And this should never be confused with a really TALL building, or the earth, or the sky.

It was just a little taste, for now.

Still it was sweet, and that sweetness lingers. It has me scorning my schedule, deleting appointments, keeping my weekends open, and prying my own crazed little fingers off my life in general. Spontaneous decisions have yeilded brilliant results.

Yesterday morning a forecast of several days of rain would have made my heart heavy. Today I know how cute it will feel to wear my rubber Wellies with a pretty Spring skirt. How under the shelter of my vintage umbrella, I will stroll through the puddles listening to Wooden Arms by Patrick Watson on repeat until I’ve grown tired of that too. I know that the rain will help me sleep better, keep my apartment cooler, and keep me focused on work, and filled with ideas. The rain will match the colour of my eyes, and I will sail, unnoticed through the city as I ponder this last week.

What do we have without hope? I can take these lessons and understand myself better with each one. For example, I’m learning that I’m too ferocious, and though I know my heart will always be so, I can seek to internalize some of this emotion because I’ve come to believe it can be off-putting, or scary, or both. So many of us have no idea what we want, that when we are faced with someone who has a clear picture, perhaps they hold a mirror to our own confusion, which ripples like cellulite under overhead lighting. Also, if we are unsure of ourselves, an enthusiastic admirer casts self-doubt and suspicion. It’s very difficult for people to accept love, even in it’s earliest stages of curiosity and attraction.

I wondered what would happen if I stepped away from the helm, and when I did the ship veered off course very quickly. Without a good trade wind the route is frought with adversity.

The sea, they say, is a harsh mistress.

I could love as big as the sea, but I cannot do it alone.

“You’re likely the most courageous woman I know. You’re always willing to put your heart out there for the big reward even though it’s taken a hell of a beating in the past. I believe, and I am not blowing sunshine up your skirt, that you’re more likely to get what you’re looking for because you try harder. What thing can’t be got with effort and courage. And you’ve got that in spades.”

– constant Joshua, tried and true blue.

I Wish I Was The Moon

Chimney falls and lovers blaze
Thought that I was young
Now I’ve freezing hands and bloodless veins
As numb as I’ve become

I’m so tired
I wish I was the moon tonight

Last night I dreamt I had forgotten my name
‘Cause I had sold my soul but awoke just the same
I’m so lonely
I wish I was the moon tonight

God blessed me, I’m a free man
With no place free to go
I’m paralyzed and collared-tight
No pills for what I fear

This is crazy
I wish I was the moon tonight

Chimney falls and lovers blaze
Thought that I was young
Now I’ve freezing hands & bloodless veins
As numb as I’ve become

I’m so tired,
I wish I was the moon tonight

How will you know if you found me at least
‘Cause I’ll be the one, be the one, be the one
With my heart in my lap
I’m so tired, I’m so tired
I wish I was the moon tonight

-N. Case
After posting this, I went in search of an image from “The Little Prince.” I found this blog site. These moments of clear perspective are why I am eternally grateful to the universe.

My girlfriend and I are stoned. We’ve left the dinner table, her lovely husband, and lovely babies behind, and we are headed to a house party at my musician friend’s.

I’m leading her through the narrow alleyway to the backyard where soft strains of music trail through the night. She and I walk into a tiny Bluegrass concert with six musicians on acoustic instruments. My friend is nowhere to be found.

His roommate, a handsome chestnut of a fiddle player leads some fellows in a gypsy-jazz sounding rendition of ‘Sweet Georgia Brown.’ He’s wearing a Cuban hat, and his dark hair falls into his eyes as he plays. He’s tall, and young, and has a beautiful jaw line.

The banjo player is fierce, and Balkan looking, with piercing green eyes. He is no more than 26 years old, and his fingers fly across the strings with nimble and truly ridiculous amounts of grace.

The drummer, who is beating on a plastic tub looks a little like my friend who invited me to the party, but it is not him. He nods and smiles, and then the rest of the men notice us, but don’t skip a beat.

My heart does though. They sound unbelievable.

There’s a guy on mandolin, and two guys on guitars, and they switch off taking solos, and losing themselves to the music.

I lean against the fence, and Sarah leans into my shoulder. They are playing for us now, and the universe has slowed to a halt.

They jam for what feels like an impossible time and I wish Alexandra were here. She and I would be moved to silence by the unbelievable magic of this discovery, and we would share that unspoken emotion in one stolen look.

After their song ends, we applaud, and I inquire about my friend, who as it turns out, left his own party some time ago. The fiddler invites us to stay, and so we grab a seat while they decide which tune to play next.

It briefly occurs to me that the combo of two girls and six strange, drunk men might be a bad combination, but as soon as I can form the thought, it is gone. I think of all the things I didn’t experience because I was afraid, and I think of how deeply soul-satisfying this rare, blissful moment is, and I decide it’s worth the risk.

