Dinner last night was interesting.
I say "interesting" because I was watching how I reacted to it.
See, typically, $35 = dinner for two
in my world, not dinner for one. I'm cheap like that, I guess. Either that or I have some sort of hidden Issue around treating myself well.
I say this because, sitting on my own, eating at the bar in Canvas, this tiny, local/organic/sustainable restaurant in Hintonburg, I ate slowly, savoured the roasted tomatoes (which are, quite possibly, my new Very Favourite Thing), the mushrooms, read snippets of my book between bites of spinach gnoche, mopped up the pesto with torn bits of bread.
It felt very sensual.
Verging on erotic.
The kind of thing that could easily be labled a guilty pleasure.
I ordered dessert (khalua creme brulee - which was rich and smooth and creamy without being heavy or greasy or too over-the-top sweet) and then raspberry tea to finish.
(Glad I didn't order the soup of the day, but only because I wouldn't have had room for dessert if I had. Butternut squash with vanilla and coconut: It looked and smelled quite wonderful, I have to say).
Maybe this is because I'm a headonist who grew up in a house that frowns on pleasure.
But that meal felt surprisingly good.
(If I were independently wealthy, I suspect I would spend my life eating at good restaurants and getting spa treatments. Possibly globe-trotting, as long as I got to fly first class. ;-)
After dinner, I strolled down the street to CUBE Gallery. The poetry reading started late, but it was pretty decent.
The one gal (second reader) had a style that was very choppy. Sara says "Maybe she just really likes Yoko Ono".
The kind of reading style
Seemingly at random.
(I wonder - suspect - wonder if this is a way of putting emphasis on things that might or might not claim emphasis for themselves just by being read normally but out loud. It might also be a way of reading so that the way the words look on the page are the way they sound to the listener. Sort of a way of making the blank spaces (the tab-keys, whatever) show up whe you're reading aloud).
It was interesting. She read a series of connected poems that become more coherent (to my mind) as the main character reclaims her boundaries, her autonomy and her life after what sounded like a really crappy relationship (with a man - father/boyfriend/something else, I don't know).
Memorable line:My sugar cube in her mouth
keeps his taste
Closing line of the cycle she read:Yes
I am breathing on my own now
I am breathing
on my own
I liked those bits. :-)
With that in mind, and with a small collection of poetry books stuffed into my bag this morning, I have written a poem of my own. (I hope there will be more to follow).
It's called "Clouds", and it's located here
On a similar note, because it's still technically Poetry Month but also because it's Mayworks already, a piece by Kate Braid:
*~*~*~*~*General Strike, 1987
See this sign? In Protest
but it syas more, things
you won't see printed here
no matter how hard you strain
It says I'm fed up with all this
I can't talk pretty like some
but I know that I vote
for every damned thing
in my union. Now tell me
the last time the boss
asked my opinion on the foreman's salary
or how fast the green chain moves,
through nobody knows better than me
what could make that place hum
for the better of all of us.
I give'em my blood and my msucle
for eight hours of the day and still
they say when I work and "if" and
when I take a break and "if" and whether
they'll give me earmuffs for the job or
if I got to buy my own, though
you go deaf fast without'em
and some days
it's a half hour overtime, no extra pay,
'cause the boss has a rush on, no care
that I'm the one got to pick up the kids
'cause the wife works afternoons.
So when they said I have too much power
I damn split a gut laughing, 'til
they told me I didn't have a job no more
lest I work for less.
If this is too much power then
what do I make of Timothy Eaton or Conrad Black
who don't seem too worried about the next
mortgage payment or if they can send their eldest
to a better school 'cause teacher says
Me and the people like me,
we built this province, board by board
and we built it good
and if this government says
I'm a traitor for asking
for a steady job or the right to question
what they did to make my work life worse
then I'm on the march. See this sign? It says
I'm fed up
with all this farting around.Braid, Kate. 1991. Covering Rough Ground. Polestar Book Publishers. Vancouver, B.C. Pp. 50-51.