Writing with Michael

7 Mar

At the Blenz at Library Square.

Who is Michael?

Friend from my writers’ group.  No, we don’t like each other that way.

Good got that out of the way.

Most days, I don’t do much.  I have been known to spend entire days not moving much.  Well, at least now it is warm and sunny and I will get the bicycle out more, although I have been doing that a bit all ready.  Up and down hills, trying to be in shape, trying to work off the hours and hours of sitting around.

Eeek.

It is hot in here I have to say.

I’m using this blog entry as a warm up of sorts to actual writing.  I’m feeling – uninspired that’s for sure.  And my newly discovered finger joint arthritis makes it trickier.  Again, that’s for sure.

I will say, however, that my hair looks fabulous today – the curls are being all curly.  It needs a trim badly though but hairdresser A. is away till May.

I’m a poet and I didn’t know it.

So yes, most days I don’t do a lot other than over brain/obsess myself.  Today though – there has been a short Cezanne situation with the Glenda, this writing, then a possible hello with T. and then volunteering at contra dancing tonight.

I should be darned well ecstatic.

I had a Costo hotdog with Glenda at 11am.  That was a bit early but good to get it done.  Got toilet paper too. I always feel like life has meaning again when I get Costco toilet paper, I tell the Glenda.

The work front continues to be inane – as in, there isn’t any.  I subbed a bit this past week – three mornings to be exact.  That was unusual.  This upcoming week is nothing, followed by more weeks of, well, nothing.

“Sounds like you are going to have to make some tough choices about your career,” says L., my friend who lives in Brighton, England.

L. is I think 35 years old, South African, has a 16 year old son, and is married to D., the friend I met at a London hostel almost 12 years ago.  L. and I are closer now than D. and I were.  L. Skypes with me a lot, often from exotic locations where D. has travelled for work.  At present they are in Rio.

“Go to the gay bars and live it up,” I suggest.

“Nah, D. doesn’t want to,” says L.

“Oh,” I say.

L. writes dark poetry and has a depth of personality that some might not see of course.

I am rather proud to have a rather deep and significant friendship with a gay fellow far younger than I am.

“Am I your special project?”  I asked him the other day when he Skyped for the second time in a week.

“No,” he insisted, “I am yours.  Besides, I don’t have many friends.”

We get each other kinda sorta even though we haven’t seen each other in almost five years, the last time I went abroad.  They now have a house just outside Brighton and L. keep telling me to come on over.

“Not for longer than say a week though,” he says.

“But I have no money.”

“Just b____ the pilot,” he says. (Sorry that is not a g-rated statement there).

“Could I get a free flight that way>”

“Maybe.”

What makes me smile like a kid is new toilet paper and also now, looking at Impressionist artists.

“We have to look at the Chaim Soutine paintings,” I tell Glenda and drag her over to them.

We spend just a short while Cezanne-ing it up, as we have both just been there.

Then we hit up the gift shop but we don’t get anything.

My stomach is growing despite my cycling forays up and down and up and down.  Those hills are killing me of late.  Well, not literally.  But sometimes I go so slowly I am almost stopped and I’m huffing and puffing and basically crying out to humanity.  Yeah, like that.  Like that.

Oh!  I have discovered I will have to pay $1200 in income tax.  This is apparently because I worked so many little jobs and they just didn’t take off the right amount of tax.  So that is awesome.  And after April 30th, there is a five per cent interest charge each and every month.

So the poor get poorer or something.

Most everyone I know is pretty burnt out from now talking about it.  Can’t blame them.

I have even cut back on the great G. and art therapy!  That sucks but one has to do what one has to do. Too bad because I really need a little A.T. when I’m not working.

What else, what else.

I guess humans are wired to not give up hope or something.  This seems to be the case with me, although many who know me would say, uh, hmmm, thought you’d given up all hope.

Nah, no point in that.

Man, I love Vancouver when the sun is out.  Michael and I are inside, which is  a bit of a shame because there is not a cloud in the sky and it is beautiful out, some say it might go up to 16C.  The same tomorrow.  And then some rain.

I have got to figure out this tax situation.  There is no way out of it except one tiny possibility that I will explore further in the next month and a half before the taxes are due in.  After April 30th, there is a penalty for not filing.  Oh, the government.  I expect it will be writing me at some point later in the year regarding a few possible E.I. overpayments so that is fun too.

Michael and I are writing for 40 minutes before we take a wee break.  He says that the human brain needs a break after 40 minutes.  I am having trouble focussing for 40 minutes in a row I have to say.

La la.

What else?

Hmmm.  Maybe more later.

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