January 31

It's one of those dreamy surreal days.  Waiting for the bus to go visit my baby for lunch, and a gentleman sat down beside me, nose running thick into his moustache.  He was somewhat well dressed and appeared clean, but a little scruffy, salt and pepper hair.  Couldn't quite tell if he was a street person or not.  He mentioned he was sick, and I couldn't tell if he was flu sick, or 'sick' from needing a fix, which is common in my neighborhood. 

Somehow through my calm centered mood, which makes the whole world take on a beautiful hazy glow, it didn't faze me an iota when he muttered that he'd lost his damn snot rag.  After all, that's what I call my Kleenex when I have a runny nose from hell.  He asked whether it was Thursday or Friday, and I replied with a cheerful, 'Friday, and Chinese New Years Eve', he raised an eyebrow, and looked over the twig of a trio of mandarins with their green leaves and red raffia ribbon in my lap. 

My spirits dampened a little on the bus, when in schizo-style ramblings from the seat behind me I heard 'should just damn well go back to China... damn... she's stealing our identities and selling them to the Chinese'.  A few emotional clouds rolled in, along with fantasies of telling him off, which I often do, but felt too at peace to engage in today.  Instead I got sucked into the scenery outside my window.  Rather on my window.  Someone had tagged the window with a black graffiti penned signature, elegant and rough all at the same time, unreadable to my tag-illiterate eyes, and with no motivation to try and separate out the movements of each letter, instead I gloried at a fly, hanging onto the outside of the bus window, beautifully juxtaposed like a punctuation mark at the end of the tag.  He was completely golden, not a speck of black, golden body, golden hairs, golden eyes, and a single golden wing.  Some strange species that I'm almost curious enough to look up on the web, but not enough, just a golden one winged fly, clinging with ease to the window of a moving bus, pass the landscapes of sushi bars and a catholic church, with the paranoid ramblings of a racist runny nosed bastard in the seat behind me like the droning of some chaotic chorus.

Sometimes the world seems to create a balance, a harmony, a peace, around me, out of elements broken and clumsy.

Or maybe it's just the glazed eyes I'm taking in through, a sense of center that overcomes me sometimes, making everything perfect and solid.

Serenity.
Serenity.
Serenity.

And the day hadn't even really begun.

The bus deposited me in the downtown core, outside a construction site on Granville Street, and the lady with her octagonal stop/slow sign, smiled wide at me, and complemented me on my hair.  I thought about the feng shui Octagon symbol redirecting energy and her stop sign, red, china red.

Her own bleach blonde hair echoing mine, and her smiling compliment, the mandarins heavy in my hand.

I sidled into the crepe cafe were I was meeting my baby, and first to arrive deposited my package on the table and enjoyed the simplicity of a glass of cold water, realizing just how thirst I was.  How thirst I am.

We talked about important things, politics, economics, community, religion, spirituality, love, being real.

But it didn't need to be said, I'd already heard it all, from the snot nosed man, the tag line graffiti and the one winged golden fly.

We'd have heard it all the same him/her and I sitting in the restaurant.

That's what I like about my lunches with my baby (Adult baby, fetish, infantilism, slave baby, slaby, Mommies little girl, me the Dommie Mommie, silly sissy play, steady solid, real, needs, base, core, open, undefined, real real, accepting, integration, gestation).

We still haven't even 'played' together yet, still gestating, still waiting, still enjoying and delighting in the existence and acceptance of one another.

Perhaps it is a wise man, who knows himself to be an infant girl.

Why not.

The universe creates beauty and order, perfection, in such things.

Leila

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