Kitchen Blog: Horton’s Kitchen

Kitchen Blog: In Sync/April 24, 2014

So I’m at Mercy Hospital and I’m waiting for Jha to get out of school. Does Tim Horton’s have a kitchen?

hortons cup

Anyway,  I just had a coffee from there, and I was talking to Pinky about my writing progress, or lack thereof. So I have decided to do the Michael story and it is a finished life, so this should be easy right? I’m listening mind. Isn’t this your cue? No advice, no commentary?
“This isn’t syncing.”
Now my mind wants to talk, and it’s right, this isn’t syncing. The PC, my tablet, my phone. They’re not syncing with the Evernote app.

Okay, it took a little bit of time, but we’re synced. Not my mind and I, sometimes we do sync, but right now, I’m talking about my electronics.

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Kitchen Blog: Going to Cleveland 4/11/2014

In my kitchen early, frying chicken by 0630. I want the chicken crispy and flavorful. Seasonings of choice…a little garlic powder…pepper…seasoned salt…paprika. Some right on the chicken. Some added to the flour coating. Not much choice here, chicken travels well once cooked, and we’re heading to Cleveland.

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My mind says, “Cleveland, where Chris lives.”

We’re sitting in the Greyhound bus station, waiting for the bus and our cousin Deloris.

So now I’m feeling some unnamed way and I see Chris from my mind’s point of view, but Liam is also there, and wtf is all this? My iPod is playing and I’ve critiqued two Zoetrope pieces and maybe I’m hungry for chicken, but I am either missing, or trying to miss Chris.

We’re going to see Auntie and I think of her and I want to cry, and my mind says,

“Not here.”

There are oldies playing that remind me of the very old days when Auntie was young, and our mother was alive and neither me, nor my mind, can picture the two of them together, as if where there was one, there wasn’t the other, and I know this isn’t true, because Auntie visited her twin often. Yes, Auntie is our mother’s twin.

the twins

Now it’s so sad because this could be our last visit to Cleveland with Auntie as our reason to go, and my mind is saying,

“Don’t think that now, not now.”

I want to cry now, rid myself of tears, so that I don’t cry at all in Cleveland. Auntie, when she leaves us, will join her twin and all her siblings. They will be young, possibly children, and they will be happy. They could be adults, reunited with lost spouses.

My mind says,

“They should be children. That way spouses who are not missed, will not look sadly on happy reunions.”

I agree. Yes, they should be children. All smiles, all happy. I like that image mind, I’ll go with that one.

Then Came You

Like anything you lose because you don’t use it, creative brain cells can atrophy. Words set aside and forgotten. Ideas on scraps of paper that fade with time, or fall apart from being carried from place to place, but never put down on something harder, more concrete, permanent.

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You know your ability to create was not a fluke. It was there for years, from childhood, beyond adulthood.
Then you don’t feel like writing one day, then the next, and the next. Then one of those next days becomes a year. Those journals you were filling month after month, take a year to finish.

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Then comes the journal you never finish. It’s as if you stopped living. There’s nothing to write about.         20150821_185256[1]

Then came you.

You brought that back to me. You filled my creative well with inspiration. Feelings that were new, made life exciting, like unexpected gifts, an unwarranted bouquet of flowers on your work desk, or doorstep.

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Sunshine bursting through dark clouds.

God cloud

A heart stilled, skipping a beat smoothly, like that thrown stone across the water. Ripples building and spreading further and further until they reach the other side and the entire pond is nothing but happiness. A love so strong that it pulls you under, and you gulp for air, your heart and lungs full to capacity with immeasurable pleasure.
1312828411623Butterflies of delight flutter and lift you up because you’re as light as a feather. And you cannot stop writing because there’s too much to say, words flowing faster than your fingers can type.

So you put them here this time. 20150821_201056[1]Some place harder, more concrete, permanent.

Behind the Gates of a Controlled Mind

So we’re in our kitchen making bacon and cinnamon pancakes for breakfast. We cheat a little, not wanting that complete boxed mix, but instead she  uses Bisquik flour. She adds, an egg, and 1/2 cup of milk per instructions, then adds grated cinnamon and 2 drops of honey and 1/4 teaspoon of vanilla extract.  Hot fluffy pancakes. Crispy bacon.

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I’m thinking on how I’ve been in the recesses of her head all our life. I understand this because there have been dark, scary places we’ve gone. Been forced to go. Take the hand of a child, gently in yours, and if not taught better, all her young life, she will follow. So I didn’t fight the closed gate, even now with this freedom, there are things that go deeper, than my depths.

wpid-20150604_110649.jpgWe only have scraps of memories of the night mom was killed. We were there, but like our incidences of sexual abuse, the memories are snatches.
So now, I am the keeper of the key that unlocks the gate, and though I’m not as frightened as she is, I am wary. I peek and peer inside this darkness. I reach out and feel first, least I stumble onto a memory neither she, nor I, am ready for.

