the mE
february 2001
aka the Lyrics of my Life


Tuesday well-slept, February 27, 2001

the possibility exists that these people who buy good croissants
don't really know the difference between a good croissant and a
bad one. maybe they simply choose them because that is what is in
the store, in a sheepish manner.

while sitting in silence, i realized that my memories of Sandy
are only getting older. that she may have been much smaller than
i remember; that she exists now, only our memories and that
even those may not be accurate. the way we feel about her is set
in stone, however.


Wednesday hump day, February 21, 2001

why do we continue to re-hash the same personal and societal faults over and over again? "Alice got her strength from the inside" yet we still have to sing about it. how many decades of treating her badly will it take before we're past that one? everyone knows where the most important strength comes from. how many times must we re-hash it before we move on? how many decades do we have to sing to ourselves before we all believe that we all believe the things we all believe???

i'm watching our language disintegrate from the inside, too. (perhaps the two come hand in hand) - hearing the meteorologists call themselves 'meteologists' and the eLearning course talk consistently of 'hi-archies' - i'm weakened at the knees merely pronouncing those words out loud. Why, i cannot explain. i can live with 'wassup' 'hiya' 'hey' even! - some forms of communication have changed, we've become lazy, formalities are no more. we invent new words, that's OK. but destroying real words, that bothers me. let's not get into what the schools must (or not) be teaching.

(poots jumps off her soap box)


Monday, February 19, 2001

for today, read this
Spotlight on Maya Angelou


Sunday, February 18, 2001                        having time, she says.

time is a precious thing; more powerful than power itself.
you don't have the strength to stop what you are doing right now
and change the way that you are using your time; or shall i say
how it is using you. but once the time comes for you to have more time, your thoughts will change - priorities shift - goals rearranged - clarity sharp - and all of a sudden the power of time lets you know who is the boss.

should i bother fighting the natural ebb and flow of time's tiny tentacles?

poots stretches each arm to the right and the left in a ballerina gesture
using the grace she learned as a child to express in a private way, a beauty and quality to herself that is difficult to find in the public world these days. reminding herself of yesteryears, encompassing all that is lost in a sea of a time-less (no pun intended) followers, she sits crouched on her cushion thinking of artists who also care - or do they - and wondering if perhaps is it indeed, a kind of timeless art form that perpetuates the mania that is breathlessly running towards empty technologies and click,click,clicking away all this precious time?

she has the time now, to say she does. the time to wipe clean the slate and reset the buttons. the time to foresee a lack of time; the time to ponder time. it's an irony that's not lost on her. it's a commodity less precious than none, yet held by so few. perhaps, as my father said, it's just another mechanism in our elaborate scheme to avoid thinking about death - right up there with buying and selling our stocks.


February 12, 2001

how to summarize a day?
name the people that i met
name the ones i'll not forget/
name the ones who disappointed,
name the feeble or anointed
name the ones whose praise i sung
name the ones to whom i clung
name the simple and complex;
name the ones who seemed perplexed.
name all those who seemed to know
what it takes to help me grow!

February 05, 2001                       the woes of a first world country

port sauce on duck breast, everyone knows i love to cook. on page two are demoted the dead, the maimed, and the missing. the snow comes, it's cleared, and it will go. i drive the decarie and simultaneously compose prose while liszt plays. yesterday, i heard they took away the foreign tax credit for purchases in quebec. another brick not in the wall. the structure will only hold itself up much longer, i'm afraid. i'm not in negative mode; but some realities are worth facing, even for an eternal optimist like me. i do believe they may destroy this place, in spite of themselves. such are the woes of a first world country. here, they raise the price of gas on payday. we pay. we send our blankets overseas, we pray for them. perhaps we were more grateful when we too, had God. i'm certainly glad they still do.

February 2, 2001          winter continues...

her shoulders are on their way down, down, down. tossing and turning at 4am doesn't do a body much good, says she, she of olive green pants. she plows through a shrunken winterized city unplowed by many, to offer lifts and borrow money; to imbibe green tea and cashew shrimp, these 'plats vietamiens' that her child abhorred the mere existence of without even knowing of their existence. slip sliding away, her soon ex-car glides left into a dead-end street - but alas - where is the dead end here? her gaze alights on what takes her breath away, what is the miracle of miracles in the city, what few notice she wishes more did... thirty meters away climbs a steep white slope up up up, up into a white sky. the world is white now. or is it? who said those trees belong here?? who said they could stay? who said that they cannot remind her of everything everyone should ignore, of only the beauty inn this world? who cares if the car gets stuck, here.

she discusses the fabric with Mme. Olga, presents herself to M. Toubel, discusses the south of France and pottery, packs up her mittens and heads along her way. click click click. and how does it all link together, it's a fascination of being a part of the beat, a sense of if i'm here then i'm alive. from clip-art to the and then the whole world round again to something called eBiz. again, something which did not always exist. much unlike the spindly trees she admires so deeply, the breath of fresh air that the mountain wheezes into us all, not everything always existed - only the omnipotence of it's potential, and the continued sense that the ice cubes in my glass may very well contain some molecules that Christopher Columbus threw into the ocean. it's a sense that the Holy Ghost within us all needs to know more clearly, and one that this one doesn't understand how they miss.

it's exactly what i write here, it's why i write, who i write for, and what i hope to instill. that's all.

From the pain, comes the dream.
From the dream, comes the vision.
From the vision, come the people.
From the people, comes the power.
From this power, comes the change.

-- Peter Gabriel, Fourteen Balck Paintings

photos of LA

Poot's place

copyright Poot's Place 2001