Ode to You...

In keeping with the theme of "truth" from previous posts, I have decided to post this poem. It's a personal one, that came to me quite quickly after returning from a February NYC trip, fresh with Nuyorican Poets Cafe inspiration.


....... enjoy.......

Today,
We passed in the streets like strangers

For the first time in a long time,
you did not notice me.
So I studied you secretly.

The contour of your chin,
the dip of your collar
where I always seem to slip,
and drip,
into a puddle of desire.

Before I,
collect,
myself.
And remember:
You belong to another.

But,
this poem is not about
secret fantasies,
unrealized possibilities,
or even girlish jealousy.

No,
this soliloquy,
is about how I wished
I could have run to you today,
take your hand in mine and say:

“You saved me.”

A rescue mission conducted in such a secrecy,
not even you were privy.

You see,
I had studied what it means to happy
so I could mimic its exact geometry.
The art of my deception
rooted in mathematical precision:

I stacked my vertebra
so my columns curve
conveyed confidence,

smiled to a specific degree,

while the angle from chin to nape
denoted a sense of pride,
Inside,
the days were darker than the nights.


Until you blazed across my sky,
bright like Halle
constant like Polaris.
You were the beacon that beckoned
me back to light...

Your bright
shone deep into me
until glee was splashed on my face
and with joy glistening in my reflection
I blanked with a lack of recognition
at the depth of my own stare...
...for the fresh happiness that was suddenly there.

During espresso scented conversations,
I nursed myself on your connotations.

Your eloquence and sense
of humor sang to me…
Light arias and soulful melodies.

Your importance—
was and is—
not defined
by your success at winning me—
not by the sparkle of a blue eye
when you flash your dimpled grin.

But, by your ability
to create a change in me:


You were the push, that
flattened my dominoes
of carefully aligned self deception,

The first call
back
to a truth that has always belonged to me:

My own divinity

And for that,
I will always be yours.
Not always in desire,
but always,

in gratitude.

Because, you saved me.
You were the light that
showed me the way home:

back into my own.

Truth...

I'm up late once again... wondering why it seems that I still maintain a Vancouver sleeping schedule while my feet are firmly rooted in an eastern time zone.

Many thoughts have popped into my mind today... whisperings of new and old that rise and fall like the tide, like breath...

I've been reading a lot of other blogs lately, and while they have served to inspire I also question as to why my writing is so different here than anywhere else.

I made a decision so long ago to keep my blog writing impersonal enough so that my emotional self is kept far away. Close friends, lovers, family members are rarely mentioned, emotions are kept behind a veil of secrecy unless they are easy enough to share. While I express my thoughts, I rarely touch on my feelings.

Whats more intersting is that as I filter my ideas, I change my voice. Here is a place of casual wit, while my journal reveals the writings of a hopeless romantic, pages smeared with similie, rhyme and metaphore.

So I begin to wonder what other things I keep secret, and what is worth keeping secret.

In truth I have always admired brash honesty. Women who live fearlessly. Yes, I am a fan of that Angelina, not just because she is beautiful but because she doesn't apologize for testing the waters. And whenever she has chosen to test, it has never been with a small dip of an extremity, but with a headfirst dive into situations that would downright scare me. She moves through her phases, self damaging cutter, award winning actress, Gothic blood veil wearing seductress, lover of women and emerges as a mother, complete and round like her belly that gives life to children both her own and not.

I admire honesty, yet still secretly dwell backstage dreading my own curtain call.

I remember the first night I went to a New York poetry slam.

Late night, in the heart of Alphabet City, I clung to a chair and watched pear shape women spit into a mic that could scarcely keep up with the raw emotion they delivered. And the best poems? Were the most honest, the ones ones about the biggest mistakes: one night stands, past-due relationships, accidental children and purposeful passion. The poems about insecurity, imperfection and accident were the ones that moved me to tears, until I sat goosebumped all over, and for the first time told myself I too was willing to stop trying to be perfect and make a mistake.

