Scarlet Woundsmile

Motherhood

2009-04-19T12:19:00.000-07:00

I hear her. *yawn* Is it really time to get up? Already? I just fell back to sleep. I guess - it’s daylight outside. Fuck I’m tired. “Honey, wake up its diaper time.” A minute later. “Honey, wake up it’s diaper time.”

We’re up now. She won’t nurse now that she’s fully awake. Put her down to play and get out the pump. Five minutes pass and I’ve thought the words, “I hate pumping” about fifty times at least already. Half an hour later, and I have a whole four ounces. I feel proud of my accomplishment, but still hate the stupid pump. Damn I wish she’d just nurse. She’s getting fussy now. She must be hungry. Pour some breast milk into her rice cereal and prepare for war. Well, that’s perhaps overly militant but she won’t open her mouth anymore, and it’s turned into a struggle. Ever since those stupid green beans. I resort to trickery and make funny faces until she smiles, and then stuff a spoonful in. She couldn’t look more annoyed. Maybe I’m doing irreparable harm, and giving her bad eating habits; maybe she’s not ready for solids after all. Maybe she wants a bottle. Pour the remaining breast milk into a bottle. She drinks two ounces and that’s it. No. You need to drink more! How can you live on a few ounces at a time!? You’re supposed to drink six at a time for your age. I lived on chips and beer one year. I lived. I guess she’s fine.

Let’s read a story. No, don’t eat the story let mommy read it to you. No, don’t eat the story, let mommy read it to you. Oh fine, eat the story. Where’s my coffee? Oh I didn’t make it yet. Damn. I’m so tired. I want caffeine. I can’t have caffeine because she won’t sleep. Decaf it is. I did boil water didn’t I? Oh crap, I left the element on again. Jesus I’m going to burn the whole house down one day, and I just put the grounds in my cup instead of bodum again.

I pour the water into the bodum and return to play with her. God she’s cute. Look at her, trying to crawl already. Where does the time go? She was just born wasn’t she? I’m not ready for mobility. Sigh. Soon it’s time for morning nap. What will I do? I have to clean the kitchen, have a shower, and check my email. I only have time for one of those things. I can’t clean the kitchen or check my email in the shower, but I can clean the kitchen while I’m dirty, and then if I’m lucky check my email quickly too. Wait, I’m expecting an important email from work. Kitchen and shower will have to wait until afternoon nap. Suddenly everything must be prioritized, and grouped into efficient simultaneous pairings. Damn, I forgot about the laundry! I can’t shower until I finish the laundry.

Baby’s finally sleeping and I trip over something. I always trip over things now. What the hell is stuck to my foot? Oh…it’s a guitar pick. Thoughts of times when guitar picks all over the house would signify some artistic youthful hedonistic household are replaced with images of security threats. I am homeland security now, not a young bohemian. She could choke on that. It’s not safe. To a mom, everything really is a terrorist. Guitar picks, plastic bags, electric cords. Even my laptop. It could fall on her.

Playtime lasts for two more hours. We do the circuit. Stand up pladybug with assortment of pull toys. Sit down chair with assortment of chew toys. Playpen with mirror to inspire baby narcissism. Floor time, to learn to crawl. I’m not talking to her enough. More irreparable harm. Her brain could be in stasis. Let’s read more stories. No don’t eat the stories. How about you play on the floor while I read you one of my stories. I read Paulo Coelho out loud until it gets to a part about sex. Maybe I shouldn’t be reading this to her. Maybe this is all kinds of wrong. Multi-tasking is hard. She’s fussy but we’ve done the circuit and it’s a bazillion degrees below zero and we can’t go outside. Fuck, I hate winter. I am a mom now and probably shouldn’t say fuck. Damn it.

Loud crying. She’s bumped herself on the head again. Rescue missions and hugs and lots of kisses. It’s time for afternoon nap. What do I need to divide my time between now? Oh right, still need to shower. And do laundry. I have baby puke on my sleeve. Sigh. I always have baby puke on my sleeve. I get into the shower and wash my hair. Dear God when did I last shave!? I’m all kinds of hairy! Hair washed, face washed, body washed. Now I am under the hot stream of water for some more minutes but am already all clean; this is pure luxury time. I don’t need this time to rinse. This is selfish showering now. I could be doing a million other things. Oh but dear God it feels good. But. What if I can’t hear the baby get up from her nap? Maybe she’s crying and I can’t hear her? I peek my head out to listen. I still can’t hear her. She’s not crying, it’s fine. Stay in the shower, just a wee bit longer. It’s heavenly. No. What if she can’t cry? Maybe the blanket that I put over her crib to darken it for her has fallen on top of her and is currently smothering her? Oh NO! Must get out of the shower as fast as possible. Everything is now “as fast as possible.” Even sex. (And not because I’m hairy most of the time now, but because we don’t want the baby to wake up. If I hear her, it is all over.)

