Zap in Crisis: May 2015

This piece started as a writing exercise when I was getting to know a beautiful, too-tall-for-me-woman by the name of Josie. That was back in 1993. A time when I was 3 years out from a humdinger of a break-up with another woman. I thought writing about the roller-coaster ride I was experiencing with Josie could, in the end, at least give me something to take away from our relationship.
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November 9

I've just eaten light
I can feel it shooting out of every pore
Sparks all around
My skin is lava
I've eaten light
The kind that can make a sagging spirit soar.

I've just tried going to sleep and cannot. I've taken off my t-shirt 'cause I feel alive. There's something about being wanted that seems to keep me wide awake. Bristling with energy. I haven't felt this way many times before; in fact, the first time I felt this way I was completely unaware of what this feeling was.

I could go for a very long run right now. Or maybe talk to you until 5 a.m.

I feel very lucky to have run into you and no matter what you say to the contrary, I think we're headed in only one direction.

I don't know how I've (we've) come to invest so much emotional energy in each other. I just remember a friend once saying that the best friendships begin serendipitously. If nothing else, I've always had this on my side -- serendipity. The ability to make valuable discoveries by accident.

You mentioned the poetry reading: I should mention to you that I have never looked at you, even once, from head to toe. The only thing I do remember is the curve of your foot, as I sat to your right and the cut of your shoe and, I'm not superstitious, but your foot, I noticed, was pointed in my direction. This is all I remember of you at the reading. At the time it did not mean anything except as a still image. Now, it's burdened with all the meaning in the world.

I can't sleep. I can't sleep. I can't sleep!

November 10

Just got off the phone with you and it just occurred to me that I have been looking for you everywhere. I have been looking for three long years. I have sent e-mails and post cards, I've picked up phones and listened for messages that I hoped would stop my heart. I have talked about one thing or another, hoping that a spirit, your spirit, would be sitting there waiting for me to unfold myself. I've looked into crowds, thinking you up, looking to see recognition in blank faces. I tried to scare you up on the buses and on the trains.

There was Marlene -- who should have been called Marlee; some said to 'always smile,' they should have said, "smile back."

And then, you appeared. Not knowing what the hell this poetry reading was all about. You listened and later, at the restaurant, when your Visa card was turned down, I was turned on to you. I watched unpleasant emotions run over your face and recede. There, at that point, something in you looked at something in me and winked, and smiled. And we shook hands.

November 11

Spoke to you last night: The conversation was good, long and varied. And I could sense you backing away from me. Telling me, "Look, don't get all serious on me, okay? Let's just hang up." So we did.

Now at 8:30 p.m., I call you for the second time today -- two too many calls in retrospect. I called you in the afternoon for no good reason and satisfied my hunger for your voice. The times between meals are getting much longer for me and for you, well, I'm not sure if you're just picking or what?

I tell you Ingrid has a blind date for me and you say, "Well, you should check it out. I'm keeping my options open." I tell you I know (and believe me, every bit of me knows) that tomorrow (Friday) is "National Warren Day." You laugh and say, "Yeah, you're a free man, unengaged and single..." As if I've been asleep these past three years. As if I didn't know my own biz.

Then I'm quiet and you, I imagine, are uncomfortable and get off the phone. And I'm left cradling this sensation: I'm the airbag in that Nissan commercial where there's a man sailing through the air, flying, floating, and all of a sudden he lands on this huge pumped up air bag; The air bag collapses under the weight (of your words) and that sinking feeling that the airbag might have -- that's me.

I tell myself you're scared, want to slow things down and maybe, have your reservations about a poor writer. I understand and I don't understand. I tell myself, you're afraid -- Saturday is approaching and you don't want too much to happen, and so you're setting the tone. All the above has hope.

On the other hand, you tell me, you're cleaning house because when Warren drops you off, he may want to come in and see your new place. I say, "uh-hunh." Just keeping your options open -- open, closed, open, closed. Your options open, your heart closed; your options open, your door closed; your options open, my case closed.

I've told you that your friend at work gives up too easily; you say, you think I love a challenge. Here's the truth: I am playing strong in a game at which I am appallingly weak. You riddle me with your point blank, high calibre questions and now, I'm watching doubts waft into my life.

November 12 (6:38 a.m.)

