emotional present

i guess i am actually living in the emotional present. it's just that my present now includes my past.

Spanish-Guitar-Love

Local guitarist John Goulart played at the Banff Library's 60th Anniversary celebration. I requested Asturias and he obliged. What makes me love that piece so much? Auditory embroidery. Restraint followed by momentary release. Invisible additional fingers coaxing resonance from strings - plucking, stroking, striking vibration into polished wood. Asturias transforms me into a plush creature, limp and alert, eyes closed and pores open. My skin drinks the sound. Thanks, João! www.johngoulart.com

listening

To get to my Wild café, I cross the frozen Bow. Mukluks bark against snow. The TransCanada calls out with its rolling rubber voice, and Banff Avenue answers in a rush of grinding gears and tight brakes. North-bank raven croaks to south-bank chickadee, comparing notes. At the vertex of this verge-of-the-wild X, a piece of watercolour-washed sky has fallen.

the morning of no poem

Too tired to introduce myself.
Too sleepy to say "soy".
Too bruised to heave meaning from words.
Yet the register chunks open,
the tea flows,
the Burleys chug up,
the noise grows, and still,
caffeine clunks the sludge from everyone's heart
but my own.

still recovering, Catholic

Black box atop the split log bench beside the Old Crag Cabin. Like a radio from an old car pulled from the dash and turned on its end. A sticker on the underside exposes a matrix of red dots, forms the curve of a wavelength, a single rise and fall. What was it? I never looked. Another dog. This one tied to a Burley, rigged for running.

lick or stick?

My stickers are unstuck. Sticky stuck a stick of unstuck stickers. Stuck? Stick or get sick. Suck or get unstuck. Sticker stickiness. Where to stick? Stick me. Peel and lick. Ick. Just stick.

last temptation of the recovering Catholic

Writing about guilt. How quickly the old Catholic credos return! Not since 16 have I attended mass, yet the words came easily: "I confess to Almighty God/and to you my brothers and sisters/that I have sinned through my own fault" et cetera. Poem began with "I should be wearing a wimple/instead of this velvet hat./No time for hairstyles/on my rush to the altar/of writing." Then visited The Last Temptation. Found a westsuit, a shower curtain, and a silk brocade handbag. Sweet absolution! http://www.banffthrift.com/

parked filmmaker

Same day -- I ran into Karen McDiarmid at Wild Flour. She's one of the extraordinary women of Banff and, among other things, a filmmaker. She's part of the Tara Café Project http://www.taracafeproject.ca/shiningspirit.htm. They created Shining Spirit, a film about a Tibetan family reunited to make music. Jamyang Yeshi, one of the Tibetan musicians was with her. I had been listening to their CD for years without knowing it had been conceived and produced locally.

A café with great Karma

Next day--where the dog had been, now lay a formerly-red wool blanket. The faded pink fibres draped from the top step to the next step down. A rectangle of old cardboard duct-taped to the railing read, "Feel free to allow your dog to sit on the blanket to keep it's (sic) bum and paws warm. *The Wild Flour" It's that kind of place.

the parked dog

I watched a cross-breed dog parked behind the Old Crag Cabin on the wooden steps above the cold flagstones. His German Shepherd hips sat on the top step, his front paws one step down. He never took his dark eyes off the café line-up beyond the picture windows. Regularly, his black nose twitched: could he smell Chai through the glass? He lifted one front paw, then the other, waiting. I was fascinated by the long wisps of fur that extended out from within his triangular ears. I thought of lynx, and my dear friend whose eyelashes spring from her tear ducts.

Back at 'er

Writing alone at home, the only feeling I can hurt is the kettle's, when I splash water into its empty eye. But writing in public has its demands and today I didn't meet them: I was grouchy to one of the café staff. Sorry. I was anxious and sleepy.
After a month's break, Mom and I are still eating raw meat, it seems. Started a new poem, too, about her expression for "get to the point". Gazed out the window at a parked dog, and at the trees on the walls (in acrylic by Véronique Gay-Fraret Bottaro). Left to buy dental floss

wild rice in the porridge!

And Gabby smiled into my London Fog. Writing about my-mom-and-mandarins widened another of my heart-cracks. I used the re-used the recycled brown napkin to dry my eyes.

P.S. Charles Noble launching Sally O: in the Betsy Sense of the Word tonight http://charlessnoble.com/books.htm.

dutch licorice rooibos: the sequel

Sat near the window in my long-johns. Was wearing pants over them, of course. Lovely, lovely staff replaced my drink even though t'was I who'd forgotten to say "soy". Fear commandeered my pen. Sometimes the creative journey is like that. Will remember ahimsa and try again tomorrow.

Day What?

Missing many free beverages due to illness. Felt like I should call Wild Flour to justify my absence. Lungs still gurgling as a I juggle words in my head.

Day 3: Dutch Licorice Rooibos

B's beautiful blonde hair was down. Someone was sitting in my spot but not for long. Fat snowflakes melted on the flagstones while I wrote about eating raw meat with my mother.

Day Two: Decaf Americano

Manager B tempted me with maple-syrup-spiked espresso. Eschewed caffeine in favour of a decaf Americano + more cream and organic raw sugar than would strictly be approved by Health Canada. Thought I was exhausted but managed to douse another love poem before going to Banff Tea Co. to work on a new tea blend I'm creating.

Day One: Bow River Hot Cereal+Rooibos La-tea

Bow River Hot Cereal is a gluten-free, hot cereal with stewed fruit. The La-tea is steamed soy milk with loose-leaf rooibos tea from Banff Tea Co. steeping in it. Did you know that Italy has the highest number of Celiacs in the world? The manager of my chosen café, Wild Flour, told me that. I wrote the first draft of a love poem. A great antidote to the bitter-love-destroyed poem I wrote pre-registration