I am out of the shower and glance at the counter. Make up? Right. Who has time for that anymore? My hair is wet and I tie it back into a ponytail. I will come back up and dry it later. Maybe I’ll just put mascara on quickly. It won’t take too long, and it will make me look less dead tired. Baby could be smothering! Hurry! The days don’t seem that long ago, that the primping and preening ritual was something I did completely unconsciously; it was routinized into thoughtlessness. Now the spending of a stark four minutes flat in the bathroom is something that I know my younger self would have been shocked at the idea of. Everything seems utterly utilitarian now.

Ok. The baby is not smothered. Good. In fact, she is still sleeping. Perhaps it is time to eat. Breastfeeding moms have to eat like five thousand calories a day, or something preposterous like that. It’s like a torture test. How does one have time to spend putting that much food in one’s body? Protein shakes. Weight Gainer 5000. I pound back four scoops of the vanilla grossness, and empty the dishwasher. I have eight phone calls to make but I am quite confident that as soon as I dial the last digit of the number, she will wake up and need to be fed and changed, and then I will need to pump for another half and hour. Phone call will have to wait. Dear God I haven’t spoken to them for months now.

Facebook. I can check that while I watch her play and pump my milk at the same time. I can thump the keys with two fingers. It’s my only conduit to the outside world. Since fall, these four walls have restricted me almost constantly. Hibernation. (Please be spring soon, I am going crazy.) She doesn’t even know what grass is! Anticipation of showing her more of the world courses through me. I type a message to a friend. Then I realize that I have spelled simple words entirely wrong. Do I have Alzheimers? Maybe I’m permanently dumb now. No. It’s just sleep deprivation and it’s not permanent I tell myself. I don’t fully believe myself, but the reassurance is nice. I forgot to dry my hair. I must look like hell. I want coffee. I go into the kitchen to make some and realize that I never drank the bodum I made in the morning. It’s cold. What does hot coffee even taste like anymore?

Soon it is time for dinner, and then bath time, and then bed time. I look forward to bed time. I feel somewhere that this is wrong and makes me a bad mother. Then I tell myself that it is normal and I am not a bad mother. We swaddle her and sing her a song and tell her a story, and then the shushing starts. I am not terribly sure when the shushing will stop. I feel I have wrecked her again and she will need to be shushed to sleep forever. Her one day boyfriend will find her neurotic and peculiar when she requests him to shush her to sleep. More irreparable harm. Must teach her to self soothe one of these days. Tomorrow maybe. Tonight I need her to sleep so that I can have a few hours to myself. I want to read tonight, or maybe write a story, or start sketching out a painting.

She is sleeping and I look down at her and remember her being born. The angel of my imagination. She is perfect to me, and I would mow down anyone that intended to bring her harm. I am momma bear and she is my tiny, vulnerable bit of perfection. Love courses through me and I get teary. Maybe I love her more today than yesterday. Maybe it will be like that always. I think I might burst.

I put her down in her crib and walk away. I miss her already, and find that weird. Then, I feel my entire body relax, and go near limp. I have so much time now! It’s only 7:30 and it’s not even dark now. I remember being young and hating that. The amount of time that I have now, feels infinite. It is a whole 12 hours until she will be fully awake again. I say fully because she’ll be up about four times to feed and cuddle in between. But for now, I could, read a novel, finish cleaning the kitchen, eat a huge dinner, and…

And nothing. It’s 9 pm and I can barely keep my eyes open. I haven’t finished my novel, nor picked up my pencil to draw. In the days of yesteryears I used to go out about now. The night would be magic and young and just only beginning. I would write until the wee hours, and drink wine and smoke a pack of cigarettes. I don’t smoke anymore, and the thought of sleeping until two in the afternoon now seems somewhat outrageous and somewhat incredible all at the same time.

I sit. Slumped in my comfortable chair and finish my beer. I stare at the wall and reflect. I should write it down, but I fear I have carpal tunnel syndrome from pumping all day. I smile, a kind of inward quiet smile and listen to my breath leave my body. I never imagined life so full. I never imagined love so strong. Thoughts of her at 2, 6 and 16 start, and I begin to imagine the unimaginable. There is no preparation for each of the changes as they occur, or words to adequately describe the experience. I have no lexicon for this. There are no words at my disposal to capture life now, as it exists apart and juxtaposed to life before. My Self, born anew at the time of her emergence, has metamorphized into maturity. My motivation for being is now, almost entirely for the betterment of someone else. Everything is different, and I am so brand new. I should go to sleep. Tomorrow will come quickly.

