kate e macneill

sometimes

the best things are quiet, simple, and good.

dudes

i just held a two day old baby.
what a trip.

history lesson

it’s one of those affairs you can never quite put your finger on, can never quite articulate. i’ve gotten better at telling the story over the years, but there has never been a conclusion, no matter how hard i tried.

when we saw each other a decade ago, i didn’t tell a soul. various teenage angst reasoning. we tore each other apart and couldn’t figure out how to put each other back together, or were too self-involved to try hard enough.

it’s been distance and rare phone calls and denial and heartbreak and letters and dreams since.

i am not sure what tomorrow will bring, for something that exists so stalwartly virtually, so embedded in idea and possibility, so unattainable for so long.

i don’t expect an avalanche, nor a tidal wave. nothing so disruptive. but i know it is snowing in the saskatchewan summer as i write this, and i’ve only packed sandals.

i had a dream, years ago, that he came to visit me. my friends and i were having a potluck, and we filled our plates and sat at the kids’ table on the porch. my partner eyed us with a teasing look, respecting our shared intimacy. we sat with our knees beside our elbows, and smiled at each other over our plates and the primary colours, and everything was alright.

i think it will feel like that. still, no conclusion, but alright.

why i don’t often come to toronto

every time i do, it grows on me.

like a fungus. a beautiful, strange smelling, intoxicating, hypnotic fungus.

reasons to not watch tv #3

all blair waldorf’s problems would be solved with a good dose of polyamory.

dreams

after we made love, we fell asleep, and made love all night. your forehead near my open lips, calm in sleep, in exhaustion, our sweat from the first hot summer air, weighted with smog, with the insufficiency of necessary photosynthesis.

it doesn’t work like that, not all the time. often athletes, we stretch ourselves after marathons, walk it off to reestablish our footing, descend to the regular slowness of heartrate, delegate the intimacy to sweet nothings, review the tapes at a later time.

but last night we crowded corners of each other, the sheets, threw our breaths across the room to make space for our murmurings, intertwined fingers as if forever might be found in a pinky swear, in all our unspoken promises.

i imagine skin and breath to dictate our dreams, the traffic out the open window, the sea, the hum of the fridge, the beehive, but last night your breath on my collarbone was your breath on my collarbone and my hand on your neck was my hand on your neck, and i was not alone, in sleep, nor in dream.

saturday

i am so tired

i am so in love