When I was very young, I imagined I would live like I do today. Specifically, I imagined poetry, good friends, cut flowers, a clean home of my own, a beautiful body, and a modest supply of wine and beer.
It is almost unreal to look at the envelopes on my desk, stuffed with poems and addressed to the editors of Geist, The Three Penny Review, and The Dalhousie Review. Beside the envelopes there are two packages, one for Emily and one for Glynis; and I'll go to the post office tomorrow. The Lily of the Valley grow under our mailbox. It's one-thirty in the morning, and the room in which I'm typing is lined with lemon squares and bookcases and teapots and microscopes and desks and guitars in orderly array. Nothing feels better than using my body, washing it, watering and feeding it as deliciously as I can. I've gone biking along the edge of the river valley several times these past ten days. My limbs are becoming lighter and stronger, my heart beats more insistently, and the bathroom scale is a happy sight. (I've lost twelve pounds.) At this moment, the refrigerator stows two bottles of Yellow Tail and five bottles of Guinness.
Now, when I come in from errands or exercise, my husband rubs my shoulders and talks ethics with me. I have one tutoring student this week, and, with any luck, a steady job starting next week. I have eight tomato plants. I have a new journal. I can write again. Oh, I am happy.
I want to marry you because I like your mind. When we were first going out it didn't even matter that you were a boy; you were the first proper person I'd met, who thought about the same ideas I did. I like the things you like. I like your reasons for liking them and me.
I want to talk with you. I want to listen to your ideas. I want to support you. I want to respect you. I want to keep your confidence and entrust you with mine. I want to reserve my affection for you. I want to care for you. I want to love you. I want to read and cook and bicycle and climb trees with you. I want to strive with my own happiness to make you happy. I want to speak well of you. I want to be honest with you. I want to give you space. I want to share with you.
My entire day has been an exercise in avoiding the dishes. In order to avoid them, I have eaten two bowls of tomato soup (one with cheddar cheese and one without), washed the windows, dug up a potted shrub to put at the bottom of the concrete stairwell that leads to our front door, watched an episode and a half of All Creatures Great and Small, Season Two, done a load of laundry, planted carrots, poppies, and lettuce, watered the peas, had a bath, cleaned my toe- and fingernails, ordered the playlist for the party, replied to a job posting, made the bed, lit candles, finished the sparrow duvet cover, scrubbed the stove, and stressed about the wedding. Yesterday, Tim and I invented an avocado and vanilla cheesecake to bake on Saturday, but there's also homemade bread, hummus, pistachio ice cream, lemon sorbet, and greek salad to prepare, and we haven't started anything. Tim is moving in to the suite tomorrow. We're cleaning house and cube-building and dough-mixing tomorrow. Friday there are flowers to buy and a pedicure appointment to keep in the morning, supper to make, and a wedding ceremony to get ready for by five o'clock. Then we're going swimming. Saturday is the big fete. We have 13 bottles of wine. The dishes are still waiting.
As a rule, I save my newest poems for my newest zines, but I have not published an issue of Tom-Tom since September, what with university and planning a wedding. The poems want to breathe public air, and I am anxious for some feedback. I'll be posting a few pieces on Feed the Long Neck later today.
In a construction phase today, sewing up my first duvet cover as carefully as if I were putting up my first building, even finishing the seams.
This evening I tried on the grey tights I bought to wear with my wedding dress, hoping they would fit properly. They did not. Tights never have. Google dredged up hundreds of women in similar straights, unable to find a pair of tights or pantyhose which do not constrict their waists, slide down, or create artificial lumps and bulges.
Tim suggested I design a solution. I think it is a marvelous idea. I am planning a trip to the fabric store, and, if she doesn't mind, a flash tutorial in sewing with difficult fabrics from Laura. (What do you say, friend?)