Fingers and Toes

2009-04-07T11:12:00.001-07:00

Over and over again she wished that she could break the cyclical nature of the tempestuous temper tantrums that made up her solitary evenings. Her toes were the ones that always started it. They were absolutely incorrigible. They were fiercely independent. For example when the rest of her body was warm, her toes remained cold. When the rest of her body wanted to be still, her toes would balk at this notion, and move regardless of being asked numerous times to settle down.

Her fingers were the other rebels. They weren’t as independent as her toes, but they were most often trouble makers in their own right, and were great at giving a good sales pitch. They weren’t as whiney as her stomach – but they often got the best of her and had the last word. It was the fingers that would convince her to stay awake, until far past her bedtime.

“Can’t we just play a little longer? Please??” they beg.

Why didn’t they ever take no for an answer? Her eyes really wanted to know the answer. They were not allowed to sleep until the fingers were tired, and to her eyes – that just seemed a little too unfair. Her eyes wanted more say in matters but even this complaint often was left ignored.

journey

2007-08-08T10:58:00.000-07:00

if i cry when you look at me
it is because many nights
i have looked for you;
lost deep within a dream;

you were gone for so long
when i forgot how to love you;
when i stopped looking;
when sleep was just sleep

at night the sound of a silent song
now quietly carries you back;
and i want to weep, to be
reunited in the morning,
when the first thing i see,
is your smile

if i cry when you look at me
it is because i remember forgetting
how to love you, and because
now i also remember
how i love you

Fire

2007-07-12T21:41:00.001-07:00

Deep in the middle of a forest, on the edge of the country and the interior of the woods, a footstep frees a small piece of glass from underneath a pile of fallen leaves. The sun is penetrating, and its rays move steadily from east to west, traversing the sky to find the exact place where the fingers of this great star touch the first edges of the glass. It then finds the center of this small, broken object; the leaves catch the heat and embrace it, the glass magnifies it, and a fire erupts. The flames touch here, there, and everywhere.

But then, as it does, because the earth cannot stand still, the sun continues to make its journey onward.

There was no reason that it has met with the glass; only by chance. The fire was born by accident, although the consequence ripped through the trees, and proved itself to be uncontainable in its force; the heat - intense, and the flames - beautiful. But there is nothing to tend to it, no reason for it to occur, and people both started to marvel at the life of its own that it took on, and were scared of it - for they understood the damage that it can do.

On the other side of the country, where the rain had soaked the earth and the Ocean continues to lap against the rocks, a woman was collecting sticks. She wanted to make a small fire to warm her camp. She noticed a man walking by with a stick of his own in his hand. He was using his to draw interesting shapes in the sand, and appeared to be lost in thought. He had a newspaper rolled up under his arm; a collection of worldly news that he had just finished reading. She wouldn't have said that he was an image of a person that had walked out of her imagination to be the replica of a figure she was usually drawn to, but he had intensely beautiful eyes, and interesting features. He had beautiful hands.

She sat beside him, and they spoke for what seemed to be an uncommonly long time. Their similarities in thought were startling to both of them. His politics made their way to her philosophers, and a connection was born. She invited him to come to her tent, to help her make a fire, but he suddenly grew tentative and balked at her invitation. Being somewhat tenacious and aware that they were still new to each other, she continued to coax very gently, and with enough persistence he gradually followed her towards her tent. It was there that he wanted to touch her. He wanted to kiss the mouth that had spoken her existential ideas, and to become familiar with each of the places of her body that might cause a shock of electricity to course through her.

After they emerged from her tent, from the intimate bond of sleep in which he had taken her hand firmly to his chest and wrapped around her like melted wax, she grew suddenly and once again cold. The air was damp, and the wind was brisk. It was not the best time to attempt to make fire, but it was necessary if they were able to keep warm. She tried several times to rub together the sticks that she had; fast enough, furiously enough to make fire. But it would not catch.

He sat there, watching her work tirelessly to warm them but he would not join in the endeavor. The harder she tried, the more disappointed he became that she could not make a spark. Sadness grew inside of him, and she could see it reflected in those eyes that she had come to adore. She wanted to relieve the sadness as much as she wanted to be warm, but each time she made a single, ephemeral spark appear, it would burn out as fast as it was born, for there was nothing dry in which to let it live.

In a moment of complete exhaustion, she asked for his paper. It was the only thing that was going to make this work. He looked at her with hesitation; his body and silence sent her the strong signs of doubt. He did not want to give this up. He didn’t want sacrifice the notations of his worldly politics; politics that he held so dear. She could tell he wanted to be warm, for his body was shivering. But he wanted her to make the fire without it, and continued to be more and more displeased in the inability for this to occur. She took two of the driest sticks she could find, and tried again, but as soon as the tiny beginnings of fire met the damp ground, they once again ceased to remain; ceased to exist. In her state of frustration, he told her the story of the forest fire he had witnessed on the other side of the world, and told her that he was certain that it was possible for flames to erupt without so much work.

