mrs. Smith had both reported a missing person; a close friend each had, very separately, kept in touch with over the years. This friend was called Janet. Mr. Smith walked Janet’s odd collection of dogs several times each week in exchange for the use of her garage where he kept the parts he was collecting to build his dream super car. Mrs. Smith had read the travel journals Janet wrote as a young woman and they spoke extensively over the phone after every one of Mrs. Smith’s adventures abroad.

Mr. Smith noticed Janet wasn’t home one Thursday afternoon and that her dogs hadn’t been fed. Needless to say, Mr. Smith took care of the animals, and as a second day passed and Janet had not been seen, Mr. Smith reported the woman missing.

Although she was miles away, Mrs. Smith had also noticed Janet’s absence. The two had arranged to speak the day after Mrs. Smith’s return from Botswana. Janet never missed an opportunity to speak with Mrs. Smith about her adventures. After several days of no answer to her phone calls, Mrs. Smith phoned the local authorities, asking if they would check in on the woman to see she was alright.

As surprised as Mr. and Mrs. Smith were to see each other after so many years of silence, they were equally surprised to see that the woman under the white sheet on the coroner’s table was indeed their mutual friend Janet.

They never found out what happened to Janet.

But they did some catching up, adopted Janet’s odd collection of dogs together, and invited Janet’s sisters to their wedding reception which took place a mere three months after Janet’s mysterious death.

They honeymooned in Greece and Mr. Smith got his super car running just three days prior to the birth of their first child.

***

king cake stressed fassion

this morning, walking down the hall
of this dilapidated university

the toes of my shoes wet from slush
with my coat swung upon

a vision of academia, two magazines
littered to the brim with day dreams

fantasy low-residency MFA programs
daring to hang from the fingers of one hand

and in the other, a cup of earl gray
too hot to drink, or to hold tight

anxiety ridden over words i care not to write
but more for the words i need to write

the ones that no one pays much attention to,
but to call myself a poet...

food porn - teehee

food porn

for best results by jess

for best results, click here

baked eggs

i don't claim the statues of "foodie", though i use it on a whim to describe my husbee. he does, after all, refer to his copy of "Hamburger America" as "the bible". as in "Katy, do you know where my bible is?".

instead, i am something else in relation to food... an eater? an emotional, out of control, gimme more eater. i was a fat kid, my mom is/was a yo-yo dieter at an opra level of wow she's big, wow she's thin.

growing up, i lived on comfort foods. fatty, sugary, wonderful food. because of that born-into habit with food (we could also call it lots of little bad habits), i had a love-hate relationship with food. i know so many people can relate to this.

so i'm out for a change. well, i have been out for a change for a little while now as a matter of fact. it's not easy though, working at an ice cream shop in the summer and a pizza place all year round (yum), but it's so worth it.

i've been trying new recipes. wait. no. i've been trying recipes, full stop. and i don't just mean baking. i mean, actually cooking stuff.


i'm still honing my roasted vegetable skills (what spices and herbs to use, for example), and my crock-pot still only makes two things: minestrone, and meatballs.

to research new ideas, i've been grazing the pages of foodgawker. though i drool a lot over the tasty goodies, i've learned that there's no limit to food.

take eggs for example. the incredible, edible egg. there are just as many ways to prepare eggs as there are blogs about food. e.i. everyone with a food blog has had a go at eggs.

i decided, then, that i would try something different with eggs today.



these, are baked eggs.

i don't know if i'll jump at the next chance to make them, but they were tasty and easy and really filling. kind of like an omelette in a ramekin.

i combined a couple of different recipes i found online (on blogs via foodgawker). essentially though, there's a slice of de-crusted, buttered whole wheat bread around the edge of the ramekin, which was then loaded with turkey bacon (a slice each), chopped tomato (i used the little ones, 'cause they taste better), some chopped sweet onion, an egg (i broke my yolk, 'cause i don't like it gooey, but left ryan's because he does like it gooey), and some shredded mozzarella cheese to finish it off. then i baked them for about 15 minutes at 375. Ta-Da!



there's also a recipe i want to try without the bread, which is using ham in a muffin tin, filled with egg. like a little... ham and egg cupcake. odd, but interesting.

cupcakes in love

dolce: a girl, a camera, and a slice of life

i am particular to the cupcakes myself. the rose minicake and cupcakes give my cupcake-shaped heart good cause to yearn.

someday, maybe, i will make a cupcake as lovely. someday...

