Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 37

CLIFF OF LOVE

(A POEM FOR MY BEAUTIFUL, STUNNING FRIEND)

I thought we were a circle,

But you swerved.

You Squiggled.

You fell off the cliff of love.

My infinity lies beyond.

BAREFOOT

 

Painted toenails,

Open shoes,

Sandy pathways,

Summer tunes.

 

Silky sun rays,

Golden light,

Salty children

Flying kites.

 

Melting ice-creams,

Chocolate chins,

Late night pizza

On a whim.

 

Barefoot living,

Buckets, spades,

Smiles and giggles,

Carefree days.

#Tinysummerpoem  @bethkempton Prompt: Barefoot

NEW GOLD DREAM

 

Bulging bubbles,

Jostling layers,

Cantankerous Cumulonimbus rumbled.

 

Too rude, too crude.

 

Now,

Celestial sparklers

Herald golden linings.

 

Oh!

 

Haven’t you heard?

 

Silver linings are so last year.

 

Get with the brand new program!

 

 

(#tinysummerpoem @bethkempton, Prompt: Layers)

FREE FALLING

Tiny summer poem, prompted by the word “Mark”. I went to a concert at the Cap Roig Festival last night with a girlfriend. We saw Chris Isaac, whom I’d never seen. It was AMAZING! Fun, and goofy and romantic and playful, and…well, everything. We loved it! And I still knew so many of the lyrics, despite not having listened to his music much in a while. His voice is magical, his range phenomenal, and his musicians just great. It felt like a generous concert, too, both towards the public and towards his musicians. A lovely evening. I woke late this morning to find Beth Kempton had left another poetry prompt, this time Mark. Kind of a shame it wasn’t Chris… Maybe I’ll change it tomorrow! For now I’m playing the game. I hope you enjoy it. It’s romantic. It seems to be the theme at the moment, although I did write a funny one about getting stoned the other day (Doobie-Doo in case you want to go and find it!).

xx Cesca

FREE FALLING

There is a boy,

Pacing beneath her window,

Reticently in love,

Free falling.

 

Upstairs, she readies herself with scents and lotions, humming the soundtrack of a classic in the making.

 

She lights a candle, then another.

And another.

“Mark,” she whispers, smiling, his name a promise.

 

He takes the stairs two at a time.

He doesn’t knock.

No need.

 

She closes the door behind them.

 

His mouth finds hers.

 

Credits roll.

 

KISS HER: HOW MUCH LONGER DOES SHE HAVE TO WAIT?

(prompted by the word “Sit” from Beth Kempton’s tiny summer poem series)

If you sit there,

Close to her,

Know that her chest will flutter

Like diaphanous lace,

As effervescent heat rises in her heart-space,

And a flush of coral sweeps across her cheeks.

Yet she will remain as

Tongue-tied as the schoolgirl

You walked home, long ago, under a bicentennial moon.

 

So, don’t just sit there! Kiss her!

 

READY

TINY SUMMER POEM #2

Some context: I have an autoimmune disease called Microscopic Lymphocytic Collagenous Colitis. Diagnosed two years ago, after months of upset stomach, for several months I thought I had more or less managed to control my symptoms with diet and regular acupuncture.

And then all hell broke loose after I visited a so-called Naturopath who decided I had Lyme disease, even though I tested negative. I should have seen red flags coming out of all his orifices, but I’d been getting ill again, and when you’re desperate, it’s easy to be gobbled up by idiots. Also, he was a doctor. Not that being a “doctor” makes a difference, really; I’ve seen more than my fair share of crap doctors in the past five years between one problem and the other. Anyway, this moron told me I had parasites, that I needed to do a cleanse, and when I asked him whether he was certain about this, because I had this incurable autoimmune disease, he was adamant that I absolutely must, and that he’d helped many patients with my type of autoimmune disease.

