(ballad of a thin man)

Is it Sunday yet?
I have a (sort of) date with Bob Dylan, and am ready to rip into the night with both teeth, ten fingers and whatever else is necessary. Insert sharp intake of breath here. Since burning Neil Young off my airy list of "to see before death", I've been hungering for Dylan and Cohen. One, two, three bold checks beside each groundbreaking name and then one facet of my life is complete. Dear Leonard Cohen, please grace Winnipeg with your presence and I will be forever indebted.

````

Have you ever dreamt of somebody, as-yet faceless/nameless who will serve you tea in bed, and smile when you wear deadened leaves in your hair? Somebody who will lay down in a golden wheat field with you and remain there for hours talking about both the least and the most significant things? Somebody who will scale a tree with you during that ashen hour just before morning slithers into existance? Somebody who likes cats and doesn't think that you are crazy when you talk to them for long stretches of time? Somebody that gathers you into their arms and loves you more when you suggest black olives and a bottle of merlot for dinner? I know I have.

The night starts here. I want to be reminded of summer, and of water and light and laughter and breath. I want to desire taking happiness in like tiny sips of air so that I might spread it out; prolongue it; keep it pristine as it is. I want worn wood and lanky windows and expanses of space and coffee brewing at all hours and bookshelves flanking every room and gargantuan closets and nights spent drifting by the fireplace and scandalously late breakfasts, and so on in a similar vein. I don't care if all these elements are shabby and small and worn and used and laughable. I think that they are exactly perfect and I wouldn't ask for any more or any less.

Off to make a living, all night every night,
RB.

cripple creek ferry(fairy).

Ever since I saw the godly Neil Young play last week, I've been on a steady and exclusive diet of his albums. He is good, he is better than good. I love him because of this, and because he reminds me of my parents and of my brothers. He reminds me to be hopeful; he reminds me to strip things down to their slimmest bones and look at them that way. I think that if fate would hand me even a skinny half hour with this man, I would buy him a coffee (or maybe a stiff scotch on the rocks), and take him on a frosty walk through downtown Winnipeg in the dusk. We would weave down Wellington to Sherbrook to Ellice to Albert, and our feet would maybe drag and our bodies shiver in the October chill, but our lips would move quickly, trading words. I would ask him questions and I would pray that he would answer. I'd question if he has always believed in love, and even if so (or if not) what bleeding it took to get him there. I have seen his wife, she is very beautiful. And also looks as if she would be quite a lovely individual. I hope so, it would trash my heart to see Neil with anybody less.

I think that my best nights are those involving red wine shared with other(s) and then tea shared with myself, and maybe a book and Devendra's soothing sounds at most. This eve I traipsed to Meg's pretty lair for Mexican eats showered with red wine and layers of secrets shared. It was exactly what I needed, she was exactly what I wanted. I have the most brilliant mum, but if ever I am clawing for an immediate surrogate, I know with instinct that Madge is my lady to go to. She takes care of me and tells me when enough is enough. She also tells me when to go to hell and tells me when she loves me most. And for all these things, and more, I love her most.

Janique, in all her radiance, joined us midway through said hangout. She greeted us, in typical endearing fashion, with coos and kisses and embraces and a fresh bottle of ruby red. We nestled all into one another, listened to records and tossed words around and watched Meg fold her laundry. All was well and there was a lot of hand-grasping and soft laughter. I appreciate those girls, very much.

I leapt onto my frail green bicycle for a lung-icing ride home through abandoned streets. Empty apartment, Harvest Moon lapsing me into relaxation, and hot licorice tea sliding down my throat. I think that this hours calls for no less than a three-hour bath and a sleep no more untouched than death.

This is where I say goodbye.
So goodbye, then.
Rebecca L.

.here's to you, Franny and Edie.

Melancholy
aviation
chocolate
perfume
cigarettes

(...Gainsbourg, C.)
----
How's this for a nighttime intermission? Due to an elongated afternoon nap, the hour is late latelate and I am awake as the fakey owl gazing into outerspace on my mantel. Fooling myself into tiredless is pointless, maybe I will slide into a hot bath instead? I kind of feel like brewing some tea and taking myself on a walk through blackened streets; rain-streaked pavement. I'd arrange my body, askew, against the watery grass and pull the sharp air into my lungs in greedy sips. The night air, espeically in autumn, is always the best air. It makes me feel as if nothing could ever touch me or hurt me or make me feel any less alive. Energy winding like thin unseen ropes against my skin; nourishment significant only to myself. Like absinthe coating my throat, except imagined not real.

Here is a reel for the eyes, miscellaneous as heck, from the past few days:

(l'apartment)




(falafel place, breakfast in the late afternoon light)


(new roommate, trish. babe.)


