A Gay Thursday

Sometimes a girl just needs to see a little bit of her world reflected back at her. Today, with a day off from work, I purposefully slept in and when I finally woke up the first thought I had was to curl up on the couch with a movie. The movie selection lacking in sufficient gayness, I decided The L Word was the best place to start. Then it was Callie & Arizona recaps on youtube, followed by visits to So You're EnGAYged and Dorothy Surrenders. I didn't make it AfterEllen, but, hey, you can't have everything all the time, right?

For Wednesday - Windowboxes

Just in the last few weeks, the windowboxes at my first floor office have been dug out and replaced with a gorgeous variety of flowers. I don't know the names of any of them except the largest one in the centre box--a chinese poppy. It's June though, and the flowers, well, they keep flowering and flowering. Each morning I arrive at the office, with its floor-to-ceiling windows full of light, and more blooms, more color full the window ledge. I pull up the window pane and lean out onto the ledge just to peek into the newest buds, the bumble bees gathering their nectar, the leaves proud and green.

Just Before Bed

It's the smell of the Rastafarian hand lotion purchased from the Tuesday farmer's market, and the mantra 'people that brush together, stay together.' Teeth, that is. It's asking someone if they meant to post a letter, and knowing both of you are stretching to connect, with yourselves. It's text messages, and craawling into bed early. It's the scenic route and the giggle in my belly. It's adding dill to my potatoes and thinking of you.

Reading Poetry

I've been considering spending the next year reading only queer women writers (can I make those identity categories mesh?) but, like I said, I'm only considering it still. To test the water, though, I've been reading quite a lot of Carol Ann Duffy. It's a hard job, let me tell you.

A favorite so far:

Text

I tend the mobile now
like an injured bird.

We text, text, text
our significant words.

I re-read your first,
your second, your third,

looking for your small xx,
feeling absurd.

The codes we send
arrive in a broken chord.

I try to picture your hands,
their image is blurred.

Nothing my thumbs press
will ever be heard.

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Safe to say, my texting experiences lately have not been as anxiety-producing as hers...