1-10 Every So Often
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0 notes It has been a lengthy while but I am returning to this method soon. I had a very real moment after tripping over a recently boiled egg placed on a recently laid hardwood floor; Thankfully, a cherry pie broke my fall! I refuse to delete the existing even though I find it quite convoluted and descending. One may also use the word ‘embarrassing’ but those darn cherry pits have wedged themselves so deeply into my cheeks, they’ve given me new dimples. 
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interbeing: i love this blog.

Thank you very kindly

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Wednesday, September 21 2011 by brooke manning
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Thursday, September 8, 2011 by brooke manning
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Thursday, August 4, 2011 by brooke manning
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Tuesday August 2, 2011 by brooke manning
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Thursday, July 28, 2011 by brooke manning
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Tuesday, July 26, 2011 by brooke manning
1 note 1 I’d like to someday witness someone subtly old and withered  Smiling while carving letters into a younger tree.  2 I am told he has the same hands But when I picture his face I can never quite pin down his nose.  It just darts around and ends up somewhere near his eyes because I have always seen myself so clearly in them.  3 The day I decided to walk home late from the park The same day two different birds shat quietly beside, and on me The same day after the night we lost interest Before the beautiful girl picked me a rose In which after I plucked at its petals stuffing them into my pockets. The same night a homeless man outside Pizza Pizza asked me for change The same night I got-to-feeling Holy, giving him a petal instead  The same moment he spit on my shoe The very minute I felt reborn.  When I got home I told you my hands didn’t smell like roses, but rather gigantic pockets.  I’m sorry. I think they might have become rose’d in hindsight.  4 A man walks by my work everyday and waves blankly in the window.  He won’t budge until his wave has been reciprocated.  Once, he was given the title of Jesus in a parade.  Now, he sits in his store-front window waving  Until he instead decides to take a walk and wave into.   Most everyone craves a change of scenery at some point.  4 My mind thought I was in Paris today.  Little Portugal is Paris today. The heat of it all and the  Passion in my guts can perhaps be Paris today. - - -  It is probably not important to know I have never been. - - -  I get home and laver the dishes. I practice my french. I get home and make love to my guitar. Songs come in curls. I get home and take your old cigar out of my freezer. I let it smoke itself near the open window. Romantically. I get home and think about the Monday’s my old roommate would become a Parisian named Audrey. I can miss her.  - - -  The vintage Coca Cola sign outside my ever-sweetening bay window.  The white of the white and the green of the green. The walls near my walls The grass upon grass.  The sidewalk screams, “Cesser de Regarder!” The cicadas are smoking their longest cigarettes.  The moment delusion begins growing a smile. The moment my neighbour knocks asking me politely to keep my dreams down. She offers me perogies.  5 The thing about wanting to be an artist - (I say wanting because this is another thing about being the certain kind of artist that sometimes has a hard time slapping the wet towel of a word against a name) - is that you may also want to be a musician.  Maybe you want to be a poet and a writer and a painter too.  You might want to make collages and learn how to rewire lamps.  You might want to be a barista, a baker, a candlestick-maker.  You might sign yourself up for a 10 day Vipassana meditation retreat in the fall.  You might take up philosophy all over again. You might want to thrash to the heaviest tunes. You might want to be a healer, a helper, a lender, a learner. You might want to forget about people for awhile. You might want to be needed, loved, accepted, reassured. You might want to make passionate love.  You might want to be fucked.  You might want to be a lover.  You might often tire of yours.   You want to remain mysterious but you need to be honest.  You’re tired of making excuses yet you feel the need to excuse yourself.  You tell your mother to visit your words Tuesday and Thursday. You love your mother more than anything. You perpetually feel as though you are a stumbling infant.  You perpetually feel as though you are a wise prophet.  