tired

tired
Originally uploaded by blueolive.

When i am eyeball-knee-and-feet tired i get particularly nostalgic. i also feel far away and watered down. in the fear that i really am watered down i write. as though the trickle of impermanent drifting thoughts set down somewhere provides a screen to sive though myself; not let me lose everything in the water that will pass though. create the substantive I as upposed to the i i find easier to identify with right now. this water, it doesnt pass under this bridge it goes through.

Le pont de St louis rey- a play translated to french- originally written in english by Thorton Wilder, was presented a few weeks ago at the Chateau Rouge, the local and beautifuly named art centre.
The theatre is about the size of the one in my highschool, or at McUni in Mtl. space for the seating is huge and i was shocked to feel so at home. I longed to be in there, any where. in the carpets in the seats sweeping the stage. the booth was suspended above us.
What i long for... no ill stick with one train of though this time.
The pont or Bridge, in the end, is a bridge of love, of transition of going somewhere. All the people on the bridge fall when it breakes but someone searching for god and branded a heretic for trying to make sense of this cosmicly directed (in his perspective) and unexpected happening (deep breath, long sentence) is burned at the steak for not recanting his tretise on the lives of the people on that bridge or what it meant interms of understanding the logic of god. in a sense walking his own bridge of love- his faith in this case.
If a bridge is a seive... think about it. does water really pass under it or through it. Context and perspective.
my little bridge is standing strong, a little soaked
wear, weary,worn

weary of my current perspective of being water instead of siving it.
So here i cast my net to ironically catch the refuse that is nothing except that it is solid.

Today though i feel slightly overwhelmed in my lack of knowledge of world history or geography, i will go home and chew on the bitter sweet fruit
that i have sprinkled in my rice, bright red jewles calling me to old dinner tables.
gotta run cant do another night without a phone card
that and its my mums birthday
i have forgotten it often in the past
working on building bridges not burning them
haha

today
i am
a little
achy
and
gelatenous

but i am going to bake zucchini bread
and i ate creps with teachers
and i got a note from a student on diddle paper (stupid sticker book equivalent of the times-waste of paper i say except this one: the note said pour roxanna je taime et jespere que vous passez des bonnes vacances (i dont have it right now so bear w! teh grammar!vocab errors)

it was from one of my CM1s (about grade 4 )
awww

over and out.