I have been awake since 6 a.m. I refuse to go into the living room or kitchen. My father is awake early as is usual for him. For me, this hour is not so usual. How can I tell, this man, my father -- any man for that matter -- that a girl, in a remote location, in the west end of the city, plots and controls my sleep patterns? And the only choice left to me is what to do with the extra time. I can't sleep. I can't sleep. I can't sleep.

November 14 (12:09 a.m.)

Just returned from going out with you to Casa Mendoza and then for hot chocolate at your place.

We talked about all kinds of things and then settled for much too long on God. Damn him! You called me a "heathen" in jest. I said you're a "chicken." And you admitted as much!

I tried my level best to stick to my guns on this God question. You believe in prayer and I think it's a placebo -- a good placebo, but a placebo nevertheless.

November 14 (4 p.m.)

I called you last night after coming home. You said, you would have called me ten minutes later if I had not given you a ring. I read to you my entry for November 11th and shocked you. You repeat your now consistent position that you can only offer me your friendship. I cried when we hung up. Then, reconsolidated and thought: I can handle that, Josie as a good friend.

I tell myself that I'll tell you, should you call today -- which I only half expect -- that I really don't think of you in a sexual sense. Strange, but completely true. I don't know how or why but I don't. I think you're good looking, but I don't fantasize or gulp when I'm around you. Which makes me think, perhaps fallaciously, that we can be friends.

I've even thought that I might be able to think of you as a sister. You say, you don't want to lose me as a friend....nor I, you. And no, I don't want to close any doors for now; so let's be friends and see if anything develops.

November 15

As it turned out, you did call me yesterday at 10 p.m. You said you had tried to resist the urge to call me but had given up. And I was “as happy as a little girl!”

It seems to me you act like a girl who is falling for a guy -- sorry, who has fallen for a guy -- but every time someone points this out to you (like, uh, me) you become terrified. I want to tell you not to be scared, not to worry, that I wouldn't let you down or hurt you. But I know this won't make a difference. As one of my journalism teachers used to say, "show, don't tell." I'll show, I'll show. I hope you see.

I called you at work and left a message, you called me at 10 a.m. complaining that your face was swollen. And, you accepted my invitation to the movies on Tuesday, if, you say, your face is okay.

November 16 (Tuesday)

I called you last night, kind of late, and we talked for a short time. You say, you're not sure about the movies anymore. I said, "yeah, we've already seen each other once this week, haven't we?" You say, "Yeah, I thought about that."

So I went to bed thinking it's not imperative that I see you tonight, at the movies, on the street, at your place, anywhere. I'm tiring of my persistence. Or is it your persistent opposition to my persistence that's tiring me?

In calling me this morning at 9:30 a.m. you said two things significant: One, 'wake up:' Assuming that since I stayed up late last night that I would sleep-in late; and two, after asking me what I had to do for the day, you said, "I don't hear anything about searching for a job."

That's hit a nerve. And you're right, I should start seriously looking around. I know that part of being an attractive suitor has to do with how much you bring home every week. Currently, I bring in absolutely nothing. Hardly the kind of money a woman expects a man to bring home. I wish I could cash in these words at your bank.

November 17 (Wednesday)

Didn't talk to you last night, you were home, I was home, neither of us yielded to the temptation.

I called you this morning at work. We were bouncing, brimming, full of talk. You called your father last night, then called him back -- you want to go to Trinidad for Christmas.

You say, you had a good night's sleep and you feel refreshed this morning. All this, right after I mention that our tentative plans for the movies seemed to have fallen apart. So naturally, in my mind, you were connecting not seeing me or talking to me with peace of mind.

I was miserable last night for various reasons and refreshed this morning.

I'm worried about hurting again. I don't want to draw my bedsheets around me, curl myself around my pillow and examine the edges of that emptiness again. I'd sooner replay old losses than experience new ones. So you see, my afeared friend, you're not the only one.

When we did see each other, on the weekend, I gave you a book of poetry (Vikram Seth), the "Diary of Adrian Mole" and "Very Far Away from Anywhere Else."

This morning, you tell me you've been reading "Far Away." That you imagine I was like that boy in the book -- "an outsider." You ask if this is right? I say, "Yeah, well, sort of."

You say, "That's the way I felt."

I say, "So you see we're like souls."

You laugh and cut me off and say, "We'll talk tonight."

Somewhere in there, you say after mentioning the fact that you felt you were an outsider as well, you say, "Is that why you gave me this book, 'cause it's about you?"

"Josie, nothing I ever give you is without a purpose.”

Click.

