Eating words…

Finally—

reluctantly,

as if surmounting some daunting interior battle —

he began to speak to me…

Not in the jocular way of visitors to the menagerie,

but rather as one speaks to the wind,

or the waves crashing on the beach…

Uttering that which must be said,

but which must not be heard by everyone…

As he poured out his sorrows and self-recriminations,

he gradually forgot the need for caution…

— in Ishmael by Daniel Quinn

When I went to throw some more pots on the wheel the other day,

the same little girl came by to watch,

and I heard word that a migrating grey whale came right up into False Creek,

to give the Canucks a taste of its medicine,

a few hours before game time…

Real medicine requires a person to meet it half-way…

Don’t ask me where that line is,

or who draws it,

the answer must be inside somewhere…

In that same place,

as the line,

between reality and imagination…

When I was a little girl,

I had one of those tiny turntables,

beside my bed…

And someone had the insight,

to give me the story,

of Don Quixote,

recorded on vinyl…

Along with the Aristocats,

I listened to it over and over…

And on the drive out to White Rock,

to visit my grandma,

there was a Spanish house,

with a windmill in the yard…

I wonder who it was,

that decided talking to windmills,

while imagining a perfect world,

is problematic…

It sounds like a saner place of being,

than a king and queen,

forcing everyone in their country,

to be Catholic…

Or a small dark haired black-eyed man,

killing for a blue eyed,

blond haired nation…

In my perfect world,

the Stanley Cup finals,

are played out,

by the Canucks,

and les Canadiens,

and the media are left out of the conversation…

I read something in the Georgia Strait this week that was crazy making…

Seems that hockey players and their coaches aren’t saying the right things,

after losing games…

They either aren’t taking,

or giving,

enough credit…

On Wednesday night I noticed how the play-by-play commentators,

turned on Burrows,

like a pack of dogs,

after he committed an act,

that earned him time,

in the penalty box…

And then sang his praises a few minutes later when he got a goal,

and pumped the momentum,

for his team…

Contrary to certain beliefs,

I’ve also noticed the diplomacy,

each team shows for the other,

even after a scrappy game…

When you try to show up honestly,

and people still aren’t happy,

and they complain about what you are,

or aren’t saying,

to make their life easier,

so they can fill their columns,

it’s time to bring on the autism…

In my long life,

I’ve been given,

countless invitations,

to the table,

for conversations,

that other parties,

are not prepared to have…

And it has taken until now,

for me to realize,

that I can just close the door,

and walk away,

for the sake of my own sanity…

The last time I went to a Christmas party,

a man who smelled,

like an old raincoat,

rubbed his wineglass,

along my forearm,

and said,

while his buddy,

blocked the door,

You can’t leave,

you’re the best thing here…

As I held down the bile,

rising up in my throat,

I took a moment to wonder,

where people learn to do things like that,

exited stage left,

and stopped going to parties…

Yesterday I went to inquire about a cooking class,

on fermented foods,

and as I was waiting for the information,

I watched a man sitting at a table,

trying to captivate two young women…

He was one of those slick types who probably drives a Hummer,

works in sales and marketing,

and thinks athletic sex is the cat’s meow…

Please,

the only time I’ve ever heard a female rabbit scream,

was when a vet who had no clue,

how to handle rabbits,

pushed on her fractured spine,

as she flew out of my arms,

and landed on the ground,

in agony…

Mr. Slick was going on about manifesting from the kidneys…

I wanted to make,

a sideways comment,

about talking out of the ass,

but due to the fact,

that I was eavesdropping,

it really was none of my business,

to comment,

on raw sewage…

So I sent him a text message,

with my middle finger…

If I were a hockey player in the playoffs,

I’d play dumb,

when it comes,

to explaining anything,

that happens between men,

on the ice,

and stick to the new basics of blowing minds,

by coming up with moves,

for which there are no names…