The Boy Is Back

My family is back after a week away. I shed tears of joy at the train station, seeing my little boy. He smiled and turned away and smiled and reached out. I tell you, my heart is his.
    I am the luckiest guy alive, my lady is a great mom and an awesome person. Together we made a child that smiles hugely.

Food First

Hamburger, fries and beer for lunch. Coffee and two croissants for breakfast. An orange somewhere in there. Water. Two shots of fine whiskey.
    Rearranged my office again. I'll be facing into the open space now. I discussed writing with a writer. How the needs necessary to complete a project must be met above all else, within reason. I agreed with his suggestions.
    I share old artwork on social media. I enjoy the likes and the responses. It makes me feel relevant in a seedy way.
    Went to supper with a friend. Vietnamese soup. Smoked a pinch of grass and drew three drawings while listening to music.
    Walked home, bagels, cheese, salami and apple juice.
    I better get some more worked done in the morning.

The House

I'd take that corner out, smooth the edges. Knock the ceiling higher and clean the stairs. Rip out extra useless features and streamline that space between floor and wall. Redo the floor in hardwood, seamless. Windows open into extended patios, stairs to the roof where the deck awaits, vines growing over the whole area, making groves where tarpaper once was. Drain pipes leading right to the garden, grey water flowing back into the soil. Front door opens onto the street where friends can find us sipping tea and reading comics, can come up and join us, bringing with them juice and bagels.
    I have a room with a door and a window, the window is large and opens well, letting summer breezes rustle my papers. The door lets me in and invites others out when I need to work, otherwise sit on the daybed and chat with me while I sort through some details. My room has a desk in it, grande with cubby holes and pigeon holes and drawers for my things. One walls is lined with bookcases filled with my precious volumes, my tattered research materials and my collage piles. Another wall keeps my jars and collections. Filing cabinets keep my papers, my mock-ups and my manuscripts. I think I'll get a small table here so we can sit together and collaborate. Clients can visit and we can discuss projects.
    There is an altar in this room spilling with the objects that inspire me, it's near the window and gets dusting often enough.
    The kitchen leads into the garden of course, herbs abounding and vegetables a step away. There is a brook nearby leading to the lake. She goes swimming every morning.

Reading

Write a word, a phrase. Followed by another and another. I'm not convinced. All I want to do is read. Summer windows wide open, stacks of books beside the couch, in my lap, cool water and fruit in a bowl. Reading theory and history and folklore, science fiction and fact, fantasy and myth, Gorging on it, drowsing as if with too little beer. Luxuriating as if no one will call, for hours, for days.
    Roll me over, call me for supper, pour me a drink again and again, I have notes to take, breaks maybe for coffee and dreamy walks.
    Let the words flow into my sleep, let me start with a nod and try again to polish off the chapter before I lay the text, splayed open, on my chest.
    My yearning pulls me here, to this desire. So simple that if indeed I had days to squander, I'd be a fool and seek diversion elsewhere, forgetting this one true love and seeking distraction in some shiny, moving thing.

Slow Walking Thanks

To walk streets slowly is a gift. Every step intentional, every sidewalk crack another line in a vast sprawling poem that each new walk reveals another stanza of. The houses, the homes, the buildings themselves creak with character. The hockey stick garden posts, the porch furniture sagging, the paint jobs and the rusting banisters, bicycles teamed up like herds, chained to each other. The chalk drawings on walls and in alleys, on sidewalks are all blessings. The children are safe and they can scribble, they can add to and better the ill thought out sprayings of their elders. They can write games, inviting slow walkers to take note, reminding fast walkers to slow down. Where are you rushing off to ? Yoga ? Coffee ? Don't rush to where you can slow down. Slow down all the way there.
    The trees are waking up. The blossoms cascade over lawns. There are book boxes, sharing spaces, places that reaffirm our humanity. There are so many things to give thanks for every step on the long way roundabout  towards home. Gratitude comes with breathe, with slow and careful steps. Thank you.