November 18 (Thursday)

Last night you called at 7:30 p.m. or so. We talked of things biblical. We went over why we hadn't gone to the movies on Tuesday night and haggled over going out this weekend. You thought we were going out too often. I said, "So what?"

Somehow, we got on the topic of God. Damn him! Actually, in this case it was a more benevolent spirit which infused your speech. You read to me a passage which you said has consoled you in your lonelier times: Psalm 23, A Psalm of David.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.
...
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil, for you are with me.”

You told me how and why you liked this passage, and you were pleasantly, I think, surprised to know that I was reading along with you in my own bible. Then I read to you from 2 Samuel, 18:26-33

“O, my son Absalom! My son, my son, Absalom!
If only I had died instead of you -- O, Absalom,
my son, my son.”

You were touched and surprised by my knowledge of the passage. I told you, it was Faulkner's book, "Absalom, Absalom!" which had put me onto this passage. You said, "Oh, so you weren't reading for the sake of reading....you were only reading it for interest?"

Ever the consummate compromiser, I said, "We may be reading for our own reasons but for whatever reasons we may be reading, we've read the Bible together and shared one moment and two passages which are important to us....and that's what matters. We both got something out of it."

We went on to flirt in a big way over the phone. You, for the record, initiated by asking me, "When did you lose your virginity?" Then, you quickly corrected yourself and said, if I had lost my virginity, when did this take place? The conversation spiralled from this point on in a pleasant way.

11:31 p.m.

We talked again tonight. Again, for at least two hours. You asked me out! This in reaction to me having told you the previous night that I would not initiate any more dates, partly because I was pissed about not connecting with you on Tuesday night.

The conversation turned to sex again — I think I like being friends with you. Tomorrow, the plan is to bring Thai food to your place, a walk and then rent a movie. Yes!

November 19 (Friday)

We went out to the Rowing Club on Harbord Street because you were unsure about having me over at your place. A hopeful sign if ever I saw one.

You are continuing to read "Very Far Away." You say the main character in the book is falling for this girl: He likes her music even though he doesn't understand it. I smile on the inside, drawing my own twisted parallels.

You seemed sad to me this evening, as you seemed sad at Nevada on that first date. Perhaps you're reliving old pains, perhaps I'm walking on the edges of scars which have yet to heal.

Without a destination we ended up driving. You felt you were not being a good date; I felt I wasn't showing you a good enough time. You almost cried in telling me that you were sorry if you weren't a very good date. At that moment, heading east on College Street, I, without thinking, consoled you by stroking the underside of your chin. I suppose I was trying to tell you to keep your chin up. You continued to be sad.

You said, at some point in the evening, that I had "slightly rabbity teeth, kind of cute." And then you proceeded to show me your vampire-like incisors. I can't remember the last time a woman showed me her incisors.

We ended up parked at the lake's shore in the east end. You were, you said, still sad but didn't (still didn't) want to discuss it. It had nothing to do with me. I believed this and still do; I even understand not wanting to talk about something right away. Then, at 9:30 p.m., or so, you say you are tired and want to go home. I drive you home in virtual silence. Hurt, disappointed, wondering if you were disappointed in me and a little angry. I dropped you off and was sad on the drive home.

November 20 (Saturday)

You had forgotten your wallet in my car the previous night and this, thank God, absolutely had to be returned. We talked about why I was angry, etc., etc. We talked about what was making you sad. That I felt shut out by your saying you wanted to go home. “Next time you feel like crying, I want you to cry on my shoulder.”

I dropped by your place to return your wallet and stayed for two-and-a-half hours. I invited myself in because it was obvious you wouldn't mind the company; and, equally obvious, you would not ask.

We talked, you showed me your degrees and essays. I sat on your bed. I lay on your bed. And you sat right next to me. You, finally, unfortunately, had to go to work, although, you said, you wished you didn't have to.

And, and, you gave me a peck on the cheek at Yonge and Eglinton. I said, being innately goofy, "Oh, boy! Now I won't be able to sleep all night."

In being with you all afternoon I neglected my plans with a friend and suffered her wrath accordingly, fairly and without a missed beat. She was right, I was wrong. It's what you do to me.

When I called you later at your work, I said, "Is it my imagination, or are your lips really soft?"

You said, "Uh, it's your imagination."

"That's what I thought."

At the Rowing Club on Friday you said, "I know what you need...you need sex." I blushed, looked away and laughed.