I have never taken so many supplements and weird medications in my life. I had about two weeks of deworming, as well as bicarbonates, and all sorts of different magnesiums, and Gingko, and Vitamin C, D, B, etc, you name it, I probably had it. When my husband and I drove down to Spain for Christmas, my husband laughed at me, saying we almost needed my old horse trailer just to bring my drugs down. I had about two huge carrier bags full of frickin’ drugs! Mental!

Anyway, the only thing this wonderful doctor managed to do was mess up my gut even more. So I’ve had D off and on for months now, I don’t know what I can eat, not eat, because one day I’ll eat something and be fine, and the next day I’ll have it and be on the loo all day. There are days where I don’t even dare leave the house. It’s that crazy. And when it gets that bad, I’m just exhausted.

Thank goodness I’m on an excellent anti-depressant, and have been since early January. Prior to that I was a mess (see yesterday’s poem). Writing is also a saviour.

Anyway, MLCC is not a life threatening disease, but it does make socialising extremely complicated. Restaurants are pretty pointless, as if I can have something on the menu, it will have to be made as boring and bland as possible (gluten and lactose free; I’ve attempted to eat gluten and lactose again on the advice of a new nutritionist, but so far I am far from convinced) and even then chances are I’ll be sick later on. Going to eat at people’s houses is awful because my diet is so complicated, so I’d rather eat beforehand, or take my own food, which doesn’t always land very comfortably with everyone.

I used to love food. Now I almost hate it.

Beth Kempton’s prompt today is: READY. If I’d written it earlier today, I would probably have written a completely different poem. Unfortunately, I’m writing it now, after having met some friends, and had a glass of Cava (Spanish champagne). And then I got violently sick. So these are my thoughts on READY.

I am ready

For this illness

To take a back seat,

If only for a little while.

I am ready

To take a mental break

From this daily food lottery.

I am ready to stop being brave.

 

So damn ready.

 

Give me a break.

 

LIGHT

This is a poem written from a prompt suggested by Beth Kempton, who has once again started doing her tiny poem series. The idea was to write something in ten minutes, with no editing. I’ll admit I often take more than ten minutes, but I’m a grown up and can do what I want and nobody can yell at me anymore!

I’d never written any poetry, nor even considered writing any until I came across Beth’s prompts late last year, when I was in a very dark place. Beth’s daily prompts sparked my creativity; I began writing poetry every day along, almost obsessively, as though it was a lifeboat, which in a way I suppose it was. I’ve not written close to 150 poems since Christmas, maybe even more. I’m writing another book, too, and enjoying writing my longer pieces that I publish here and on Substack.

Here is my first Tiny Summer Poem, the prompt is:

LIGHT

Light comes in through little cracks

It wriggles through to coax life back.

When joy’s a concept, a word, abstract,

When you feel guilty for feeling sad,

When you’re a burden, a mess, a pain,

And deep inside you’re so ashamed,

Look for tiny sparkling rays

For twinkling prisms on gossamer wings.

Trust they’ll guide you through the dark

To find the help you need to glow.

 

 

DOOBIE-DOO

I smoked a doobie years ago,

Victoria rolled it, quite the pro!

Did I inhale? I must have done,

Because my giggle switch turned on!

 

Don’t get me wrong, I’d laughed before,

I’ve never been a tight-lipped bore.

I’d tasted wine, had some champagne,

I figured weed would be the same.

 

But goodness me, that stuff was strong,

Two tiny puffs and I was gone!

We told wild stories, secrets too,

I called my boyfriend, said, “we’re through!”

 

Effervesced with sparkling wit,

We babbled woo-woo truths for twits.

Soon the munchies joined the mix,

Demanding Toblerone and crisps.

 

Sprawled on cushions, fluffy-brained,

Linking thoughts like daisy-chains.

Doobie Brothers, doobie-dooed,

Shaking our booties around the room.

 

We crashed like comets, overslept,

Called the office, told them fibs.

Doobie-sisters, still best friends,

Goofylicious ‘til the end.