You perpetually adorn yourself in meaningful decoration.  You perpetually discard what you once needed to decorate.  You are a perpetually curious dreamer And every time you wake up Your eyes are a different wattage.  The thing about wanting to be an artist is that you grow to love all kinds of light.  5 Memory as index. Indexical memories.  My index finger combing the catalogues of queries. An index giving the finger to my catalogues of theories.  Pulling the index finger of my dreams.  Pulling at once triggered seams. Hearing the backfire of neurons. Firing a narrator in my head.  Hiring a new one instead.  One that is a stacker, not a piler.  One that is a slacker, not a filer.  One that sees Memory as empty drawers.  6  If only fish could fly and sprout illegitimate beaks.  How defiant those little guys would be! 7 Drinking in the afternoon with an old flame. Kindling walking into a bookstore. Speaking passionately about hardened covers. It’s hot, take off your jacket.  Kyle smiles reluctantly about his hunt for an apartment.  He asks if Flame can help extinguish that man in the corner.  He points South.  It is the hottest day of the year and there is a man around our age napping in the kids section.  He is in his late twenties and he is tired. Propped on a shelf, it seems obvious it is too hot a day to speak passionately of hardened covers.  He is dreaming Where The Wild Things Are. 8 Everything is Beautiful.  [I can’t really make that more poetic than it is naturally] 9 How lucky we can be.  How grateful! The moment a grain of sand becomes expectant.  The moment you begin to see glass.  10 I took a cab to work because my bike seat was too hot for my own padding.  Last night I rode it over wet paint  Splatters on my legs this morning.  My cab driver insisted on conditioning the air for me.  He told me that it is his job to make me happy.  I told him it is my job to make him content.  He told me that he finished his degree in natural medicine in 1969.  He told me Pakistan is very hot but he has acclimatized to Canada and so Canada is therefore hotter. He spoke of networking and his struggle.  He spoke with a smile at seven in the morning.  He spoke of his son.  Teenagers have problems too.  He was kind.  He wouldn’t let me pay.  There is a new twenty in his empty coffee cup. What it means to make my day Bahaar, The Profit of Strangers. 
0 notes 1 I often pass lamp lights late at night.  So often my eyes bare witness to their bursting bulbs and I wonder - Can a story about that bulb exist when there is only one witness? Did anyone contemplate its real existence before it died to my eyes? 2 Pretend this story happened to nobody.  Pretend that you are stacking as many hearts as you can on top of arches that are falling on feet that look pregnant.  3 Today the Merriam-Webster homepage told me the word of the day is Convoluted - A folded, winding shape likened to one of the ridges of the brain.  4 Language as a foundation. An architecture of the Tongue and Heart. Learning to never invite Tongue and Heart over to hang shelves if Language forgot his hammer. 5 I had a dream during a full Moon.  I saw things so guilelessly that my ovaries were showing.  This is how much I hallowed out. In the morning I was angry at the Moon for its persistent need to excuse itself every month  Leaving the Sun alone with its beaming devotion  Burdened by the Moon’s benign escape. 6 A woman left a noted plant on the steps: Please care for! I am moving to Europe and I do not want this plant to die.  I can assume it was a woman by the lean of her handwriting and the need to nurture what must be left behind.  7 I put on a pair of shorts I liked to wear around my apartment last summer: My seventeen year old mothers Levi’s cut-offs.  Fishing a fist into the left pocket I find a horoscope ripped from a weekly.  It tells me to read more like Kenneth Patchen and to remember to let my legs breathe. It seems I forgot and spent most of the year wearing tights while attempting to paint his face. 8 Etymology and the naming of things (Etymology) The naming of names and things that were once nameless (Double-Double) The naming of things that are self explanatory (White-Out) The naming of things like Word or Brooke.  9 Entering at such an angle that a steady spiral begins under the surface  A cold stirring of heat and air concluding to just the right amount of sweetness and rise A once cold body made now just hot enough to touch:    I think these things when I steam milk. 10 Isn’t Luck just as Good already without having to  A) wish It? b) want Good as its door-stopper? Isn’t Bad just an injury of Good language? A crutch for Luck to lean on  Instead of Luck acting crutch? Isn’t Luck just Fate? And isn’t Fate just Good?