an Ode to what Light does

because Peter Wasilewski is brilliant

breaking the natural order
for the sake of personal beauty


a bird's wing preserved
by the polar lenses, white light,
and the touch of a man


fingers trapped in children's toys
a summer treat for i the least

but the sick romance
at the back of your mind

my summer night pleasure
for i all the more


tripping through swirls
and deep pools
along dark slippery
city streets

filled to the brim
with triumphant marches
and parades with routes
passed loosers' houses


locked in at the midst
of a winter battle
to the death and the part

the weight of a horse
on a frozen river
as the war rages on

in a field far away


what was lost
but a letter to the queen

but what of it
was a loss?

azure letters

for Ashraf Osman

i will not have a grave stone
because by the time i die,
they'll have thought of something better.

i wish you could say the same,
but it's becoming clearer each day
that you are already dying.

one poet's wish after another
for peace and skies clear of white
from the dust of dead neighbors

goes swiftly unheard by all
but the well-groomed dog at your feet
and i, who can't possibly understand

the significance of real warfare.





inspired by Under Siege by Mahmound Darwish

for my loved and lost

i sat across a coffee table
from Frank, George, Mina and Gertrude
with a bowl of cereal and a multivitamin

we made a list together
of all the girls i've loved
and let slip through my fingers

neither Mina nor Gertrude
keep the company of girls
and Frank is too much of a socialite

but George sees my worries as folly
for none of them are lost
only resting, silently,

waiting for me to finish my breakfast

wabi-sabi (give me i'll give you #27)

For Matt Dioguardi

meditation
with a
homely tree frog

mother
swimming in
the koi pond

we
are lost
in a poet's

world

shenandoah cupcake (give me i'll give you #26)

for Yasmin Elaine


the west was won
and great beasts tamed

by innocence and icing.

sprinkles that flirt with the tongue
atop curls of sweet frosting

and the lips of cowboys
left adorned

with moist crumbs
from women's biggest little secret:

the shenandoah cupcake.

city condo

more cute monsters here

3, 2, 1 blastoff
old Canadian paneling techniques
in modern city condos

made to order special deliveries.

of fate and forsaken dreams (give me i'll give you #25)

for Sara Kelley

every other song about angels
ends with a singer humming the tune

and the orchestra pit subdues
as the conductor's arms fall

slowly like leaves to the stand
the wand, as close to magic

as he'll ever come.

Flobble (give me i'll give you #24)

for Rowan Harris

the limits of space-time
don't stretch quite as far

as a vision of your wisdom
and bright purple hair

On Leaving the Station (give me i'll give you #23)

for Morgan Elektra

as i exited the subway
a sturdy figure stood

observing the wet crowds
and as i passed i heard him

mumbling about the umbrellas
looking like funeral flowers

The Blow to Glow (give me i'll give you #22)

for Kim Coakley

behind an old wooden door
cracked by the winds of ages

a blue imprint of an angel
lingering behind, for the touch

of a strong desire, a wish
but ever more the misguided

she falls in love with a dream
and sells her wings for dust

that dry/wet border on the edge of a rainstorm (give me i'll give you #21)

That dry/wet border on the edge of a rainstorm
(that you never see, but you know has to be there, logically)

for John Bell

i drew you a raincloud
with my high precision laser blaster

using the new weather-kit add on pack
and edging techniques passed on

from generation to generation
of regional weather gods.

i drew you this raincloud
in the shape of a tree

with lots of misty leaves
and muddy puddles

for logic to jump in
next time it has an idea.

i hope you like it.

the last pot roast on earth (give me i'll give you #20)

for Drook

on the very last friday of the very last calendar
someone scribbled a skull and cross bones

and we recycled all the old diet ginger ale cans
fashioned them into a sail that captures dirty molecules

rooms in parks (give me i'll give you #19)

for Drook

i had to put my foot down
when you pointed to the parkinglot

and dangled a key in front of me
from an old shoelace.

you thought you were clever
trading it in for that?

a house on wheels
and two sets of snow shoes?

i want my mp3 player back,
this is over. i'm out.

when the ice cream melted (give me i'll give you #18)

for Nicole McLernon

i tried to bring you presents
in square boxes, decorated

in the finest confection
a baker could have anticipated

but once i'd reached your door
i realized my mistake

alas, all the ice cream had melted
and there was no more room for cake

What does the angel give you if you win? (give me i'll give you #17)

for Russell Ragsdale

'you cannot win' she says
as she pulls the blindfold down off your eyes
revealing the course of obstacles before you

'but if you do, by some chance'
her voice is like a song with no end
the anticipation building

as she breaths beautiful warmth
down the nape of your neck
she whispers 'you may have me'

and now you know, you must win.