 

 

BOLD RUSH

 

 

Candlelit, emboldened,

She is irresistible.

You loved me once.

She eyes him, sultry as Bacall.

 

Head rush.

He leans in.

Runs a finger from her lips

To her heart centre.

Lingers.

 

Ice-blue into emerald.

 

Bold rush.

 

Fade to black.

 

THE ADVENTURES OF A ROCK CHICK IN AMERICA: dazed, confused, broke and clueless.

(This is the 2nd instalment of the piece I wrote about ten days ago called FROM TRAD WIFE TO ROCK CHICK) 

I didn’t know it was such a long way from Montreal to Santa Cruz. Obviously, I knew how far it was from a geographical point of view. But to actually travel there non-stop in a bus? The sheer endlessness of it didn’t register until my bum went numb after the umpteenth pitstop in the middle of nowhere. Were we nearly there yet?

 

Well…

 

In early March1985, at the age of 23, I spent four days on a Greyhound bus chasing the American dream. I’m not sure I knew what my American dream was, in fact I don’t think I really had one. But Blaze (not his real name), my boyfriend, did. Frontrunner of a rock band in Geneva, Switzerland, Blaze dreamt of making it big.

 

Initially he’d picked Montreal as his celebrity launchpad, which sort of made sense if you sang in French and English like he did. But the icy temperatures combined with the horrendous windchill factor messed with his vocal cords and his hair. As for me, every time I looked in the mirror I saw a Smurf. So, after spending all our money on renting an apartment that we never even moved in to, we decided to make our way to Santa Cruz, California with our few remaining bank notes.

 

And a phone number.

 

During the summer of 1984, Blaze had  met an American woman - let’s call her Shandy - who was visiting Geneva from California. I don’t recall hearing a single thing about her until Blaze mentioned having her number when we were in Montreal. Shandy was in her late thirties, which to me sounded old. Blaze himself was five years older than me and far more streetwise than I have ever been. I attended a private school, went on to study translation at Geneva university, and had never ventured anywhere remotely dubious until Blaze whisked me off into Geneva’s nocturnal underground scene.

 

Apart from a handful of private parties held under parental supervision, the social gatherings I’d ever attended were school dances. So, when my new edgy friends threw a full-on dodgy-do for my 21st in a squat, and post-punk gothic/metal rock group Killing Joke turns up, and all the girls lose their minds as well as - in some cases - their knickers, you know you’re no longer doing the bump to Boney M in Cologny (Cologny could be viewed as Geneva’s Park Avenue, but with villas, not buildings). Not that I ever lived in Cologny, but you get the idea. I remember wearing mat-silver lamé skin-tight trousers and a black tee-shirt, accessorized with the requisite low-slung, helter-skelter studded belts. My younger brother DJ-ed, letting loose with all the best New Wave stuff: Simple Minds, Depeche Mode, A Flock of Seagulls, The Cure, REM, Howard Jones, Nik Kershaw, Billy Idol, you name it and chances are he played it because my little brother was seriously into his music back then. Sadly, the party ended relatively early by antiestablishment standards because one of the Killing Joke dudes fiddled with the squat’s decrepit electric board which promptly shorted, plunging us all into darkness. Also, there apparently was no more alcohol, either, which was crazy because we certainly hadn’t skimped on attempting to get everyone cross-eyed. Personally, I don’t remember being particularly trolleyed; I just remember having a wonderful time dancing my butt off to all my favourite music.

 

Anyhow, back to1985, the Greyhound Bus and a lady called Shandy.

 

I have never experienced anything like crossing America in a bus, and if possible, I’d prefer to never need to again. I’ve always been incapable of sleeping in any position other than lying down, unlike my husband who can get on a plane, rest his head against the Kleenex, close his eyes and sleep like a baby for hours. But I’m hypermobile, so as soon as I nod off, I end up with my head resting on my own shoulder and wake up feeling like I’ve narrowly escaped decapitation.