My worry and anxiety dispel like vapor. I know my bed is waiting, and that these perfect, rustic lullabies were sent to me on the summer breeze to remind me that there is wonder around every corner when you take the time to explore. When you are open to uncertainty.

Lead my sleepy heart to magic, time and again universe. If I can trust nothing else, I will trust you.

Mad Tea Party - Arthur Rackham

“You are a gorgeous girl, who is smart and funny and has an ass that makes me think talking to you naked is a bad idea.” – David, friend of several years and former protégé, typed in an IM via Facebook

There are two schools of thought:

1.) Save your best china for formal occasions – high holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries only.

2.) Use it anytime you feel inspired to do so.

I’ve always subscribed to the latter. Life is incredibly short, and the people who I bring into my home deserve tea served in only the finest, rich with family history. Otherwise, it sits locked up in a case, gathering dust. And of course there is a risk that I might never use it.

However, lately I don’t think this approach is serving me well. My delicate, sometimes hand-painted, sometimes featuring real gold pieces are either at risk of being clutched so tightly they crack, or handled so carelessly they chip.

I blame modern etiquette. We aren’t used to handling fine things anymore. Everything has become replaceable, or disposable. If it smashes, or scratches, we can just trek over to Ikea for an identical replacement.

I have an art deco tea cup from the twenties. It’s shaped like a fluted octagon, and features a vibrant yellow flower motif against a glossy black background. It’s jazzy, and edgy, and feminine in a very strong, bold “look at my bee’s knees” kind of way. I rarely ever use this cup. Recently, I brought it out to be admired, and filled it with the remaining vestiges of my very special, very fragrant tea from Paris. A beautiful blend called Nuit Calme. The handle broke off. Just like that. No mess, because the cup had been drained; a clean break, which I suppose can be patched with the careful application of some Elmer’s; but lesson learned.

I’m reminded of a commercial from my youth. The patriarch and matriarch of a rural clan watch stoically as their entire brood approaches for a massive family reunion. Kids, dogs, gangly teenagers, and adults of all shapes and sizes make their way towards the homestead. The patriarch drawls the sagely adivce that is the title of this post: “Best get out the Royal Chinette, Ma.”

Time, and experience, and common sense have taught them that people in their enthusiastic fumbling through life are messy, and sloppy, and often careless. By offering sturdy paper plates versus the family china you save yourself hours and hours of clean up time, and the heart break of seeing an antique soup turrine smashed beneath the drunken fist of Uncle Cletus.

I know David Suzuki wouldn’t approve, but I’ll bet he’s smashed a tea cup or two during some of his naked, “save the world” shenanigans. He just looks like the type. One minute he’s sipping jasmine tea from your great grandmother’s service that has come all the way from Aberdeen, the next he’s pouncing on top of you on your sofa, scattering your entire kit and caboodle (a Scottish term) all over the living room floor.

I’m off today to tour the city on my new bicycle, in a polka dot dress (as I told my friend James) in search of Crazee Glue. Only the kind that will secure a construction worker, by his hard hat to a steel girder will do.

Perhaps I can also find some garish plastic patio ware to serve me through the summer.

Something remarkable happened last night.

For the last year and a half, whether it was on an air mattress, on the Murphy bed in the Paris apartment I rented, on a guest bed, or in the comfort of my own bed, I have always relegated myself to one side. Usually the right hand side. In the morning I would wake and the left side of the bed would be totally undisturbed, unless my cat had crept in, and decided to snooze there beside me.

This morning, I woke up, and I was sprawled everywhere. Pillows had been tossed aside, covers twisted and bunched all around me, and myself stretched across the entire mattress. I felt deeply, and incredibly well rested.

Interesting things are happening to the landscape of my universe right now. There are no clear outcomes, but I feel that whatever might transpire, I will be just fine. I remember a time, not long ago at all, when so much of my sense of well being relied on external influences. The actions of the people in my life, the circumstances surrounding work, or my creative world, my family – all of these things had an incredibly strong effect on my state of mind. I would be lying if I said they were now totally unimportant, but their power over me has waned considerably.

I feel sometimes like a still, glittering ocean. There are depths yet unexplored because mankind does not yet have the ability to move into these uncharted places. There are tempests, and typhoons laying dormant because the winds of passion are blowing in another direction. There are flotsam and jetsam that will drift across the surface from time to time, reminding me of wreckage of the past. There is life coursing just below the surface, fed and nurtured, and riotous in colour.

Stand with your toes digging into the cool, wet sand as the water laps gently at your feet. The steady ebb and flow seems compelling, the placid water rich and cool.

The ocean will remain the ocean, whether or not you choose to swim.