Keep Going

Don't walk into the lion's den. Look straight ahead and avoid the bars, make a beeline for the bus stop. Go home. Do not get tempted by the lights, the thought of one last drink. It will only unravel you, it will send you down, you'll probably vomit, get into a fight, make a scene.
    It will bring danger.
    Danger seeps out from every night spot. Don't turn your head right or left unless you're crossing the street. Wait for the light. Breathe deeply. Cross like a lawful citizen. Hold it together. No snacks, no drinks, do not respond to the threatening teenagers or the calling ladies. Go straight home.
    Do not ask anybody for a cigarette. Do not respond if someone asks you for a light. It's ok to be a jerk just this once. Get going.
    Ignore everybody around you. The only thing on your radar should be cop cars. Don't walk too fast or too slow. Keep breathing, you're almost there. Almost free from this horrible place. This Saturday night hell downtown.
    Don't walk into the lion's den. There be dragons. No eye-contact tonight. One foot in front of the other. To the bus stop.
    On the bus you can relax your shoulders, you can sigh relief, you can slump down in your seat, you can even let yourself nod off though you'll be awake for hours to come.
    Just get home, no distractions. Keep going.

33° Burns

When I turned thirty three years old I was six years past the age I thought I'd be when I got my shit together. For some reason twenty seven was the magic number. It popped into my head in my late teens as the marker when I'd be what I was destined to become. It sounds good to a younger person. Still young but far away enough to continue being a little dumb ass.
    All I did at that age was actually move out of my parents house. One maybe hoped for something more dramatic, something beyond the 'well, you should do that anyway' category. It was a step for me. I had friendly support and the change was made. Moving out allowed me to no longer crash on the floors of my friends who lived downtown. It also allowed me to have people over to my place, which I rarely did. Jesus Christ, six short years later I moved back in with my family.
    My father convinced me, he is very convincing at times, how awesome it would be to move into the building he bought. I could run the shop he opened, live upstairs from it and never stray too far. I bought it hook line and sinker. It was a tug, for sure. My mother was very clear that I didn't have to do this. I should have listened to mom. Well, I didn't and the lure of low overhead won out. And what was I doing with my life anyway ? I was making bits of art while unloading trucks and pricing stock at a downtown record store chain. I had two university degrees that occasionally worked out at parties but I was not using my so-called potential.
    I ran the shop. I still run the shop. I moved into the bigger apartment in the building when it was vacated. I did so in anticipation of a future girlfriend maybe moving in with me. Now we both live with my family so to speak. We enjoy the perks of a low cost of living along with the agony of being between a rock and a soft place. How does one untangle the lines, move to another place, away from the business we've claimed as our own and made fancy ?
    Today, almost twenty years later, the conundrum reverberates in my heart every day. We have a great apartment that is too noisy at times above a business that looks better than it operates. In the heart of a great neighbourhood surrounded by the best community anyone can ask for and yet…and yet. Gratitude exercises come and go, privilege is seared into every mouthful I eat, kids making noise in the alley is constant. The traffic outside my door will never ever stop. I'm middle aged and I can't help but feel I took the easy way out in this life, the road paved with minimum effort. I live in my father's house which means I haven't built my own yet. That lost hobbit hole I dreamed of as a kid.
    I am not a carpenter like he was, I'm kinda handy but not so much. I've learned a thing or two about odd jobs and upkeep. I open the bill envelopes when they come but have a hard time saving any money. My mother warned me about planning for the future, I told her things would work out. Somehow they have worked out but on their own terms not on mine. I've left life to do it's thing and only recently have awoken to the fact that I'm the one steering this clunky boat.
    At thirty three you're either crucified or given honorary degrees. I retreated into my nest.
    At forty six all I can think of are my fifties. So how does one steer a near lifetime of passivity into total action ?