 

The bus. The bus. Right. I just have so many stories I want to tell!

 

The first day was pretty much ok. I felt excited, like some sort of New Wave rock chick pioneer. However, by nighttime I was desperate to sleep, but Blaze was a bony, wiry guy and didn’t offer much in terms of padding for me to lay my weary head. Also, emotionally speaking, he wasn’t the “lay your head on my shoulder” kind of guy. In fact, sometimes, he even went and sat in a totally different part of the bus from me, just to be awkward, leaving me to deal with a number of weirdos who were delighted to sit next to an anxious, exhausted young girl from Switzerland who was clearly out of her element. One night I was so scared of the drunk man sitting next to me who had clearly lost several of his key marbles, that I didn’t dare attempt to fall asleep at all. Nor did I dare squeeze past him to visit the lurching cesspit right at the back that splashed your butt if the bus happened to hit a particularly big pothole. It happened to me once and was so revolting I almost threw up.

 

What I remember most about the middle of America is that there was an awful lot of open space and loads of those dusty twirly things rolling around that I’d only ever seen in cartoons or maybe in old Westerns. When, after four days, we finally reached San Francisco and had to switch to yet another bus for Santa Cruz, I was so so exhausted I could barely keep my eyes open. I also felt filthy, smelly and so disgusting that I wished I’d stayed in Geneva.

 

It was quite late when we staggered off the bus in Santa Cruz. Blaze found a phone booth, pulled out the crumpled piece of paper with Shandy’s number on it and put some of our precious remaining coins in the slot. Shandy didn’t answer. I burst into tears. We had twenty dollars between us, no credit cards, nada. I just wanted to go to go home to Geneva and sleep for a month.

 

Instead, we boarded another bus, one of Santa Cruz’s metropolitan lines, without knowing where to go. The bus was full, there were no seats available, and anyway, my bottom had turned into a pancake. I hung onto one of the poles, sweating under the sheepskin jacket my mother had bought me to get me through the harsh Canadian winter. My hair was greasy, my face was blotchy, and I felt so ashamed. An elderly woman made eye-contact with me. She smiled and I smiled back. I plucked up some courage and asked her whether she knew of anywhere very cheap where we could sleep, explaining where we’d come from and how we’d travelled. To my surprise she said “you look like a couple of good kids; if you like you can sleep in my old camper van. I live in an old people’s home, and not allowed night guest, but my old van is parked in the back, and I could sneak you in. We’d have to be careful as I could get in trouble, but if you were my daughter I’d hope someone would be kind enough to do the same.”

 

So, this angel took us under her wing, snuck us into her room so that we could brush our teeth and wash our faces, then took us out back and smuggled us into her camper. She apologized for the lack of electricity, pulled out the bed, found some blankets and told us she’d come and find us as soon as she could in the morning. We were not to come out until she reappeared as she could get into big trouble.

 

We followed instructions, and sure enough she reappeared the next morning and snuck us back into her room to brush our teeth again, and then we were back on the streets with our suitcases, looking for a phone booth to try Shandy’s number again.

 

No answer.

 

At that point I was seriously debating calling my parents by reversing the charges and begging them to please get me out of here, but I knew Blaze would be livid, and I’d feel like an idiot and a failure and get zapped with a million I-told-you-so’s for forever and a day, so I did my best to keep it together. Eventually, late in the afternoon, Shandy finally answered the phone.

 

It turned out she didn’t even live in Santa Cruz, but in the foothills of San Jose! Nevertheless, she drove over, picked us up in her big old silver Cadillac Seville, and took us back to her amazing wooden house overlooking San José where she lived with several lodgers from different corners of the world.