Lord Dark (give me i'll give you #16)

for Russell Ragsdale

a pin point towards
the light in your eyes

a reflection of knowing
just how deep the river's flesh

flows past the wondering finger
as it dips below the surface

the light of questions
unanswerable by blood

the sheild of age
and the dark bedchambers of wives

shiny (give me i'll give you #15)

for Mick Regan

you sprung me from jail
for a pat on the back
and a pillow case full
of old glory and grit

you'll learn...

there's nothing pretty
about escapology if you can't
bend your arms behind your back
without breaking them

a burning vein (give me i'll give you #14)

for Kristen Tortilla Williams

you take yourself so seriously,
it makes you burst into laughter
on the spot of accusation.

your ride your bicycle with purpose,
other than falling into a puddle of mud
that matches the color or your shoes.

three things that remind him of you,
the tall and the room and the loft
of suggestions held down by good will.

those same six songs (give me i'll give you #13)

for John Cabral

i demand a choir of ambivalent wisdom
surrounded by painkilling nurses with guns

redemption is the widow's veil
on the doorknob of your inner sanctum

a counciltation of magnificent wit
and worry not for the pride of your team

to bury the good book by fire's kiss
at dawn on a private field of frost

r.i.p. number 6

sadly, Mr. McGoohan passed away yesterday :(

Cake or Death (give me i'll give you #12)

for Elaine Garbarine

span the night, a warrior's path
to the tower of devil's food or lemon delight

to eat your way out
the frosted crest with fork or spoon

and a side of ice cream.

Hello, old friend, it's been a while (give me i'll give you #11)

for Brian Boutwell

across the table
in a nondescript diner
in a nondescript souther town

in a state of hot breath
and bone chilling plastic seat covers

a reunion of old all still the same
covering tracks and past misspellings
memorizing new lines in old faces.

hello, old friend. it has been a while, hasn't it?

Mou'sif (poème pathétique) (give me i'll give you #10)

for Ashraf Osman

there is no sound like the ripening of mud
against the tires of your bicycle

to melt your inner most will to climb
the hill behind your childhood home.

peculiar scents, familiarize your dysfunction
as a common feature among men of your gender

but to tell your father face-to-face
in the heat of this autumn humidity

would care too far the sensitivity
of family and war ridden, muddy slopes.

I Miss Living In The Brothel (give me i'll give you #9)

for Mary K

waking to the sound
of aluminum bunk beds against plastered walls

the begrudging water falls
to fill the chipped tub

and one man rests on a sofa
sipping matte and humming

old leonard cohen songs sweat
through the layers of carpet

to wake me fully
before i see that bus i need

pass the house, full of people
and not one of them looking back.

Just. Cakey. (give me i'll give you #8)

for Michelle Lee

sit pondering the color of frosting:
pink, or green?

pink... with green sprinkles?
and a strawberry.

wrapping up in winter garbs
to fetch strawberries
from the local supermarket.

this cake will be perfect.

do you write it an ode,
or wait and compose a eulogy

on a full stomach?

The Rhetoric Monster (give me i'll give you #7)

for Nate Byrnes

the doubt sets in real fast
as the tie clad man in hat approaches.

hiding under the carpet is no good,
too much soup, you think.

full stop. can i stop time?
the power of your mind is too weak,

too many blogs, you think.
try to become invisible,

but the cement walls are too damp
to lean against, you know.

he knocks and each thump
syncronized to your heart beats.

he's going to kill you with
big words.

little toe, big toe (give me i'll give you #6)

for Nicole Beaudoin

virgin toes in dirty sand
the first thought this morning

was wasted on artificial causes
and desires unmet by the sea

she looks out onto, in the early
of morning and cold winds march

across the seaside shipwreck
in her mortal's wicked dreaming

get out of town (give me i'll give you #5)

for Nicole Beaudoin

this and that the get out of town
to the pink slippers she says 'start walking'

Discovering the Benefits of Acai (give me i'll give you #4)

for Beth Ayer

the morning after, wrapped in his arms
you catch a glimpse

of his Brazilian drivers' license
on the bed-side stand,

but the dates are wrong.
there's no way he's that old.

this train doesn't stop that often (give me i'll give you #3)

for Beth Ayer

'can i pick from these trees?' the young boy asks the old man
a big plastic basket tied to his waste

'yes you can son. from the top branches.'

the boy thinks as he climbs, i am not your son.

