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)

Last post for a week

The Jar - Susan Minot (From "Poems; 4am)
I took the man out of my jar
I thought, That's no place for him to be.
That's no man to be in my jar.
I took him out
and the song went out of me.
And the tree trunks, hit by the rising sun
and the shape of his teeth
left.
It was for my own good that I took him out, you see
[After a looting, after a theft]
He was an insult to my affections.
I took him out and
his voice was gone,
and every sound changed but one-
the beating sound kept beating on

At first I was relieved.
I took him out and took out pain.
I thought, My jar will be ready for
a new set of teeth.
The slowly that drained out, too:
the relief.

So there it sat, my jar on a sill
with nothing to sing about. Quiet, still.
A jar on a blank page, a jar on a roof
with nothing inside it and nothing to prove.

So I launched it. Out to sea.
A jar set adrifting, a jar on a wave.
A jar on the ocean, far from the shore.
Miraculous. Buoyant. Able to float.
but useless and empty and floating by rote.

No sound but the little tin pecks
of the waves on the glass.
My jar bobbed further and further
out to sea
till the water grew so large
and silent around it
that it was lost to me.

Hey bright eyes.
If I could have your heart,
[as you so suggest]
I would;
but for now, I'll settle for your head on a platter.
You're my paper weight.
You make me want to write
You make me feel unnervingly safe.
And now I fear I've ruined everything.
When I act on impulse,
when my temper gets the worst of me.
When I open my mouth
or close my phone.

[Sometimes I wish I could read your mind - what an unfair advantage that would be.]
And if you fly away, never to come back again, I wonder if you'll think of me.
Will you see my face in coffee shop windows,
on the bus, in the park;
my hair my nose my arms my inkstainedfingers
will you catch glimpses?
Seeing a young women writing on a notepad,
or bending down to pick dandelions?
A curly haired lady striking a match? An I♥NY shirt?
A book of poetry, a cherry stem;
will you think of me?

Will you think of me
even half as much
as I'll think of you?

Absence leads a heart to wander.
And though I, which withstand the
change of days, stay,
you shift and break and scatter.
What shall I do my dear?
Chase and gather the fragments of you,
as I know that is what you wish.
I suppose I'm to put those pieces back together too?
I suppose too, that I shall do so without complain.
It's who I am.
And it's not who you want.

May 9th, o9

Packing light.
I want to leave everything behind me.
Can't let you slip into my suitcase somehow, can't let you follow me out
Toss a shirt in- I remember how you liked it, fingering the fabric - toss it back out.
[I've spent all my years in believin' you, but I just can't get no relief]
I can't even decide if I should put my own broken pieces in.

I lost the rhythm of this place.
It's continuing, I feel the pulse,
but I can't seem to keep up myself,
I can't find the beat.
[Should I change lotions I wonder? I recall who you would smile when you caught the scent of this one]
I look forward to seeing and being with the ocean salt, once again.
Maybe if I sleep with my window open, I won't think of you
or dream of him.

Do you even like the sea? The island? The markets, the trees, the way the sun and rain are one?
Did you even know it's a piece of me, or that the air lets me sleep easier than here?

My Travel Books:
Poems; 4am - Susan Minot
Selected Poems - Margaret Atwood
Anne of Green Gables - L.M.Montgomery
In Arabian Nights, A Caravan of Moroccan Dreams - Tahir Shah
Inkheart - Cornelia Funke

Books, Books, Books, Writing, You, Books.

Good Day.
I am, in shorts.
What with my obsession with warm weather lately?
Like i said, Spring fever.

Rooftop nights.
I feel your body's heat

through clothing, air, and more clothing,

as we do not touch

skin to skin

just yet.

Tree tops are bare still.
Cold grey arms reaching

up and out.
Lights beneath them

illuminating, enhancing.

The railing is cold

under bare arms.
Mine, and I assume yours.

We measure our hands against

eachother.
Funny.
Your arms are now more real than the ones below.
Funny.
I always fancied my hands large, 'til now.

You smile and say
"Being so high and in the wind, blowing your hair about,

you look like a nymph my dear."

I say,
"I like the freckle on your forearm"

Dear Fellow Writers.
What does your space look like?
Or spaces, as many of us have.

I must say, although my room is well equipped:
-Good chair
-Bullentin Board
-Book area
-Several Dictionaries, Thesaureses and Grammer Use Guides
-Good lighting;
I just cannot seem to write in it.

I find I always write better in the classroom, or outdoors.
Why, you ask?
In the classroom, there is either the constant do something energy, or the be quiet fill your time with your own thoughts energy. It has a clock, to keep me slightly motivated. Whatever subject I am in adds to the truth in my content, and the people around me to the characters. The chairs and desk, allbeit uncomfortable at times, are a good height for writing.
Outside, there is life
...need i say more?

Why books make the best gifts:

Books last forever.

A hardcover book costs less than:
A pair of brand new jeans, of moderate quality.
One steak from a fancy restaurant.
2 or 3 Venti what-ever-you-drink from Starbucks
2 Packs of Cigarettes
One Quarter of the lastest, greatest "Kicks"
A medium sized box of chocolates from Laura Secord.
A boquet of nice flowers.

A paperback costs less than:
One tube of good lipstick.
A modest meal for two at Mickies
A Brand New Cd
A Pair of Earrings

And besides,
if we, the people who call ourselves writers,
do not buy books,
Who will?

Last annoying writing note.
Today, several times,
I had to correct my english student teacher.
She doesn't use imply and infer correctly.


Imply: To suggest or indicate
Infer: To conclude or assume.
I imply that I have an issue with people misusing words. And you infer that I am OCD and a crazy grammer bitch