Oh Canada!

Welcome to Canada, it's the Maple Leaf State.
Canada, oh Canada it's great!
The people are nice and they speak French too.
If you don't like it, man, you sniff glue.
The Great White North, their kilts are plaid,
Hosers take off, it's not half bad.
I want to be where yaks can run free,
Where Royal Mounties can arrest me.
Let's go to Canada, let's leave today,
Canada, oh, Canada, I Sil Vous Plait.
They've got trees, and mooses, and sled dogs,
Lots of lumber, and lumberjacks, and logs!
We all think it's kind of a drag,
That you have to go there to get milk in a bag.
They say "eh?" instead of "what?" or "duh?"
That's the mighty power of Canada.
I want to be where lemmings run into the sea,
Where the marmosets can attack me.
Let's go to Canada, let's leave today,
Canada, oh, Canada, I Sil Vous Plait.
Please, please, explain to me,
How this all has come to be,
We forgot to mention something here.
Did we say that William Shatner is a native citizen?
And Slurpees made from venison,
That's deer.
Let's go to Canada, let's leave today,
Canada, oh, Canada, I Sil Vous Plait.

It smells like the moment before a gun shot.

12 steps away from getting run over and two blackberries later,

I am home.

It's nice to be here again.

how summer thoughts are spent.

Sometimes I think I have the stupidest fantasies ever.

Who dreams of canning vegetables and picking strawberries in patched overalls?

Why do I keep thinking about wrap-around porches and sun tea and riding horses?

Will I give a speech when my squash wins at the county fair?

I get emotional about a rustic smell that will become familiar after we've spent the afternoon splitting fence posts and baling hay.

Calico will be my fabric of choice. Followed closely by gingham. Burlap for the flour sacks. Because we will have those, dammit.

I want to dance to Brooks and Chesney without it being a joke.

Wheat will be in my mouth at all times, except when I am kissing my toned shirtless farmer at sunset whose skin can be found somewhere between dirt and sweat.

There will be barn parties and early morning suns with handmade quilts and fresh black coffee enjoyed in a rocking chair.

There will always be cold lemonade in a mason jar for the weary traveler, and trips to town will be a planned affair.

Perhaps an RV, just in case the farm life gets old.

But I don't think it will. And anyway, maybe thats the point?

I can't take you there.

I am sick and tired of boys who see women as another step towards fulfilling their manhood.

Where have all the cowboys gone?

I am not the next step on the ladder. I am not the ladder. I am not even the top of the ladder, though you seem to believe otherwise.

By now you gotta see that I am on the ladder right fucking next to you. Trust me, the winds are shaking mine too, and I want to reach out for you to save me from the fall.

But God knows when I reach this frame tilts and quakes. The only way back to safety is to keep our feet firmly planted eyes up arms steady wills strong desires greater than what is within our immediate grasp of fear.

I will scale these heights with you and share the view from the top. We will leave our fears behind, dance on the roof of our inequities, praise the God who taught us how to love.

But we climb our own ways. Until then we climb alone.

To not send a letter.

God do I miss you. I know the spot on my knee that makes my elbow electric, and it never ceases to amaze me. I want to chain smoke you. They know all about me. Your father, god your father, what must he think? It wasn't supposed to happen the way I think it might be happening. Because you left. It was for the best but you just left and I still have your clothes! I want the smoke of my pipe to float to your place in the world and whisper my breath in your ear. No one else knows the timbre of my voice as you so desired the fluctuations intonations even the silences. I want the future chance to tell you. That a river runs through this heart and it never stops until it finds your embrace your words your hands. It would be selfish to do it now but when will it be too late? I won't give you an inch until I am ready for the endless miles of what lies ahead, and that road trip hasn't started yet. I take time but my mind has a mind of its own, and we both love the books. I never let myself mourn for you cried my eyes out saw you leave but I was brave why did you have to make me be brave? I know you felt me crying because your shirt was wet with snotty tears that I often dream you never washed away. You are the good read I always come back to and have never finished. I have dog-eared your pages (didn't mean to hurt you like that!) Bent the binding written on your margins held you in my hands until the sweat from your palms dripped blood and the pages were too blurred to read. This was no Dick and Jane but you made it so easy for the ideas to resonate. Did I say resonate? I mean't haunt. You haunt me. But I have to put you on the shelf because it is shellfish to do anything else in my current state and you deserve ALL and I know you don't mind shelves anyways, as long as there are books nearby. Just don't wait for me if it hurts. It is all happening the way it is supposed to. The trees tell me so.

your pic gets mine.