classy is a philosophy (give me i'll give you #2)

for Jenni Baker

spread stockings over a delicate duvet cover
imported from Holland alongside the painting
of colorful bell peppers hanging in the lounge

the doorbell rings, the hum of pearls on pearls
fulfilling the backdrop of intimate business
and only the lack of scent hangs on your position

pneumatic mnemonic (give me i'll give you #1)

for Ryan Acheson

the strain on knowledge
when the credits run too long

forgetting names and faces
of famous actors

each one, replaced by an element
on our periodic dining table

the worry sets in and you sulk
curled up on the sofa with a cat in your lap

mumbling names of people you've met
on the streets of imaginary towns

give me a title, i'll give you a poem

if you're familiar with explodingdog.com, then you already know the drill. but if you don't here's how it works... sam from exploding dog draws pictures to go along with the titles his fans email in to him. he even does live art shows where he gets titles from people observing then draws the picture right there and then.



since i'm feeling deprived of inspiration and in desperate need to compose... i'm going to do the same as sam, but with poems.

i've done similar poetry experiments before (in the vein on john ashbury's collaboration with artists (when i remember the one's name, or find any reference to it, i'll link it, but i'm at a loss a the moment)), but this time i want input from some new creative people.

so, you suggest a title for a poem, and i will write it. each poem will be posted on this blog - and i'll do my best to either send an email with the poem in, or post it (or a link) in the comments thread on your blog (if you have one).

so, let the titles roll in...

p.s. i can't promise they'll be good > _ <

it keeps snowing

all different sorts of snow.

we have a new doctor

not that i don't love david tennant as the doctor loads, but i was nervous about the regeneration from christopher to david because, like so many new-who-viewers i hadn't lived through one yet. this time, knowing that there are still four hour-long specials staring david, i am super excited about the new face of the doctor. and steven moffat at the helm of the show! it's going to be excellent.

relative

marshmallow icing over a hot cocoa weekend with the tree down, in the pile with last year's carcass there is the thought- how romantic of your insides - to want to plant each holiday in the ground and metaphor the landscape into a future kind with artificial sweetener aiding in the continued inconsistencies of morning rituals and as you brushing your teeth afterwards, thinking about diatoms and how little you really care about environment unless it impacts the size of the jeans you buy or the taste of your afternoon snack. overall, i think you're too hard on yourself. here, have a piece of gum.

reply

"i fancy the hell out of you"

by way of reply to a "hello" kind of wave
across an isle of internet cafe in cambridge

the one opposite the little ice cream bar

"let me treat you" the hair falling over his left eye
cute, so i ask him "how?"

"what do you mean, how? with money"

"to what?"

he pointed across the street and smiled
a please-let-me smile.

sing song la low notes

sweet tie, twinkle like birds' eyes
in a medieval mirror - misshaped
but happy

about the sea side, a gull choking
on cold welsh rarebit

i've just had my hair cut, we've just met.
so i'm not wondering if you'll notice,
but other mischievous thoughts burden

the color of your temper
and the complexion of your breakfast rituals.

haunting me, wishful triangle
or circle sequence and a note
passes from one train car to the next

etched on the dry parts
of a used tea bag.

a lineage of doctor who cakes

since ryan revealed all the wonderment of doctor who to me back in... 04? (was it really that long ago!?), i've been adventuring with doctor who icons and cakes. yep. tasty delicious cakes ^_^

liz and i recently bravely entered into a new area of caking - we made fondant icing!

before i unveil the latest creation, let me roll you through past cakes...

first, was the Dalek Cake



i made a chocolate swiss roll from scratch, which was very very messy, but also very very tasty.

then, the TARDIS Cake



Ryan had a TARDIS shaped cake for his 3rd or 4th birthday, and asked for a reprise of such a beloved cake for his 26th (i think it was 26th). Kerry, Ryan's sister, and I toiled a bit to get the thing standing, and it didn't taste too magnificent, but it looked great, and the cupcakes did taste good--we we made out in the end.

then there was the Slitheen Cake



which, as you can see, looks like crap. BUT, it tasted brilliant and everyone enjoyed the green-colored, lemon-flavored wonderment of its insides, so I guess that's a win on one front.

then, the Cyberman Cake





he was made mostly of frosting. and although most people ate the cake out from under the super thick layer of gray marshmallowy fondant, it did taste incredible and i'd say he looks pretty amazing too. double win.

now... what's next?

some winter bard

startling though a joyous scene,
the sight of a sick man
dancing in the street

his feet caked in red mud
and bandaged stubs
where fingers should be

dancing and laughing
to the strumming and humming
of an old bard's song

the day before Christmas
amidst the shoppers and quarrelers
inspiring children and mothers

sewing the spirit's seed
through imaginary gardens
brought to life through the words

of a traveling bard with no name
and three children at his feet
chiming bells and trash can covers

snow (to be continued)

first, there was no snow.



and then there was. (looks like we even got some paper snow...)



lots of snow.







Jack looks surprised at all the white stuff.



or maybe he was scared, seeing has how he ended up in ryan's lap ^_^ kawaii!