Oh, the wind, the wind is blowing,
through the graves the wind is blowing

i was always under the impression that i've loved people more than they've loved me--that it was a blessing and a curse, but whatever it was, it was permanent. it occurs to me now that, with the exception of one, perhaps i've simply always loved those who are less expressive than i am.

i'm a disgrace to gardening and to raspberries.

there is zero concentration happening here.
zero zero zero
none

in typical Jewish fashion, behind every one of my happy moments is its mirror image of grief

yesterday, a resident of emma's building asked me whose granddaughter i am. the look on her face, when i told her, said, oh dear... oh dear

Pacinthe Mattar, associate producer at CBC Radio One, discusses her struggle with impostor syndrome here. Ignore the fact that the article unnecessarily stresses negative comments she received along the way--the condition is totally unrelated to level of support. Also, not included in the piece is what she said in an interview on Metro News Morning: that naming what scared her was a crucial part of her reconciliation with herself.

my hair smells like cilantro

the valleys

f's phrase of the week

It can't be an Iranian last name; Namir means "don't die": نمیر، بمیر، مرد

today's waterfall of droppage began with my beautiful bunny mug--which shattered into several pieces and left an ugly stain of ugly tea on an already ugly office carpet--and quickly spiralled out of control to include both the usual victims (pens, highlighters, mail, cell phone, security pass) and a few less-usual ones (a loaf of bread, a candy, a box of cookies).

my body, it seems, is rebelling against some unknown trouble in the form of unsteady, shaky hands--which is not (unfortunately for everything i own, and my clothing, and my office space), a rare side-effect, as the number of journal entries on this topic will prove.........

years ago, one of the judges for the CBC Poetry Prize commented on the abundance of mundane, unoriginal submissions. to write better poetry, she said, one must read poetry, too. but what happens when reading it throws you into fits of doubt, humiliation, depression...

friends have remarked recently that i'm crippled by the need to be formally acknowledged.
i guess i am.

i guess that means i'm stuck here..

because my mind is going places it shouldn't

i have to leave. i have to stop at the gas station. i need to eat. i need to go for a bike ride. i have to watch Luther. i need to talk. i need to make my loved ones laugh. i have to check on my raspberries. i have to sleep. i need to write. i need to write.