I don't have any pictures to document this summer. There was a time, not too much time ago, when that was what I secretly lived for. I wanted pictures of me with African children and images of me having the time of my life and snapshots of me after a long hike eating dried mangos and grinning happily. I wanted portraits of validation that my life is worthwhile and full of precious memories.

I wanted art to imitate life to imitate art. But my camera is broken.

So this has become the summer that I explore life beyond the perfectly pixelated moment.

Not bold new things but the same things done in gratitude.

No twice held cheese smiles, just laughing at cheesy jokes with my parents.

No post cards from foreign lands, just letters of daily life between friends.

Not soaking in the sun, but biking in the rain.

Not a romantic dinner, but a family breakfast picnic on an uncharted beach.

I am on the journey of life in between frames. Some might call it boring, but trust me; God is here, too. And that is what I needed to know.

I Spy: The Ghost of A Good Thing

He had been dreading this conversation for weeks.

She dragged him here, to this public beverage arena; inescapable, automatic inside-voices-only.

He came reluctantly.

"Let's sit by the window-- it's more private".

(An oddly paned privacy through which his wishes to be anywhere elsewhere could wander with ease.)

She prepped her nerves with wine.

"We need to talk..." she began.

"Yeah? Ok, shoot."

Like clockwork, the cuticle examination began. What a sight! Avoidance at his fingertips...

But she took his hand in hers to re-create a sense of what once was. To prove she had his best interests at heart.

It is said that a woman's touch can tame a wild beast, but her skin only agitated him further.

Hand in captivity, his attention veered towards the window.

Outside, it was beginning to rain.

He prayed to each falling drop that she didn't start to cry.

In carefully monitored words, she began to lay the foundation of what would soon become a leaning tower of grievances.

He took a swig of her wine and she pretended not to mind the obvious interruption.

"I just don't get it Blake. How can you say you love me, but never have time for me?"

He semi-considered the question, leaning back in his chair with an exasperated arm stretched out, as if he were half Christ for meeting her in the first place.

"What do you think is going on now? We're here, aren't we? I don't see the problem, sweetheart."

Her face turned a pinker shade of disbelief, and she continued to rebuttal pleas to the side of his window-turned head.

The truth was, he had been busy up to this point. There were long days of work at the auto shop, followed by nightly poker with the guys and bike trips on weekends. Sure, they saw less of each other than when they had first started dating, but he thought he was doing a fairly good job at balancing everything, all things considered.

"Seriously Blake, you pay more attention to Sadie than you do to me!"

He couldn't help but smile at the mention of his loyal golden retriever.

She didn't return the grin.

And this made him wonder why he was with a girl who was jealous of a dog.

Time to switch gears.

"Oh man, Sadie did the funniest thing the other day! We were watching the game, and I had her fetch me another beer, and I guess she must have bit into the can, cause she came swaggering back all drunk and started growling when the Yankees were up to bat and then she shi-- "

"BLAKE!"

"What?"

The whining recommenced, berating him from the opposite side of the table.

He sighed. It was conversations like these that made him wish she could be more like Sadie. After all, Sadie was always up for cuddling or going for a hike at a moment's notice. She fetched things without complaint and didn't lecture him when he swore. On top of it all, the only serious moments with Sadie were wrestling and squirrel chasing, which both companions considered to be seriously fun."

"I just want things to be like they used to! I'm tired of being serious all the time!"

He thought that was ironic, considering she was the one who had interrupted the funny story.

He almost pointed this out.

But outside the clouds were parting, and it was becoming a beautiful day. Back at home, Sadie was probably holding her leash, hoping for a walk. He was done with their chat. He was done before it started. From practice, he knew that the only way to insure that the tears and rain kept their distance was to stuff the righteous manhood and repent his faults to his woman.

So he asked for forgiveness.

Promised to do better.

The wine and glimmer of sun lowered her standards.

She embraced him, saying, "See, I knew we were made for each other."

He smiled to her satisfaction, propelled only by the image of Sadie's head shaking when he recounted the afternoon on their walk. She would give him that look, as if to say "Gee whiz, what a bitch!"

"It takes one to know one", he would respond, scratching her behind the ears.

For today, a narrow escape.

But he dreads the next conversation for weeks.