Now, I say to you, "I'm tired. I should get off the phone."

You say, "You need to move around, get some exercise, maybe some sexercise." I didn't pursue this line. Just for the record: You said it, I didn't.

(Late Evening)

I called you and am waiting to hear from you. You are going through your getting ready for tomorrow morning's work routines. What's to do? Eat breakfast, shower, put clothes on and head out. What's to prepare?

While I wait, I begin a list:

I haven't ever:

1. Seen you in curlers;
2. Touched your hair;
3. Touched your cheek;
4. Kissed your knees;
5. Helped you dress or undress;
6. Told you how I really, truly and completely feel;
7. Had you tell me how you honestly feel;
8. Gone swimming with you;
9. Prepared a meal for you;
10. Cleaned up after you;
11. Blamed you for not cleaning up after yourself;
12. Showed you an article from Harper's;
13. And, I haven't ever gone with you to an island nation near the South American continent. (No. Not the Falklands.)

10:51 p.m.

I'm on the phone with you...you're telling me about your date with Peter. And each word is a splinter in my ear. You want me to be unbiased. You want me to give you a man's point of view. I hurt.

You say, "We're going to see if we like each other."

You and him. A producer. I hurt. What could you possibly be thinking? What? What? What?

I'm telling you, in a phrase, to keep your options open. "You never know," I say.

I'm telling myself, you're not interested. You don't want me, you don't want me. Brilliant bit of deduction on my part. Your voice in my ear is oblivious. How could you be so oblivious? You don't want me. Maybe he wants a friendship?

Our conversation moved on from Peter. Not talking about him made our conversation flow more smoothly and in an animated way. My powers of self-delusion are incredible.

You got off the phone, as you sometimes do, by abruptly (to my ear) announcing that you should let me go. Why can't you just say: ' I better go now, it's getting late.' I say, "No, you want to go."

"That too."

"Bye."

"Bye."

Click.

Somewhere during the conversation you pointed out that I seemed to be kind of quiet. "No, I'm just listening," I lied.

You ask before you hang up, why we have such great conversations on the phone and such crummy ones when I'm over at your place?

"Probably 'cause we're avoiding the obvious," I say.

You agree. It becomes quiet for a second or two. Having made my point, I say, "moving right along;” And begin a new topic of convolution.

November 21 (1:11 a.m.)

I just woke up and can't go to sleep. I'm writing in the dark. (Which still doesn't explain my spelling).

It just occurred to me that you are a living abacus, a veritable calculator. Two up, three down, two up, one down. Does it add up to anything? No! Recalculate.

Sweet, funny, gentle, kind, unemployed. Next.

Sweet, funny, gentle, kind, unestablished. Next.

Handsome, producer, established, two kids, divorced, hmm, maybe, just maybe.

You are Spock's sister. Logical, precise, calculating. A Mentat — Thufir Hawat come to haunt me.

(6:45 a.m.)

I don't know who you are.

(9:47 p.m.)

Your greatest favour has been to let me dream in your company. Thank you for spitting a little colour into my life.

November 23

You called last night. I had left a message on my machine saying I wasn't at home but could be reached at such and such a number. And I didn't expect you to call...and yet you did! You went beyond my answering machine and called me! What does this mean? Who are you? What do you want from me? What am I doing here? What?

I couldn't talk freely or even make small talk. I was completely dumbfounded by your call -- dumbfounded and uncomfortable. Our call lasted all of two minutes -- if even that.

I want to call you today. I tried once already, at your work. You voice mail picked up, I hung up. I need to be held by you.

3 p.m.

Came home to find a very formally worded message from you asking if I would like to go to the ballet with you tonight. You got tickets through work. I, unfortunately, had plans to go to the movies with a friend and after some soul searching, decided not to cancel out on him. The last time I cancelled on a friend, I had to deal with her anger and my guilt.

You insisted and then said, "Okay, well, I'm not going to beg you."

You spoke about Peter: How he's so handsome, how the girls in the office think he's very (your emphasis) handsome, and how you're very lucky that he asked you out.

God damn Peter.

12:43 a.m.

Just hung up. You've told me you are not interested in a relationship. This, after I made the bold decision to read to you the "I haven't ever" list. What the hell, I thought to myself. How could things get any worse than they already are? And then they did.

You tell me, I'm on a completely different plane. That one of us is going to end up getting hurt and angry. Could you possibly mean me?

