Janina Ballerina - I am not your rolling wheels, I am the highway

I'm home.

BOOKS I BOUGHT ON MY TRAVELS:
Animal Farm - George Orwell
Lady Oracle - Margaret Atwood (novel)
The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie - Alan Bradley
The Gargoyle - Andrew Davidson

May 10th

I'm high above the world, or part of it at least.
Below, someone has mowed
HARPER
in large clumsy capitals in a field.

I imagine telling you about it.

I drink my third cup of coffee.
It's eight am. I've been up since 330am

My eyes are sandy, and "Blaziflor Et Helena" switches to "Gives You Hell."

She loves this song.

And I'm flying towards her.
Though, I won't see her.
The idea, the nearness is a comfort though.
And him?

"& truth be told, I miss you. & truth be told, I'm lying"

"Better luck tomorrow."
I whisper
as I shoo his ghost away.

May 11th

"looks like we're heading for a crash landing, like songs that say goodbye"

This place reflects me.
And today,
it's less lonely than I thought it would be.

At Night I was no less
[no more]
fitfull than usual.
But I didn't reach out for you, or your voice.
I reached within.
And I would drift off again,
knowing better than to reach out again for you.

I awoke as if hungover,
with a blistering bursting headache,
and my tongue felt furry.

Damn jetlag.

I showered.
I threw up.
I slept again.
I woke up
and you were barely there.

I saw you once today,
while in a book shop.
While in peace
but right now, perched on a quilt, in socks too big,
the sun finally appearing,
I'm good thanks.
You've been so quick to leave my system:
Are you just weak?
or am I stronger this time 'round?

*

Near the ocean
but not quite there yet.
24+hours here.
Why do I feel such trepidation?
It's water.
It doesn't know me.
Cannot judge me.
I think.
God, it's green here.
This place is so small town.
I feel the people my age looking at me.
What an oddity I must be.
They don't know me either.
I'm small town too.
I think.
I guess here
I'm a big city girl
impressed with the "novelties"
that make up their everyday.
I don't belong here with the locals.
I should be with the tourists.
I don't belong here
[not alone]

*

No one's love comes close to yours
Nothings what it was before.
My eyes are heavy
and my heart is sore.

*

I found a coffee shop, on a lonely walk with no purpose.
It's called the "Cha C'ha Java"

It's quiet. It's fun. It reminds me of Winnipeg.
I had a coffee.
I resolved to take a book with me next time I come.





May 13th
Raining.
I've learned something --
just because you love a place,
doesn't mean you belong there.
For that matter,
just because you love someone,
doesn't mean you belong together.
Or, even,
you don't always love what you need or belong to (belong with)
Sometimes it takes time, patience.
You just need to acknowledge that feeling, that voice that says:
ahhhhhhh
Need to know what it sounds like, that this feels different, because it is different




May 14th
Sunday Morning by Maroon 5 was the first song to play when I put my iPod on random.

"Back and forth/ we sway/ like branches in a storm."

I can still smell the ocean on me.
In my hair? No.
Feet? Hands? No.
It shall remain a mystery.
[in my heart?]

*

I am not a doll.
Nor am I a lady
British
Dainty
Proper
Quiet demur ivory fine chine
I am not a painting.

I never did much like playing tea party when I was little.
Maybe on occasion.
But not often. Not really.

Now, playing debutant or,
Proper Victorian British Lady
[ i think this the most fitting analogy]
i am smothered.

I've drunk countless and endless cups of tea
[only two sugars allowed]
ankles crossed, both feet on the ground [!!!!!!!!!!!!]

If I hear once more
"how pretty she is!"
"oh she looks so much like her mother!"
"oh Anna, you must be so proud of have such a lovely granddaughter!"
I will chuck this hand painted fine china at the wall
and grind my scone into the carpet.
As it is,
I smile charmingly, demure.
Lay my spoon on the saucer the way I've been taught
[Perpendicular to my body, behind the tea cup]
I endure my grandmother, whom I love dearly
adjusting my shirt
wiping my face
always being at my elbow.

I love her and spending time with her
but this is too much too many days in a row.

And now,
there is nothing I value more then my hour or two at night,
when I go for my walks alone.
In which I am,
as best I can,
young flirtatious and above all,
free.




That's all for now, I'll post more later!
(I took 1000+ pictures. I'm still sorting though them all. But all the pictures today are mine, from this past week)

I'll try to be brave like you

A foundling

He left himself on my doorstep,
abandoned in the shabby
basket of his own ribs.

My heart wept custard:
I took him in.

Warmed in the kitchen,
he swelled, absorbing.
He will not leave.
I am afraid to move him.

What should I feed him?

He never talks. He sits
in the middle of the kitchen floor
staring at the bright scars
traced on his body, fascinated.

At first
I thought that they were notched
on him by pain
but now I see

that they are only the coloured pictures
of places he once
lived, and think
that no-one else has ever been.

Sometimes, when Steven and I are driving,

we'll sing together, this song or that one.
Often:

"
The flower said I wish I was a tree
The tree said I wish I could be
A different kinda tree.
The cat wished that it was a bee.
The turtle wished that it could fly
really high into the sky
over rooftops and then dive deep into the sea.
And in the sea there is a fish
A fish that has a secret wish
A wish to be
A big cactus
with a pink flower on it.
And the flower would be its offering
of love
To the desert,
And the desert, so dry and lonely,
that the creatures would appreciate the effort.
"

I've spent my day waiting around for him to get home from work, so we can have dinner, then go to the carnival.
(First one of the year! YES!)
Expect pictures everyone!

























Close your eyes, clear your heart.
Cut the cord.
Are we human?
Or are we dancer?
My sign is vital.
My hands are cold,
and I'm on my knees,
Looking for the answer.






I'm sure sometimes, we all have that crushing, overpowering need
to just
get the hell out.
Hop on a bus
head downtown.
Establish ourselves,
be independant,
be happy.

Are you happy?
Are you alright, dreaming of home,
in your own safe bed?
Do you close your eyes and see me
like that day?
You on the ground,
eyes to the sky,
me shaking if mirth,
on my knees to help you up?
Do you see as that,
or do you see me as my nightmares?
Taken over, small and glass.
Somedays I can't be sure
which you think I am.
Somedays I'm not sure which I actually am.
Somedays I want to sneak out my window,
because someone threw rocks at it.