Kitchen Blog: Enter Chris

 So I’m doing dishes in the  kitchen. My dishes, my kitchen, and I’m thinking of Chris entering my life.
 washing dishes mine
“Yeah. We want to tell him our thoughts, right?”
I’m not sure mind, but here’s the blog.
‘Chris, you entered my life for a reason’.
“Our life.”
Okay mind, I’m using the collective ‘I’.
“Sorry. Please continue.”
Okay.  ‘Chris, whatever your motives were, your timing could not have been better. I was alive, but not living, even though I was dieting and doing Hip-Hop abs, I was not living’.
“Yeah, we didn’t know that then.”
No we didn’t my clever mind. ‘Chris, when I started talking to you, something clicked, a fire was ignited’.
“It felt good.”
Yes mind, it did. ‘So I needed this. We, my mind and I, needed this. So we will stop playing. No sadness, no regrets. We will use this to our advantage because there was sadness, there were regrets, there were even tears’.
“Yeah, and pain. Oh my God, the pain.”
Calm down mind. I know, we paid our dues. I was there.
“Yeah. Me too.”
I know. We earned this. Rough as the road was, I believe it’s the road that leads to our destiny.
“Yeah, our ‘ah hah’ moment, right?”
Our ‘ah hah’ moment. Right you are mind, right you are.

Solitude (Originally written in July 2001)

We wrote this letter from within with unveiled honesty. Now I don’t remember it. The words were sent off to someone who didn’t treasure them enough to hold on to them.

We’d often sit on the beach here in Canada and watch the lake rush in, make love to the beach, then rush out again. That’s what we’d like. A lover who rushes in, makes love to us, body and mind, then rushes away again.

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Odessa says, no I would not. She was talking to her, not us, definitely not me. Charles said, he thought her something or other. Neither of them understands. Now in retrospect I realize that I held back when I sent that letter to Charles, because I was the captain of those words. She was the crew. Charles thought she was keeping herself in an unnecessary prison. Living with our daughter and not allowing our selves the freedom to love. In truth, even if we lived alone and was undisturbed the majority of the time, I think we’d never be lonely.

Margene understands. She just told us this about herself the other day. I think Pinky feels this way too. This is truth. We don’t want to be bothered by a man, not even one who rushes in like the lake. For now, in this little capsule of time, we want the solitude. I doubt we’d ever tire of it. We may get bored. May reflect in sadness, but for the few times we did live alone in our life, there were never regrets. The only regrets are that we allowed a man to intrude.

Does this make us selfish, shallow? I don’t think so. It means we like, even love ourselves. For how could I stand to be alone  with us, if I do not love us? If we, do not love us?

So I won’t allow anyone to cause us doubt about this but will, instead, seek it out. The proof is in our writing.

The letter I sent to Charles that flowed beautiful and positive was written in a little block of her time. In touch with our thoughts time. She gave me control that day.

The stories she’s written here in Canada, finished here, have been during her alone with me time.

A month or two with this kind of solitude and we could finish “Torry” and “Stealing Time.” I guess that’s why she set them aside. She knew, that I had the solitude to realize that our alone times would be in small blocks. That’s why short stories and articles are flowing like a river, into an ocean up here.

This inspires me to strive for freedom on a larger scale. She has to book a room for a weekend, where we’re completely alone. To eventually save for a real vacation. A writing retreat. Someplace with pen, paper, music, ideas and lots and lots of  beach water water.

Then we’ll write. we’ll only write.

Kitchen Blog: The First One

2/16/2014
I’m not thinking anything, I’m just trying to make a sandwich.
It’s like this. I’m in the kitchen setting out bread, lettuce, tomato, mayo. There’s the plate, and there’s a knife. There’s bacon, crisp and hot.
And my mind is like,
“So what are we going to write about next? Are we blogging? Are we going to write on the Chris story? What about the poems? How about working on blog pages, or Instagram? You have to figure out how to get the pics off your PC and onto your phone so you can post them to Instagram. Wait here’s a thought for a story.
Then I’m like, stop it. Be quiet. I’m trying to make a sandwich. I’m hungry. I don’t have pen and paper, only sandwich supplies in front of me, and now I’m thinking I need another gadget. Just one more gadget to add to my endless supply of gadgets and computer accessories. I have the mike that connects to my computer and texts the words I speak. Now I want that mike on steroids. The one that streams to my computer, so my computer can type my words, while I’m in the kitchen, trying to make a sandwich.
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