 

There were two young Scandinavian boys, and a boy from Geneva and his Columbian girlfriend. All these boys were doing their pilot licenses in San José. Then there was Shandy’s eldest son who was 16 and lived in her trailer in the garden with his girlfriend. There was a Mexican fireman and his wife in the basement flat. And then there was us. It was quite a big house, but all the room were taken, so Blaze and I slept on a blow-up mattress on the mezzanine above the living room until we went with Shandy to a garage sale one Saturday where she picked up a cheap mattress.

 

Shandy was in real estate, but had a side-business doing music video, and was really into music. She was a lovely person, and incredibly generous to both of us. She and I became close, and soon were going off camping in Big Sur together, meeting sexy hippies who worshipped the Grateful Dead and lived by the creek in what I called Fuck Trucks and who invited us to campfire dinners where someone would play guitar and we’d all sing along. I became very familiar with Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb which was clearly a firm favourite!

 

Shandy and I slept in her trailer, heading over to the River Inn café for breakfast, and often returning there again for Happy Hour where we’d order huge pitchers of Margaritas on the rocks and where dinner would be their free Nachos with guacamole. Afterwards we’d go back to the campfires for more Comfortably Numb. Sometimes, after midnight, if Shandy wasn’t too tired, we’d drive over to the Esalen Institute where we’d sit in the outdoor hot tubs overlooking the Pacific Ocean along with all sorts of spiritually inspired late-night philosophers. Everyone happily partook in passing fat doobies while listening to the waves crashing below and counting shooting stars. To this day I swear that I actually once heard a shooting star, although I may have been a little over doobee-dooed. Then again, maybe I did. I like to think so, anyway.

 

Meanwhile, Blaze was networking like mad, trying to kickstart his rockstar career in the land of opportunity. He met a couple of musicians, including an older woman who sang in a band. She was mega smooth and rather creepy and, looking back, I’m pretty sure Blaze was enjoying amorous encounters with her. She was married, but her husband didn’t seem too miffed over her wanton behaviour around my boyfriend. One night, while out with Shandy at a club called The Catalyst in Santa Cruz, I met a nice, very cute guitar player who lived in Fenton or Boulder Creek, who then got in contact with Blaze and began to drive over to San Jose for regular jam sessions along with the wanton singer and her easy-going husband. I think there was another guitar player too, but I only really remember the cute one because he flirted with me. Pretty soon Blaze started going to spend time over at the wanton singer’s place, leaving me alone with Shandy and her gang of lodgers. The two Scandinavian pilots moved out soon after Blaze and I arrived, presumably fed up with the constant racket of all-night jam sessions. The Swiss pilot stayed around; he was quite a character and even managed to pass his pilot license stoned off his head because Shandy had baked Brownie Space Cakes late at night, and left them on the kitchen counter to cool when she went to bed. Our Swiss friend woke up early to go to his exams, helped himself to a couple of magic Brownies, and drove to the airfield. I like to believe he sealed the deal by looping the loop and buzzing the tower.

 

As for making money, Blaze did some odd construction jobs for one of Shandy’s friend’s up in Marin County. I got a couple of gardening jobs, and once weeded an entire field on a slope so steep I could barely keep my balance. I worked as a cleaner in an old people’s home but got fired within a few weeks got fired for using an abrasive product on the beautiful old wooden floors. Blaze played gigs, but I doubt they paid anything. Basically, we were living off Shandy’s incredible generosity.

 

After nine months of living on next to nothing, I flew back to Geneva to earn some proper money. I returned to the law firm where I’d worked part time as a secretary prior to going off to Canada and was promptly hired again, this time to work for four young lawyers doing their internships, three of which I already knew. One of them, Patrick, super nice, accompanied me to meet the latest intern. He knocked on the door.

 

“Come in,” said a male voice.

 

“This is Cedric. Cedric Bossert,” Patrick said.

 

Cedric Bossert was sitting behind his desk with a tin of coloured pencils. He looked up from his colouring and smiled. And my heart did a series of somersaults.

 

Reader, I married him, but not before returning to America for many more adventures!

 

(TO BE CONTINUED!)