39 days til we move

Jacob is at the Buzadi's. With Henry. It turned cold. They are in Etobicoke. A drive away I am about to make. Larry was mad because I always act superior he said about how he is attached to things and I am not. And people, he said, unfairly. Which I pointed out. But we didn't talk about.

I was lying down in bed. My heart was hurting from the argument we had, which the second round was no yelling but he described how I was talking to him like a litany. Only he didn't use that word.

It's hard to write about the heart usually. Usually it comes out all cliche. But it was hurting because I was thinking, this is the person I love? And I was thinking I wish he would come to get me. That's the best sign, when the person you loves comes to get you. And I heard him approaching but it was just him on the way to the bathroom.

But then he did. And he said that. About me always acting superior and hating it. And left. But I said to come back. And he came back. And I said thank you for telling me how you feel.

There was going to be a good ending with an insight about the heart but now Larry is cooking something and keeping talking to me and also I have to go get Jacob in a minute. And I can't remember what it was.

Long time no blog

Larry had a job interview. It went well. Getting ready he pulled down some jeans from the closet he didn’t wear in ages he forgot about that look really nice on him he wore to it. Larry is magic. We were at the Pinery last week and he was making these beautiful ornate funny drawings of nature parts. Bugs, flora, creatures. Larry is listening and hearing the call, his call.

Sometimes I feel like a grabby, clingy bedridden old man. Kids are grabby too. I think I remember remembering not to be that way. To take something given with grace. Feeling the transferring from their hand to mine.

At work Tina’s hands are red. Her husband is a cook and she always has a good lunch. It’s some kind of psoriasis on them. I am thinking I wonder if it’s something Tina is eating causing it, looking at her every day her husband making them for her seeming so nice lunches. Amy said, “Oh you’re not wearing your new ring,” to Tina. Tina said she took it off because she’s always putting cream on her hands pausing, alluding to the problem of her hands. The way Amy said it like it was so nice I got the impression the ring was expensive and had diamonds in it. Maybe because Amy wears jewellery like that.

Larry said the reason they’re not accepting your work at the literary magazines is because it’s different. They’re not used to work like that. I said I didn’t think of it that way, but thank you. Listening.

x-rated

Poor Iggy has sex on the brain. Lilu doesn't get it; his constant sniffing at her nether regions; the distracted, nostril-flared dazed look on his face; the neck pinning and pelvic thrusts.

She visits me, I think for assurances, more often than she did.

I don't know if Iggy gets what's going on either.

Some months ago, we set Iggy's appointment with the vet for the snipping, except it's not snipping anymore - its laser surgery, for the last weekend of May.

I don't know if we're going to make it.

Love

Sigh.

Love, love, love. Love, love, love.

Isn’t that how that Beatles song goes?

Jacob was having one of his nightmare things last night, a light one. From out of sleep he joined us in the living room Larry surfing playoff hockey, basketball and watching some Blue Jays too.

To distract him from his brow scrunching bad visions Larry told him the Blue Jays were winning 4-2 in the 8th. In response Jacob switched his bad dream vocalizations to numbers. Six-six, four-two, he mumbled with more anxious trepidation, the numbers taking on the same bad meanings.

Our strategy to help him out was talking to him in normal voices he wasn’t hearing very well because of the dominating bad dream interference going on his head. I said, leave the door open, as he left the living room to return to bed. But he was closing it so I repeated it until he heard.

If there’s anything you need just call, I said. Then fast he said, love. I need love.

If only my blog entries were more socially relevant

We went out for an art walk yesterday. The funnest stop was at Paul Petro. Andrew Harwood had a show in the upstairs gallery called Psychic Friends. He was dressed in character as a drag queen Madam Zsa Zsa. The lighting was blue. He had his face covered in a veil. There was a swirling disco ball globe in front of him for his crystal ball.

What I liked about him was his intimacy. I was very comfortable with it. It made me realize I am like that too.

Since I know astrology well, I could feel Cancer energy about him. Cancer energy can be the most intimate. It’s water and it’s mother energy. I asked him his birth data and I was right. His Moon is in Cancer as is his Jupiter.

He needed you to get physically close to him to do his “readings.”

He was treating them like they weren’t serious and a joke but also like they were serious. He would say the colour he saw in relation to the question you were asking him. Having a methodology, seeing colours, means seriousness.

Since I am an Aquarius and my masculine side dominates my feminine in an (in my case) unhealthy way, I’m often in my cool aloof Aquarian side. But being with him, like I said, made me realize part of my strength is in my moony Cancer side. Except I’m always hiding and diminishing it.

When I went back on the street in the sunshine outside of the blue light I realized it’s my fear of men often knocking me out of that intimate side. All the scary men and my fear that I can’t be myself around them , that I have to succumb to their perspectives and needs, is how I get knocked out of that intimate side of myself and into my distant Aquarian head.

Also I am reading some literary blogs and feeling very stupid. People organize their thoughts in ways that don’t have the same kind of scope my astrological perspective does.

I’m scared it means they’re better and I don’t belong.

This Seder

For our Seder, in the kitchen between the main course and desert, after using the bathroom, Jenny, my mother in law complimented me on how clean the toilet bowl was. How did you get it that clean? She wanted to know, her voice in awe.

Really, I was thinking of an answer to her question. I was formulating it. The answer. But getting stuck. What I’d done to get it that clean really wasn’t that incredible. Realizing this made me think Jenny must also know that what I had done to get the toilet bowl the way it was really wasn’t that incredible.

While Jenny was in the bathroom she also cleaned the mirror I noticed after the fact, later in the evening after she’d left. Because I had Larry buy some Windex so I could clean it then I couldn’t figure out how to get it spraying then I went on to do some other house preparations for the Seder and forgot about it.

Then it was clean and I asked and Larry didn’t do it. No one else would have done it. No one else would be so presumptuous. Only the word presumptuous doesn’t come close to what Jenny does. Conversely the word bristling perfectly describes my response to how she acts. Other times, in the past, while visiting and using the bathroom she’s also cleaned the sink, the tap nozzles and the counter surrounding the sink.

Finding myself

What if a viable strategy to infiltrate the Toronto literary scene was to mill in crowds at literary events in such a photogenic manner that the crowd scenes photographer wouldn't be able to resist snapping pictures featuring me? And when enough of these pictures accumulated some kind of numerical function would automatically kick in, like daylight savings time, giving me instantaneous publish-ability.

I found this picture of me talking to Larry on Open Book Toronto's Facebook account.