flashback!

damn, time flies. where did the last week (since my last post) go!? and for that matter, where did the last 14 years go? well no, they haven't raced by, they've been full and lived completely - that's for sure. but it's been fun to reflect on them...

see last week, i was found by an ancient ex. and ah, the memories heretofore well and solidly dammed up have flooded my mind - frankly, i'm amazed by how much i remember.

if you've been paying attention (or if you're reading my words like you care, ahem...), you may remember that in my many exciting! amazing! death-defying! world travels, i've also lived in thunder bay. don't worry if you didn't remember: i try to never talk about it. (a note for non-canadian readers: thunder bay is by all legal definitions a "city" located somewhere in the woody cesspool of northwestern ontario.)

at the ripe and tender age of 16, i was transplanted from Montreal (french girls, dépanneurs, modern dance, poutine and Super Sex) to Thunder Bay (lager, loggers, legions and Bambi Bambenek). although this may bespeak a maniacal cruelty on my parents' part, there were reasons other than my torture. and anyway, as a colourfully-clad, bottom-feeding, artsy urban grrrl, i can clearly see the big shiny bullet i dodged. (shortly before the move i'd acquired an agent (modeling) - who told my 5'7" 115-lb anorexic ass to lose weight. i was also lambada-ing up a storm at the yuppie joints de choix. really: what might i have become?? shudder at the thought.)

but i digress.

so at 16 i suddenly found myself in a school that had a football team instead of an improv troupe, cheerleaders instead of a world-travelling jazz band and pep rallies instead of dance class. whoa. it was like i'd suddenly found myself trapped in an ABC After-School Special. this shit existed in Canada??? damned "distinct society" robbing me of dog squads and class-free, pepped-up wednesday afternoons...

my first few weeks were particularly scintillating. when i wasn't outside polluting my lungs with my cousin and her friends, you could generally find me sitting alone eating baloney sandwiches in the back corridor by shop class. despite this, and perhaps because i wore perfume, make-up, styly black clothes and spoke with a slight indescernible accent, i had earned myself a reputation!! that first week, the hushed voices spoke of "Parisian model". dayem, that's fun! i giggled and kinda liked this whole "gossip" business - something that somehow didn't really exist in my Montreal high schools... well the thrill ended when somehow, still sitting in the back corridor like a loser, i had become THE WHORE.

er... hm??

well what the hell eh. i was 16, alone, confused, and insecure as all hell and i now officially had nothing to lose. so i went on a bit of a rampage. say something witty (or, well... amusing anyway), be cute (or well... not uncute anyway) and buy me booze, and you had yourself a cute "foreign" girlfriend for the night or week.

until i saw him.
...met him? sadly the details are lost. but i do remember some things. like smoking in that far-back walkway as we started our solemn trek home (had to make sure he knew i was cool). i remember snow bros. at the 7-11. i remember the slow, lingering flirty walks home as we tried to ignore our raging loins (he had a girlfriend). and i remember that night... we were walking home from a friend's party, engaged in the ultimate act of adolescent foreplay: laughter-and-scream-laced wrestling. we manoeuvred ourselves into the perfect position: he sat straddling me as i lay looking up at his beautiful face framed by a naked sapling and a cool, crisp moon. and i remember my brain screaming out "kiss me kiss me kiss me kiss me". i can't remember how it happened - did he lean in? did i have to lure him? did i reach up? i don't know. but i do know we kissed and he became my first full-on, really real thunder bay boyfriend. i'm talking months of devotion (which hey, for a 16 year-old is something) and 18 ct gold bracelets. oh yea, this was teenaged love at its best.

and now, 14 years later, he's stumbled on me at classmates.com. yes: someone actually gave the bastards some cash and got to actually contact me! i gotta say, it's sorta fun. haven't thought of Hammarskjold High in a helluva long time...

hunh

daydreamin

i'm indoors all day, but my soul doesn't have to be! she's off adventuring...

it's a beautiful day. although there is a flavour of fall whispered on the wind, the day is sunny and sporting a misty smog that speaks more of summer than autumn. it's noon and she has emerged from the recycled air to savour her hour of freedom. she has decided to cycle to a farmer's market to get something fresh for lunch while supporting the hippies and environmentalists she wishes she were...

she is elated to discover that this is no outdoor mall, but a small community. the people are smiling, the prices are negotiable, and there are musicians. the musicians are all cool and carefree, oozing a casual sexuality - but it is the drummer who catches her eye. a feast of thick hair coyly brushes past eyes raging with intensity, sparkling with mischief. he seems transported, carried to mystical realms by his masterful rhythms. she is instantly mesmerized.

she watches his eyes. she watches when they are closed, and he looks almost reverential. she watches when they are turned to a sky filled with invisible but potent gods. and she blushingly stops watching when their focus shifts to her. although she has averted her gaze too quickly to see the salacious smile, she can feel the sudden charge in his playing. it seems now laced with a lascivious drive that pulses right into the yes of her.

eyes downturned, she tries not to think of his eyes. tries not to imagine them inspecting the contours of her dress. tries not to imagine them drinking in her details. tries not to imagine them piercing her thoughts and exposing her soul.

smiling softly, she tries not to think of his mouth. tries not to imagine it smiling wantonly just for her. tries not to imagine it whispering into her hair. tries not to imagine how sweet and soft it must taste.

fidgeting timidly, she tries not to think of his fingers. tries not to imagine them easing her clothes off. tries not to imagine them pulling her hair, exposing her neck to his fierce hunger. tries not to imagine them gently but insistently unfurling her like a rose.

but his dancing fingers and charging pulse lull her into the decadent daydream and she is powerless to his rhythmic seduction. and so she dreams on...