True to that silent promise made one cold Febuary night I have been slipping up. Defying the ridiculous "hallmarks" of perfection I once clung to.

I stopped trying to prove I was too smart to care about clothes and make up... and have emerged painted face, glowing all over in Victoria Secret push-up-bras feeling like the center of the universe on a Friday night.

I stopped pretending that I was too wholesome to enjoy the presence of a person for just one night... and boy did poetry ever follow.

I stopped pushing myself to define my appeal by the number on a scale and the size of my pants... okay, so I'm still working on that.

But at the end of the day I am learning, learning to stop wanting perfection. Because what i learnt on a cold Febuary night in New York, is that its not perfection but rather imperfection that makes us so beautiful. Be it the mole that sits above a lip (a beauty mark), or a tale of a tryst told with a twinkle in an eye, it is the things that that undo us that define us in the end.

So, I'm making a push to be a little more honest, more honest with you and more honest with me.

Here are some things you might not know...

I'm ruthlessly self depricating, but mostly in my head.

I read tarot cards... seriously...

I procrastinate more than I would like to admit...

And when I am bored on tranist I look around and guess who would be the best lover aboard the bus or train.

I'm damaged, imperfect, weird, and quirky. But I am begining to figure out, I like it that way.

New York...

I cry each time I leave the city.

Its as if the contour of the city skyline is the prefect puzzle piece completing the jigsaw of my complexities. Like when I am here I am all of a sudden complete, and yet without this "Big Apple" I am anything but. Its true that I learn here, and take home with me new revelations each time I come, strengthened in some shape or form, yet I cant help but feel that there is something that I leave behind.

And I love the place.

I love so big that my love fills the streets and sidewalks, explodes through all places, until it boars through concrete and roots me firmly here, leaving some little piece of my very spirit deep in the heart of this urban oasis.

I walk these streets amidst the car horns, surrounded by the urban decay of tossed away newspapers and crumbling brick and i can't help but fall for all of her imperfections.

What I love about New York, is what I loved about Venice, two cities like old sages, different and yet alike in their attitude. Like Venice, New York is like fading movie star, wearing her scars proudly, signs of addiction, heartache on her sleeve. And while Venice seems to no longer try, letting the locals dress her for the tourists, New York still rocks the rhinestone studded heels, hot pink lipstick and fur coats. New York, comes and goes with bang, or more accurately a taxi horn.

The first time I came here I remember feeling the pull of this place, as if there is a gravity that yanks your forward to achieve. Opportunities for success are endless, there is not just one definition of reward here. So everyone is seemingly reaching for something better, something bigger than they have. Yes, this hub of capitalism creates a tangible, palatable desire within me to go forward, like I get swept up in the current of some great river pushing me forward forever towards my dreams.

I imagine that this is what settlers felt, once they completed their Atlantic journey and first laid eyes on the Statue of Liberty.

While I am sure that the world holds many places that inspire, what I love about New York is that not only does she urge you to reach your destination but she challenges you to do it as loudly ad boldly as one could ever dream. Rhinestone studded heels, boas, lipstick and all.

Life is a party, a broadway musical, a late night cabbarret and steamy backroom encounter. NY life is sexy, edgy, sultury, seductive and ruthlessly unappologetic.

If home is where the heart is...mine is in the streets of New York.

News..

I have a new coffee home

Investment Advice...

About a year ago, I was really concerned about the fact that I didn't have a retirement plan.

Everyone says that its never to early to start planning for you future. So I thought that I should put together a thousand dollars and invest that into some stocks.

Of course one thing came to another (ie one store lead to another) and I never ended up scrounging up the cash to do it.

Now, a year later, the markets have gone haywire and I have learned a very important lesson...

Fashion never fails.

Had I invested my money into the market, by today it most likely would have been mostly gone, yet as we speak my beautiful shoes lie safe and sound in my closet, my trench-coat hangs on its hanger and my jean collection is nicely folded in my drawers. Sure I have lost a yoga outfit or two to the fast handed yoginis of Vancouver... but all and all, investing in fashion was a much wiser choice!!

xo B