“But you have paper,” she said. “If you would only give me the paper that you have, we could have a fire, stay warm and continue to talk through the night. We could laugh the way that we did on the beach, and tomorrow we could swim in the Ocean.” But the words rang hollow. He remained convinced that if she could not make fire without his sacrifice, that she was not magic, and there could be no flames as hot and as uncontainable as the ones that he had previously seen erupt in a forest, once before.

He got up. He didn’t say goodbye. Nor did he tell why her that he was leaving. After concentrating on her two sticks, and with her unequivocal will, she looked up only to notice that he had quite simply vanished. Down the beach she could see him walking away; he looked small, and the sense of loss that came over her was overpowering. The tears then came with the cadence of the distant waves, as she grew colder, and grabbed a blanket from her tent. There she sat, wrapped up alone, and grew pensive and wondered why he had just given up.

A stranger woke her from her daze. She had not been aware of time, and was startled by him. She wasn't sure how long that she had been in this state of half-sleep, and rubbed her eyes awake. She brought him into focus, and peered up at this man standing in front of her, still confused as to why he was there. He was holding something in his hands, which were outstretched in the darkness. She moved her eyes from his face to these hands, and noticed that there was a book in it. The pages were yellowed, and the book appeared loved, old, read, and re-read. In a state of shock she didn’t know how to respond. She was simply silent, and just moved her eyes back to his face.

“You look a bit cold” he said. “It is too wet here to make a good fire, but you can use my book. Just tear out the pages.” She was stunned. Not only were books sacred to her, but she didn’t understand why he was there, and why he was so willing to offer this to her so quickly. But she also felt the chill again throughout her body, and ached to feel heat. He sat beside her, and they began to speak as he tore out the pages of the book that he had offered.

The manner, in which he did so, became a slow and quite sensual ritual; for each time he pulled the page from the spine he also relayed to her, in attentive detail, what was on each of them. Hours passed in the cold, and in the dark. He told her the whole story, as the pages from this cherished book became a growing crumpled mass under the tent of twigs that she had constructed.

This time it was not difficult. She rubbed the sticks in her hands together and the spark caught almost instantly. The kindling and the paper from the pages were enough to start a tiny little fire below the wood. It filled her with an overwhelming sense of joy. He knelt gently beside it, and blew continuously and smoothly into the emerging little flames, which responded instantly, and caught the larger stick resting close. The sound of the crackling found its way to satisfy yet another sense, and the warmth began to make its way to kiss her skin. She watched his face as he concentrated on the fire, and in the growing light, it became beautiful to her. She took her turn, and lent her air to the fire, breathing her desire into it, and watching it grow.

Very soon the fire had taken hold, but was still new, and needed tending. He walked to the dry part of the land to gather more sticks in which to feed it. And when he left her side, a happiness filled her entire body unlike she had previously know. She trusted that he would return; he had invested in the flames.

The Next Time

2007-06-20T22:39:00.000-07:00

He will read it; the narrative that unfolds some years later. He will read the pages, like he is being born through the eyes of someone who he let slip away; someone whom he could have attended to more closely at the time. A fleeting memory of her laugh will fill him with the kind of recognition of suddenly becoming aware of light in the background of a picture you’ve seen a thousand times before, and he will take the last sip of the beer in his hand and drink to the memory of her; remembering something that he forgot to tell her, something which seemed innocuous at the time, but now has gained the importance only retrospection brings. He will feel himself in the absence that she writes about, and in that, know her better than ever. He will then, quite quickly, drown out the thoughts of the strange sense of disconnect that he feels, and allow himself to miss her for only a fraction of a second, before he closes the book and goes to bed with another woman. She will have no idea what has occurred inside his head just moments before he reaches for her, after turning out the light. She will interpret his hands as love, and she will swoon in that moment. She might even tell him then, that she loves him. This, will be her mistake.

smoke

2007-04-08T14:28:00.000-07:00

she would smoke his voice
listening hard,
the fire bellows
melting this night sky red;
she kisses him away
like liquid
knowing -
he will not miss her

2007-04-07T09:52:00.000-07:00

I have taken a hiatus; exchanged a cold urban sidewalk for the chill inside the forest. I have been walking in nature, and the wind has reminded me that I am happy.

My mother is fighting some sort of spartan virus...and I am trying to entertain her. She is a Minister, and is getting larengitis. This of course does not bode well for Easter Sunday. To distract her from worrying she will have no preaching voice tomorrow, I have introduced her to online fridge poetry.