We end the call by flirting. You tell me you could use a massage. I say, "Are you asking me?"

You say, "Yeah, jump in your car and come over."

I've already told you at this point that there are two sides to you: There's the practical, calculating you; and there's the spontaneous, emotional you. I suppose, it could be that once every seven years you explode in a fit of emotional and sexual energy; am I catching you at the right moment? 'Damn it Spock, can't you at least try to pretend you're human!'

Two up, three down. Two up, one down.

I really don't think we're on different planes. I just happen to be at the front and you're at the back. But we're both flying the same friendly skies.

11:05 p.m.

You haven't called me, so I imagine you're talking to your newest suitor...negotiating for a practicable liaison.

11:35 p.m.

I called you, after some soul searching, only to learn that you ended up watching T.V. and fell asleep on the couch. And, the truer truth: You were waiting for a call from Peter. He didn't call, you felt sad and hurt and didn't want to talk to me 'cause it's the way you are: Too scared to show your hurt or sorrow. Perhaps a little embarrassed to be wearing my shoes. Rejection sucks.

I write a poem for you and plan on sending you flowers tomorrow morning. I think this is a good idea because it is the way I am. I lead with my heart and follow through in the same manner.

Flower Power

In our talk of yesterday
You seemed sad and far away

Remember, we all know this emptiness
It does the soul good to confess

And just so it won't be fatal
Or come close to being coital

I send you these stems and flowers
Trust each secret word to their powers

November 24 (10 a.m.)

I sent you a bouquet of yellow roses and the poem. How you interpret this is entirely up to you. I hope you will be surprised and happy, regardless of Peter.

3:12 p.m.

My assault on your heart is proceeding apace despite the presence of moats filled with suitors in suits; In spite of a lack of any substantial bridges. I'm swinging into action -- tights and cape and all the rest.

Just picked up your message from my machine. You sounded surprised and happy and out of breath. YES! You said, "Someone did something for me that no body's done in a long time. To them, I'm quite grateful, quite cheerful and a lot of other things I don't want to tell your machine." And me? I was as happy as a little girl that you were as happy as a little girl!

"I think you are very persistent," you say. As if this is a good quality. And perhaps in this case...you're right…exactly…bang on!

"And in spite of yo’self, He just keeps on shoving love at you!”
— Gospel Singer, Pastor Murphy Pace III

November 28 (Sunday)

For various reasons you were unable to see me this weekend. Not Friday. Not Saturday. Not Sunday.

I've had my first brush with the no-zone. Seemingly random, floating pockets of nothing which suck the happiness out of me and cause me to tear-up at the slightest provocation. I wish I could admit to someone that this girl…(you)….I can't clinch this girl. You are beyond my grasp. Who to tell such a thing? Who would listen and hear me? I'm at a loss.

November 30

You called me in the morning and left a message; I called you back and also left a message and finally we spoke late at night.

You're a funny girl. I send you flowers and you're touched, grateful and an inch short of ecstatic. Then, you ignore me all weekend ('cause that would mean we would see each other four weeks in a row) and now I'm going out for dinner on a weeknight to your place! One step forward, two steps back. Just the same, I'm looking forward to fish sticks and fries.

“Faith consists in believing when it is beyond the power of reason to believe.”
— Voltaire

December 2

Tuesday night went well. We spent some time on your computer, you looked through some of my pictures and we listened to Strunz and Farah. Absolutely, completely uneventful otherwise.

As I left your place I shook your hand to emphasis the obvious discomfort I felt in saying goodbye without a peck on the cheek. You said, you would call me in twenty minutes just to make sure I got home safely. Now I ask you: Are these the gestures of a friend or a girl-friend? Or a would-be-girl-friend? Or what?

We talked at night after I left your place for another hour. I felt that spending even more time with you was not good for my well-being. That speaking with you two to three times a day, when you tell me you only want a friendship, is not a good thing.

You finally surmise, and verbalize, that you think I am getting to like you too much. I say, yes. Yes. Message received. Not a good thing — this liking of people. So we decide not to call each other as often.

December 3

Next day -- Wednesday -- you call me at 9:30 a.m. You call from work with a reason: You have a burning question on Canadian geography that just can't wait; Only now that I'm on the phone you can't remember what the question was. I laugh and say, "You're driving me nuts!” You laugh too.