--photo cred, all, attributed to a mysterious photographer.

Eyes wide shut,
RB

take my body, hide it in a boat.

One year ago to this day, I stepped onto a plane bound for London. As I lay here now in my warmth-encased apartment, a wave of nostalgia ripples through my veins. I recall the torrent of emotions ripping my innards during that piece of time; that long-anticipated day. It was fear and hopefulness; trepidation and wonder and a liquid energy. Fragile as I was, I question now if, at that point of departure, had I known of the tears that would flow and the discouragement that would plague at times....would I have gone through with it?




I know I would have. Those two months saw me at my most pristine, my most inspired; but also at my lowest and darkest. I am blessed to have faux-sisters that were willing to weather all through with me, regardless of which extreme I was experiencing at the time. And for that I am grateful beyond words. Meg and Kit, you might as well be blood to me. Thankyou for your goodness; thankyou for tolerating my tired feet and my relationship cul-de-sacs and my stupid drunken questions and my inability to read any slash all maps and all the rain that fell from my eyes and my frailty underneath a backback and my yoga by night and my vegatarianism. You are la creme de la. Know. I will cut my throat if either of you ever change.



So thankyou again and over, continent that is Europe; you were a breathtaking teacher; ground-breaking actuallly. You roughened me up, and also you softened me. You whittled me down to the bones of myself, and you although you trampled on me at times and left me for dead, you also revived me, and brought forth a layer of life from within that I hadn't known was there.



It seems fititng that on the one-year anniversary of our wedlock with Europe, aforementioned trio would make a second pilgrimage to our shitstorm travel agent. We laughed; we poured over a map (this time of an altogether different slice of the world), we exchanged stories, we sipped coffee (black) from mugs usually reserved for construction workers and the like. I shed my dark eyes and sleepless haze; I found myself drawn into the excitement of what we are beginning to piece together. Ruthie is infectious; she has a heart of gold and pearl and amethysts and emeralds and whatever else is best and richest and purest. Adoration only, sent her way.




Shivering on the sidewalk this morning, coffee in white hands and wide-eyed with fatigue, I stood waiting for my ride Ruth-wards. The air was sharp and stiff, and its raw fingers aganst my lungs reminded me of a loose collection of things. Waiting for the school bus with my brothers in the barely-there morning light // sliding in next to a lover--passenger seat of rickety car, kiss hello on cool lips--thrusting shared coffee back and forth between one another's hands as we snake towards the open highway // solo walks through Wolseley towards the University--barely awake and thoughts whimsical. One, two, three...like electric surges, or gunshots. Perhaps a little bit of both.

As one of my most idolized writers has penned, and yes I know I have quoted this before, but bear with me it is shameless in its authenticity--
"Memory breeds memory. The very air is made of memory. Memory falls in the rain. You drink memory. In winter you make snow angels out of memory." (MacDonald, A.M.)

Memory breeds memory breeds memory breeds memory.
I could not agree more feverishly.
Its the grayest sort of day, and my candles have somehow burned down to nothing.
I've a closet to slash through and slenderize, wish me luck.
R. Louise.

PS.

Dear Devendra, can you make me your bride?






Or if not (and let it be said that I fully understand if you decide to make Meg your betrothed instead, she is a fox. and the truth is that we both have an insatiable fetish for you,) would you at least introduce me to this one?

Sincerely yours, Rebecca.

Dirt and soul (Bits of time).

It's a black winter night. I am nineteen. I am walking down a street glassed with ice and fringed in show. A tired smile plays at my lips as the air, frosty, licks at my exposed skin. Hands slip into rough wool coat pockets, and my steps quicken. The house on the corner is afire with light and sound. I move inside; voices twine all around me. Someone thrusts a glass of red wine between my fingers. I am grateful for it. I slither out of coat...boots...scarf...mittens and say an array of hellos. An unexpected shyness blossoms through my veins. There are one or three familiar faces, but more than most of the house strewn with bodies are those unknown to me. I like this, for some strange and hazy reason. It makes me feel safe; anonymous. My real reason for coming here tonight was to let myself breathe; peel myself from textbooks. Was it a foolish idea? Now I am standing here, body thawing out, feeling like an awkward baby colt on wobbly legs. I am netted within a web of strangers, and now what? And so I drink, quickly and so I will feel smoother. It's latelate December; skinny days before Christmas. There is a tree in the corner, nearby to where I find myself standing. Its smell is raw and refreshing, and vaguely intoxicating. There are candles as well; a ridiculous spread. The collection flung across the living room windowsill is interesting; religious paraphernalia. Fire licks against glass-streaked images of the Virgin Mary, her arms full of the Christ child; Jesus draped over the Cross; a rain of angels. I can't tell if they are meant to be taken seriously or in jest, but regardless, they reel my eyes in towards them. They fuel a memory; Catholic church service as a child. I fall onto my own planet of thought for a heartbeat, and the next thing I know a girl in a man's tattered dress shirt and a cigarette at her lips stumbles into me. I'm in the way. I apologize; melt to the other side of the room.