My uncle laughs at me about this. "That's ridiculous," he says. "Why restrict yourself with the words you can use?" We have a discussion about the paradoxical inspiration of absurd constraints. He doesn't believe me.

My mother and I write this one together:

young woman of yesterday
picture window
more than those
who wear their steely smile
handing over life
she will make magic dance
by fire
remembering the secret
daughter of her desire

and we laugh together at this one:

yesterday you wet yourself
with my warm steamy secret
you throb caramel
will i wake soon
naked
like his morning kiss
i devour a laugh
and remember candy

I love my mother.

Magnets

2007-04-03T22:39:00.000-07:00

Who needs a fridge?

Step Back and Dance Forth

2007-03-27T20:05:00.000-07:00

It had been almost a year and a half since she had last been in his company. Hearing his voice on the phone yesterday had been a shock. Her old number - the one that used to be associated with own self - had come up on her call display. The dialogue had been easier than she anticipated that it would be, notwithstanding the occasional strained silence when they both contemplated the absolute surreality of actually interacting with each other again. It was facile in that it was like interacting within some sort of hyper reality...deep inside a dream, or a memory. On the phone he was still a phantasm of her past.

Today he entered a more present reality. She saw the green van pull up and gathered her courage. It smelled the same; it was a smell that evoked a thousand memories. It was the first sensory reminder of the absence of her dogs...and with that, her entire former life. It was a van that they had taken many trips in...drives toward Christmas dinners, treks out to the country, and trips out of province to pick up beautiful new puppies. This was the van that they had both made love and fought within. This is was the van she had left him in.

He was sitting in it now, like a strange simulation of a person that she used to know so well. He looked the same, but was not; he was now a familiar but distant image of himself. Waiting for her quietly, he smiled his most uncomfortable smile when she got into the passenger seat; a smile that stabbed her with nostalgic sadness. Saying "hello" had never felt so hard. Seeing him for the first time in hundreds upon hundreds of days seemed to initiate a slide show of images to pass through her mind. She remembered meeting him for the first time...walking down the aisle to meet him on their wedding day...and days when she looked at him through tears, wondering how he could treat her with words, so caustic and unkind. She remembered the day that she said goodbye.

The man at the counter asked them how they knew each other. This was a question he surely didn't anticipate would cause in each of them such screamingly obvious discomfort. After another long silence, he answered first. "We're married," he said. The tone, flat and coldly legalistic, made her feel ill. These words are not meant to be said like this.

The words were foreign; the language no longer fit the context, for it had been a long time since she had considered herself to be married to him...a long time since she had slipped her finger into that ring, and an even longer time since she'd felt the desire to. Suddenly she couldn't bring herself to look him in the eye. He could have removed his heart at that moment, and placed it on the counter for the man to observe the bludgeoned pieces that she had left it in, and the callouses that had grown over the places of hurt and vulnerability. There had never been any doubt that he loved her with an incomparable intensity; the doubt had only existed in the manner in which he did so. They were both so young.

She wondered if when he got home, if her dogs would smell her - and sense her absence the way that she had sensed theirs...or whether they had actually now forgotten her completely. Maybe dogs can do that. The tears that came in a downpour upon exiting the vehicle were convoluted and surprising. They were not tears of regret - but rather made up of years of extreme emotion that she'd wrapped up carefully, and had since just put away; they lived in opposite pairs, as had they, tied up like old yellowed letters. Memories of incredible happiness conjoined with memories of extreme pain.

Today I saw my husband. Today I am almost delirious in the contemplation of how many different lives can be led within the grand singular, and how much can change with the mere passing of time. I have a fresh rug burn on my knee that makes me happy, and an old wound somewhere else that will surely scab over again...scars I never want to forget; both remind me, that I am alive.

Go

2007-03-18T23:47:00.000-07:00

It was exactly one year ago since she’d put him on that plane. She’d bit her tongue until she tasted iron, and refused to loose the tears that were starting to seek release from underneath the lids of her blue eyes. She would not let it be a liquid goodbye. She wanted to be as strong as he had always known her to be; as strong as he had told her numerous times that she was…the strongest woman he’d ever known. Yet the tears were uncontrollable as the plane touched off, and took him from her to welcoming arms of another woman, a million miles away. In an instant, she let go of the best part of her days.

She had a strong guard. He’d taught her that - with physical metaphor. “With legs like yours, no one should ever get close to submitting you.” He was the only one at the time who could get passed it. He made her feel both powerful, and beautiful. In a state of dissolving self, he was a mirror to her resilience, and the one that had taught her how to love life again; under northern lights, across a table, under water, and over her. He was the only one at the time that made her feel; a muse to her most authentic self.

