The Drivel Thread

I’m remembering Steve, my fellow foster kid, in Vankleek Hill, Ontario, who at a party, said to me “Give us a kiss!”, and I fully kissed him. I had always found him extremely attractive, but I had a boyfriend in Quebec, and Steve had a French, nice, girlfriend sitting beside him on the couch. But he asked for it, and he got it. He was floored. I never saw him again because those were the Christmas holidays, and when school started up again after the holidays, I ran away back to Montreal because I couldn’t stand my foster home. It’s true that I found Steve extremely attractive, but no one compares to The Dancer/Morrissey, who stunningly, I know in hindsight, was inches from me on Valentine’s Eve. I want your face on a pillow beside me Morrissey, the best dancer ever. Though I didn’t recognize you when you were there, I will never forget what I recognize in hindsight, and want to touch, with my hands and my lips.
 
I guess I’m procrastinating from painting your portrait, Morrissey, because it’s a tease, looking at a reference photo of you, noticing the lines under your eyes, painting them, and hearing your voice while I paint. It’s all a big tease, so I avoid it, but it’s as close to you as I can currently get, so I’ll take it. I’m going to put the Liverpool concert on and paint at midnight, come what may.
 
Some nervous painting into Morrissey In Portugal
17112663859043648537626459559809.jpg
 
I just wrote and sent an email to the mental health worker who sounded the false alarm, to tell her that I will be taking a break from non mandatory visits to my home, though I miss painting with her. I’ll bathe/brush/floss in about an hour and a half and get out for a walk, to be accessible should Morrissey want me, and I guess, for boring old exercise. I have nothing to buy and no one to keep an appointment with today. Morrissey, you up for it? Crash into my arms.
 
Cops and robbers
Mental health workers and mental health patients
Where do we meet as fellows
In my home
On my days off from being examined
Then when

I don’t want to have my guard up all the time
That I see her
When we see plays she treats me like her peer
So I’ll still attend those
But having her in my home
I’ve placed on hold

When it’s not mandatory
I feel I’ve been bold
To put my foot down onto the brake
My emotional health is at stake
She needs to learn to put down the game
Of cops and robbers without going insane
 
The last entry in Mozipedia (thanks again Verso) was about Morrissey being a fan of Timi Yuro. I just listened to Hurt, and like it.
 
I went for a walk on this rare sunny day, and only gave one sticky note away. The guy thought it was for Alanis Morrisette, as often happens. I was nearly home at the end of my walk and saw my neighbour with her dog, and I said “If you’ll stub out your cigarette I’ll walk with you.”, and she did. I invited her to the restaurant afterward. My treat. I always feel very stuffed after eating there if I order my usual dish, and it takes me a long time to eat it. My neighbour finished her shredded tofu rolls and went out for a smoke while I slurped my endless noodles. I don’t blame her. I wonder which mental health worker I’ll be seeing tomorrow. The one who sounded the alarm hasn’t replied to my email, though I know that she works Sundays. Maybe she called in sick. I hope she’s not just seething mad at me.

Morrissey once waited for me while I slurped those noodles. He stayed out on the bench. So patiently. Will he ever come again while I can still appreciate his company, I wonder. It’s been about 40 days since he showed up walking past me on the sidewalk, on Valentine’s Eve. I don’t think I can wait another 5 months for you to try again Morrissey. I simply don’t know if my physical health will hold up that long. And I’m afraid, if my mental health workers decide to make a stink about me believing I saw you on February 13th around 11AM, that they could give me another unwarranted appointment with my psychiatrist. He would probably see though, that I’m just taking care of myself, and not putting others in danger, and that believing I saw you inches from me, doesn’t pose a problem. Rather it encourages me to take care of myself and to have something to live for - the possibility that you will try again.

I know I’m not gorgeous. You must love me the way I love you, as The Dancer. We are each The Dancer to each other, I guess. I don’t know how you could love me so otherwise. I’m a dorky old woman to everybody else. The older you look, the more I want to touch you. You’re handsomeness is attractive too, but you’re the only one that becomes more compelling, the older you look. I mean at times you look young. At other times you look old. Both looks have their own appeal to me. I’ll probably continue painting Morrissey In Portugal in about 3 and a half hours. I have to brace myself, for being teased.
 
I didn’t end up painting last night. I slept, and despite a little rattle coughing this morning, I’m in a great mood. I feel cute and cuddly, attractive, even. I’ll be painting with a mental health worker this afternoon, I expect. I don’t know who’ll be visiting me, someone cool, or, that one that sounded the alarm, but I will do my best to get along with them, whoever they turn out to be. We’ll chat for a bit, to do the mental health checkup dance, and then we’ll likely paint. I’m anxious to know who’s coming.
 
I’m loving you
I thought I was a goner
I still think I’m doomed
But I like loving you
Adoring you and feeling adorable myself
You’ll come into my arms soon

I can feel you coming through
The fog of uncertainty
To your destination with me
I’m just a pauper
With a squirrel tail on my head
And leopard print sweatpants

An old hag to most people
But you haven’t let go
Of my masculine hand
You’ve hung on through decades
To see me through
My confusion of who is who

To look to, to trust and love
Face to face honestly
Without having to keep it wrapped
In a cold politeness
That keeps loving at bay
You came through for me

Again and again you showed your face
Again and again you staked your claim
Again and again you remembered me
You came from the dance floor
Is the world one big disco
Come into my arms you big bronco
 
I had a good chat with a mental health worker who visited me and painted. She suggested I call the worker who I thought was the ringleader for the false alarm, and I did, and we had a very air clearing talk over the phone. I decided that we can start having our extra get togethers again in two weeks, and that I will try to be careful not to unnecessarily alarm her mental health worker sensitivities. She said she doesn’t want me to feel that I must be secretive. Telling everything, all the time, to a mental health worker leads to setting off their alarms unnecessarily though, so I will try to use my discretion, at any rate. Lately I have little to be discrete about. I just eat, sleep, sometimes walk, give a Morrissey sticky note to someone who seems receptive, occasionally, bathe, do laundry, and as usual, let the dust build.
 

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