In the afternoon, while thinking of you, I decide to pick up messages from my answering machine. Instead of dialling my home number, I mistakenly dial your work number and end up talking to you for a few minutes. At night, you say we talk too much about ourselves. About you and me and we and us and all that. I ask, "Why do you think we're talking so much about ourselves?"

You: ”Because you think I'm nice." I agree and repeat the same sweet sentence. And you thank me and say, "I think you're nice too."

And I thank you and go to a true and tried method -- playing dumb.

"But we shouldn't be talking so often?"

"I know," you say. "It's like an addiction."

"Talking to me?"

"Yeah."

"That's a good thing."

"No it's not. What if you stop talking to me? What will I do then?"

Without missing a beat, and truly and honestly, I say, "Josie, I won't stop talking to you."

"You promise?"

"I promise. I won't ever stop talking to you."

"Even if I give you shit?"

"Even if you give me shit...just as long as it's legitimate shit." We hang up soon after and I sleep a happy man.

December 6

There's a girl in New York City
Who calls herself the human trampoline
And sometimes when I'm falling, flying
Or tumbling in turmoilI say
Woah, so this is what she means.”
— Paul Simon

Friday night, you called with an agenda in mind. We talked and talked and talked. About, what else? Us. This was your setup -- slow, ponderous, careful, sweet and thoughtful. But I know, even if you don't, that there is no gentle way to push a person off a cliff.

You said we're seeing each other too often, that you didn't feel for me the same as I did for you; the scales are unbalanced and you didn't wish to mislead me. Things could never work between us anyways. My family would never accept you. Also, you are a believer and I am not. Seeing my opening I tried to negotiate my way into your life.

Finally, mercifully and for me, painfully, you blurt out the obvious: "But, I'm not attracted to you!” Then, "Oh, my God, that was too harsh…” And then, silence.

But I understood and still understand: You find me "intellectually stimulating." I cried and suffered quietly and carried my side of the conversation for the entire two hours that we remained on the phone. You never once hinted that you wanted to get off the phone, despite the circular and mind numbing nature of our talk. Then, when I could stand to hear no more of the truth, I said, "It's getting late."

As I hung up the phone, I curled myself around my comforter and cried in silence. I rapped my knuckles to my forehead, mouth wide open, silently saying the same word over and over again.

Saturday

I call you in the morning. It was our plan even before the previous night's conversation. I remind you that I still remembered my promise to not stop talking to you. You had also reminded me of this last night. And now, out of some neurotic need, I was calling you up to see if you wanted to spend the entire day with me. You were waiting for my call and we spent five hours together; Then I dropped you off at your work.

I went out for dinner and picked you up when work was done. We went over to your place and, while watching TV, you fall asleep on the couch. I went home to my bed to dream about super-fast snakes and unpainted walls.

I woke up at 5 a.m. because of my dreams.

Sunday

I did not call you. You did not call me. I thought about you a hundred times.

Monday (Morning)

I did not call you today. I say to myself, this is to put distance between you and me. In reality, the phrase passive-aggression comes to mind.

At 9:45 a.m. you call from work and say, "I just called to see what you're going to be doing on the job front today?"

In doing this you are honouring yet another incidental pact between us: I asked you to be my task master on job finding two weeks ago. I stop you after your initial question and say, "How are you?"

You say, "What?"

"How are you?"

"I'm fine."

"Good," I say. "Now ask me."

"How are you?"

"I'm fine, thanks for asking."

We laugh. I say, "Now what was your excuse for calling me?” Again, we laugh.

For the rest of the day I walk around uninterested in anything but my thoughts. And I write this in the middle of a mall, in the middle of the day, in the middle of my life, in the middle of all this that I have felt before and still have not learned to deal with.

Part of our conversation amounted to you continuing to build bridges into my life. For one thing: You called. You mentioned your answering machine and I tell you to walk up Yonge St. and buy a used machine. You say, "You can help me do that when I come back from Trinidad, right?"

You tell me you're working tonight from six to 9 p.m. Why? Why tell me? I don't want to know. No longer want to know; 'Cause when you find a boy-friend I'll be left standing like a deer caught in the beams of an oncoming car. Stunted.

Monday (Night)
No ring…nothing. Instead—tonight—chocolate is the great comforter. A stand-in for you.

And I see losing love
Is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you're blown apart
Everybody feels the wind blow
— Paul Simon

Zap in Crisis

Thursday, May 28, 2015

Summer is finally here to stay!

Saturday, May 16, 2015

Losses

Saturday, May 02, 2015

The Josie Diary