A million miles away he has just told her that he is still watching over her in the face of the moon, and has said that he still misses her in a language that is not her own; that despite the distance, his feelings for her have only grown. He is aching for her. And with his laugh still echoing in her ear, and his accent still placed over her heart, she lets him go - once again. She knows now, that this is something that can never be.

Go to the place where I cannot find you. Go to the place that I will never see. Go to the place, where I am loved with certainty. Go to the place you remember me.

Parched

2007-03-13T19:51:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday I spontaneously burst into a lake of cathartic tears. It felt good to let go of my emotions, even if in this expressiveness I maintained my present state of wordlessness.

I looked for my signifiers around a dark corner the other night, deep within a dream. All I saw was a homeless person, pissing against a graffiti covered wall. Even then I could not seem to make out the colorfully painted representations. The desire to express is so strong. It manifests through the tips of aerosol cans, and the young ache to give their voice permanence. Yet here I am, left in a mature state being – stupefied. I cannot write anymore; paradoxically retching out a typed moratorium on what used to be so facile for me…here I am: mourning it out loud.

Do you know that there were years when I would write letters of double digit lengths, and habitually spewed out my inner voice to the world like I was giving myself prison tattoos? I never knew what it was like to be so quiet within my heart. I think it used to speak a different language in years gone by; one that I understood – one that could be shared. Now, it has evolved into archaic code. I have become the misunderstood sound of birds.

The one thing that used to define me is now the one thing that I feel that I have misplaced. Everyone that has ever known me, remembers me as the girl that never balked at saying how she felt; even when people would say, “you can’t say things like that;” or, “people don’t know how to respond.” I did it anyway; even when I risked feeling vulnerable, and stripped bare.

The former was a pathos which just doesn’t compare. It was a suffering which was at the very least, tangible. It was loud. I am now parched for the lack of these words; aware that it hasn’t rained for countless moons. The sun is hot, and cracks the earth; and even in the sporadic shade, all that is heard is a suffering kind of sigh. Words have simply vanished from my heart. I cannot find them, even deep within waxy covered leaves, or inside hard shelled fruit. I claw restlessly into the sand, look up, and see nothing; not even a mirage of articulation.

It has all evaporated, and I am dying of thirst.

Shhhh....

2007-02-02T17:48:00.000-08:00

"My ear over your heart, deciphering a beat; there are no words, I am not there. Security is everywhere; there are no backstage passes. A careful watch is kept over the expressions that navigate the cords of voice. I fear your flinch, and talk to you when you are sleeping. Last night you smiled. I don’t know why."

I found this on a piece of napkin. I don't recall when it was that I wrote it...but it was obviously at a time when I used to write more than I have been lately. I am not sure when it was that I bartered my Expressivity for a newfound Silence...but I am missing writing the way that I used to. Maybe it's because I'm happy right now, and as in the words of a Brazilian poet; happiness is the only indescribable emotion.

Strangely enough, there are still quite a few things that I could say - if I didn't feel that I was struggling within the confines of our language to articulate them in a way that would make sense. Many of the words that I used to use with facile ease, have been diachronized into expressions of violence, or are percieved as superficial and trite. There simply are no words presently capapble of the gigantic feat that I am wishing could be performed...expressivity that contains the ideally synchronic concurrence of both significant depth, and mutable play.

"language as a stable system of normatively identical forms has effects that can never be avoided, since language is treated as such not only by linguists but average people." (Gramsci's Politics of Language)

Last summer I had a conversation where I was told that silence was preferrable to articulation, as the utterance of words is a mechanism akin to a trap; the ritualization of an event into a revolting structure. "What is said can't be unsaid." And I wonder sometimes, if we have progressed into an epoch of history where we have lost the ability to have experiences that are as meaningful as they could be, in this the age of a vaccumed loss of signifiers, and with a loss of imagination and the ability to play.

Bored Sick

2006-12-19T22:51:00.000-08:00

Today I am sick...and it is no fun. I am not only sick, but I am bored sick.

I am actually going a little bit stir crazy right now. I'm playing online etymology games, and randomly visiting strangers blogs and playing strange "answer this question" type of comment games; so wanting to play "blog tag" and post "5 things that no one knows about me,' but then realizing that there is a good fucking reason no one knows them...I don't want them to be known - especially not in a context such as this.

How about this one - another blogger request: "turn to page 123 of the closest book and type the 5th sentence:"

"hence we must be patient at the crossroads and endure this undecidable trivality. Without it - and this is the thesis and the decision -no decision would be possible, nor ever any friendship. There are we. In this very place? No there." - The Politics of Friendship, Jacque Derrida

Yes, that's been the closest book to me for a while now...It's bit tricky to navigate full speed ahead without a hell of a lot of drugs.

