Cocktails OTR.

There is a brood of little girls in the coffeeshop with their low bunned and low browed mothers, the women humble despite their gorgeous creatures of daughters. Three little ones, tiny voices, letters clipped off in that little way. They clearly dressed themselves. Pinks and reds (my favorite combination), velvet and stripes, crying babies. I love it all. I want it all. But not yet.

Then I found this poem, from an Ondaatje collection that you lent to me before knowing of my irrevocable underlining habits. Sorry, it cannot be helped.

* (After Che-King, 11th Century BC)

If you love me and think only of me
lift your robe and ford the river Chen

catch
'the floating world'
8.52 from Chicago


lift your skirt
through customs,

kiss me in the parking lot


---


Poem by M Ondaatje. Kiss me in the parking lot with my skirt around my neck. Yes please. Get into him. I am, have been for years. I carry that man's paper spine around town these days. These days. These days have been interesting. Beyond interesting. Yesterday while sitting on top of a pile of lumber in the middle of a field, I realized that some of my priorities have slipped, dipped and escaped completely. Others have spun around, shockingly quick. Some are the same. I still want to plant. I still would like to go to art school. I still want to have time to read a bit everyday. I still want to take time to escape up and into the woods like I did this weekend for Rebecca's birthday.

She booked her pals a weekend in the woods. Thank you girl. Happy Birthday to us. It was glorious. It was a little dark, I retreated for the most part and came out only to cook and partake in the dishing of food and laughing around a table with my lady in between bites of beef borscht that I stole from my mum's fridge. (Delicious, by the way). At one point in the space between napping and eating, I slipped out the door away from the group of amazing people and out into the sinking light, the kind of light that drapes just like fading blue silk from Club Mon does across the bones one's back. Silken dusk, glorious silken dusk of sinking blues and greys. I skied alone, managing land, getting lost on purpose on skis in the bush just to force myself to seek out the curve of the land that I memorized just a moment before losing my bearings. I drank one Dutch beer in the land and stood still thinking until there was no color left and night took over from where day left off. One long look and one long sigh to the land, I turned skied home to that house in the woods filled with people I love.

Rose cheeked, hair alive, skin awake, eyes bright, I put on my apron with care and began. As dishes were plated and organized, the table set and dinner cocktails (OTT [on the table]) stirred with limes, I missed my mum fervently, knowing in that dim lit kitchen moment exactly who and where those skills and that care came from. Thank you for teaching by doing mum. I love you. I will be fine in life (I think) just because you taught me how to host.

Skiing is something I need to do more. Preferably everyday. Maybe if I get into a school, I will get onto a team, or into a race. I have been so taken with racing lately. I am racing, every part of me is racing. Head, heart, hands. Last night, skiing alone, I was racing against myself. Cycling, I race. Walk, run, race. The older I get, the more hysterical my need for athletics becomes. I suppose I have been an athlete all along, but it never dawned upon me until I left the town that offered select veins of sport. Volleyball, no thanks. Long jump, nope. Last night while sleeping beside Jill in a bed built like the ark, I dreamt of Rollin laughing and a rowing team. I wonder if I could row? I wonder what Rollin will do. Make people laugh, just like his mama.

It was a wonderful winter holiday up in the woods, cooking for the masses and plating food and whipping up sangria like it was going out of style. Dinner was extravagantly simple and pretty, and so were all of the faces around the harvest table heaving with feast. I am happy to be home, to curl into the nook, layered ribs under one hundred blankets, a Vietnamese picnic on the floor, Czech beer and open mouthed laughter.

Happy Birthday to Rebecca and Loco, my two favorite Fish on the planet. Swim on you beauties and I'll try to keep up. Loco, I owe you a landline minute.

Madge.