I'm curled in the corner of a couch, cool black leather. My friend who the house belongs to wanders over, an open bottle of red slung loosely in his left hand. He sits with me awhile, refills my glass to the brim, and we talk about my midterms, the hecticness of the season, the new girl he is dating. After a time he is gone; a tidal wave of life. I am alone again, but not really lonely. By this point I am relaxed; even; content to observe the swirling scene around me.

In the midst of watching a girl exhibit her newborn glittering engagement ring to a knot of people--"Hey, can I sit with you?" I flick my eyes towards the voice; so near although soft. You are there, and you are beautiful. You are a complete stranger to me. You are drinking something in a low, clear glass with ice. Gin, maybe?

I discover that Winnipeg is a very new city to you; you've barely grazed the surface of it yet. We talk about cafes, I tell you my favourites. We talk about dreaming at night, and whether we think it has any sort of meaning at all. Both of us think it does, but still, we agree, it's mysterious. We talk about old music and how the best sorts of days are the grayest ones and how walking alone at night down an empty street can feel so exhilerating. We talk about the obvious; how we aren't organically at ease within a crowd, and how we are happier and more fulfilled by a longer, intimate conversation than frantic snatches of talk with person after person.

I feel like I was made for this conversation; it has been years in the making. It fits flawlessly. I feel like there are a thousand things I want to say and ask you and share and have flow between us. I like your voice, and the words you choose, and the thought you visibly put into them. In a strange sense, in the edges of my mind, I am frightened of losing you...to another person passing by; to menial small talk; to the ocean of people. I can tell you want to hang on to me too; keep me here with yourself. It is a chemical reaction, and we share a magic not so subtle.

We talk for hours. The party yawns; quiets; sighs and deflates like a creature settling down for sleep. We are virtually alone now. The remaining few people crawling over the proximity of the house draw together as if magnetically; they draw towards us. Fuck. Neither of us want this. Yet we must embrace it, and gracefully. Or else what would that look like to the others around? It changes, once we're not alone any longer, inhabiting our own separate universe. All seems back to normal again, yet we are altered, the both of us. I realize my eyes are gritty with weariness, and the hour is immeasurably late. I've an exam to slash through in the morning, and already I'll be falling into bed dangerously close to sunrise.

The last thing I want to do is leave you, though. Our eyes speak volumes--
Stay here with me.
No...no, I can't. I shouldn't.
I know...we only just met...but please stay. Or leave, leave with me.
I...I want to. More than anything I want to. Its just that...
What? What is it? I'm scared too.
No, its not that. It's just that I need sleep, it seems so irrelevant I know, but...
Yeah. I know. Of course, it makes sense. I just couldn't help but...
I know. Me too. I want...
Me too.
Yeah.
Yeah...

Our goodbye is quick; to prolongue it would complicate. I thank my friend for having me. I say goodbye to lingering partiers one, two, three, six. You I leave for the end. Our eyes flash energy; daring us to let them speak again. But no, it's later than late and beyond time for me to go. You walk me to the door; a few others follow, innocently enough, thrashing around for footwear. Laughter falls all around us, but as far as either of us is concerned, none of it exists. We say nothing more; exchange no information; make no plan to see one another. And I'm glad. It seems that it would somehow strip this night of its naked perfection. And so I go; I turn and I walk out the door and into the dark. All I know is that I feel alive.

**

Indian summer; we sit against the river. My feet are bare. You lay on your back, eyes closed, soaking in the unexpeted warmth. We have tea, gray vanilla. The trees are skeletal, bare but for a few final bronzed leaves that still cling, defying the oncoming winter. You stretch over onto your side, and reach down to trail a finger over the skin of my foot nearest to you. It makes me shiver, but in the best sort of way. You ease your body up to sitting; pull me into yourself; lay your lips against my forehead. Its my sort-of favourite place to be kissed; you know it. My laughter is soft, and appreciative.

We talk about love. I have a slender amount to say; you have far too much. Our experiences are glacially opposite. But its okay. There is nothing we can change about that, and so we offer what we have to one another with an almost raw innocence. Afternoon light bleeds a shade less golden by degrees; somehow the hours have whittled themselves away and now its dusky dark. We lay there, backs pressing into the dock's dishevled wood, tracing the lines of one another's bodies. Eventually, we fall asleep.