So in between pear tea and getting to know Sophecles, I am fuzzily link hopping. Oh - who is Sophecles? He's my new mouse. There he is now. Sophecles lives under my dishwasher apparently. At first I thought that I was so sick that I was hallucinating...due to the speed-ball combination of postmodern reading and cold medicine - but he is real. Or, I suppose I should say - as real as real can be.

I'm involved in a new narrative...Mice visitors represent that we are not alone. I am trangressing the power structure that tells me it is horrible and inappropriate to allow mice visitors to remain living under ones dishwasher. Who are they to relegate the nonhuman to the frigid death of Winter? Non-Manitobans. Granted, there are many places that I would not allow Sophecles to visit - but I don't frequent the space under my dishwasher; hence I figure if he can make use of it, and if he stays there, he can have it. All the best to him. Merry Pest-Mas.

In my link fest this evening, this is what I have come to:

Dawkins on Postmodernism

Minima Moralia - Adorno

Immanence and Deterritorialization

WWII Posters

Foolproof

My philosophies are darting all over the place, in a wild frenzy...searching for narrative ethics, and some sort of integration of the fragments that resonnate with me. I want an epiphany damn it! Sigh. I suppose that cold medicine is a sorry substitute for Foucault's LSD moment in the Californian desert.

A Biting Urge

2006-12-15T00:43:00.000-08:00

I am hungry for sleep and finding that I want to put the intangible in my mouth. I want to ravenously bite into, and eat the notes of this Nickel Creek song; bluegrass flatpicking is provoking ridiculously intense happiness right now. I want to devour and absorb, each word of the article I'm reading on "Derrida and Threat of Affinity," and I think...maybe...just gently, I want to bite flesh. I want to bite the shudder caused when so much sweet stimulation converges into one stirring moment.

In The Mix

2006-12-02T21:45:00.000-08:00

As I paint tonight, for the first time in a long time, I am reminded that two colours can combine to create a complex and diverse palate in the omnipotent mix; wondering, if we were are different primary colours, or a differing hue of the same. In the shade of combination, it is impossible to completely extrapolate the complete purity of the orignal, from the state of colour that remains; the only thing matters being appreciation, for that which has been made.

World Container

2006-11-29T23:10:00.000-08:00

Tonight, I cannot seem to stop listening to this song. It is interesting how particular songs resonate differently with your subconscious at different times:

World Container - Tragically Hip

There’s a world container with your name on it
and a billion ways to go berserk
when the country quits on you
it must be dinner
and the Himmler on this one is, there’s no dessert
(he’s the one who couldn’t imagine
all the people living life in peace, yoo hoo oo oo oo)
Good news! You get to vanish
go to Cleveland, be an indie smash
the good news is now you’re smaller
the bad news is you can be smaller than that
Go suck some souls, be a reader, get used
laugh at a funeral or two
laugh and laugh til all the chameleons turn black
laugh and laugh til you’re told, ‘Please don’t come back’
then fake incredulous, say, ‘I just can’t believe!
How’d it get this late so early?’
say, ‘Ain’t life a grand’ and ‘I’m in awe of y’all’
then drop into your haunted bunk
go to your touchless times
out where the water’s drying
go past the ‘No Attractions Past This Point’ sign
what you’ll find there are all flaws in progress
where all songs are one song and that song is, Don’t Forget
yea, all songs are one song and that song is, Don’t Forget

Yea, I‘ve faked incredulous, said, ‘I just can’t believe.
How’d it get this late so early’
said, ‘Ain’t life a grand’ and ‘I’m in awe of y’all’
I’ve dropped into my haunted bunk
been to the touchless times,
out where the water’s drying
been past the ‘No Attractions Past This Point’ sign
what we have here are all flaws in progress
where all songs are one song and that song is, Don’t Forget
where all songs are one song and that song is, Don’t Forget
where all songs are one song and that song is, Don’t Forget

The Word Eater

2006-11-24T21:11:00.000-08:00

I have just lept far beyond the line of too much coffee (a lot eh?) AH!! I can't make it stop. My day of feeling riculously silly...has slipped into the brink of madness this evening. Strange combination of word parts keep combining into obscure and terrible puns...slow poetic prose has been over-caffinated into linguistic craziness; punctuated by the impetuous sending of words all over the place today. "Hello my name is....I am Spam." If I were into astrology I suppose I would blame being a Gemini right now...but that was about two and a half pots ago.

It's really quite a terrible time to be babysitting...hyped up and going fucking nuts. There is nothing to stimulate me - except - the freaking genius of children's stories. Really. I am quite into the one I just read...

"The Word Eater" by Mary Amato. I quiver at the title - then I read the back and kept these kids up WAY past their bed time to try to finish it. They cried and pleaded - "Please Auntie - let us sleep!" but the coffee said "NO! Not yet - be quiet and listen!" I was engrossed.

Children's books - when done right - are simply magnificent- like the taste of just chocolate. Read the back:

"Life is miserable for sixth grader Lerner Chanse at her new school. It looks like Lerner is destined to be a SLUG (Sorry Losers Under Ground) until she finds a magical worm that eats printed words instead of dirt. If Fip eats a word, that item simply disappears from the world - forever. Now that Lerner knows about Fip's magic, she has some big decisions to make. Should she eliminate crime? Or will destroying anything cause effects that she can't imagine or predict? Lerner discovers that extraordinary power brings extraordinary responsibility...but will she learn her lesson too late?"

How fucking great is that? It completely summarizes all my University readings nicely in one illustrated adventure.

I am jittery in my chair. I think that it is sexual energy mixed with caffeine mixed with a need to be mentally engaged right now...mixed with something else entirely (lunar cycles...the pH of water today...or the intake of sea bass...) Whatever the combination of variables are, tonight I am GOING CRAZY.

"To Fip, the magic felt like an earthquake. The paper underneath him was splitting apart, molecule by molecule, each part vibrating wildly. He screamed and waved his bristles. Entranced by the shimmering light...." Need I say more? Sigh.

The various levels of meaning to be found here are exciting me at every level of my being. It's the only thing I have...here drunk on coffee, waiting to be released from my duties, unable to articulate just how odd I feel today.

************

Post-Script: I need to include something...so when I leave here I can read this, and remember this acurately. I cannot morally steal a child's book.

"Fip shuddered, bouncing around in the cocoon of her hand. What was wrong? Lerner's body was secreting her alarm chemical. Why was she flying around the room? Between her two fingers, Fip saw the spinning world."

Mmmmmmmm....

The Witch of Portobello

2006-11-22T22:26:00.000-08:00

Let me make the connection of life and death a little different now...as I quote the plot of Paulo Coelho's next book...

"Who is Athena? Athena is the main character in The Witch of Portobello. Her story is told by the people who knew her, amongst them, her adoptive mother, a journalist researching vampirism, a priest, a teacher of calligraphy, and an actress. They each draw a different facet of her character, describing what they saw and experienced."

This book comes out in May 2007. I am looking forward to it, tremendously, as I continue to ponder the questions of the many different depictions of our lives that might be told by those whom we have come to know...and whether those stories would resonnate with our own story of who we are and were.

My Funeral

2006-11-22T21:13:00.000-08:00

Last night I asked someone to deliver the eulogy at my funeral. Attending funerals, and delving full-fledged into the realm of the inevitability of one’s mortality evokes interesting conversation. I have never been concerned, or filled with fear, at the idea of dying, yet I am also not sure that I have ever thoroughly discussed ideas of how my funeral might unfold. I have always felt too guilty that attending a funeral can cause thoughts about oneself; as entertaining any thoughts other than for whom the funeral is held seems too self-interested to really want to feel. Yet I seem to be filled with wondering - what narrative would be told?

The suggestion was made that perhaps the requested eulogist would write, but not necessarily lend voice, to the delivery. This of course begged the question: whom would I want then, to read it? It was agreed that it would then need to be someone with an accent, and ideally someone who had been Knighted. Laughter abounded; the hypothetical accusation of presumptive arrogance divested with the requisite jocularity of Monty Python. I then suggested the idea of feeding all the guests mild narcotic-filled treats…but this was met with the reminder that some people may suffer seizures. Right. Bad idea. Leary biscuits will be offered - but optional.

Of course then the quantification question arose. Do we ever really know how many people whose lives we have touched in manner that might actually provoke them to want to partake in a celebration of our life upon our death? I do not believe there will be masses at my funeral…to have a thousand people at my funeral would be, somehow ironic. I just don't think that I connect with people that way. What I do know for sure – is that the commune of people whom I would hope to attend - would know unequivocally that I loved them… unconditionally – as much in absence as in presence – because I had told them so. Presently, I feel compelled to do more of that.

It feels comforting as you grow, to learn more about who you will never be – to embrace imperfections and eccentricities alike - to be increasingly okay with the authenticity of all that you are – and ultimately to be so intensely thankful for those who have shown you kindness, as you have tripped along the way.

Quote for the Day

2006-11-21T15:49:00.000-08:00

I just got a lovely email from my darling with this quote attached. It's by the author of a book entitled "When You're Falling, Dive" - a title I'm very fond of (...shocking, I know)

"Live to be in the present. Safety, security, knowing and being right are all synonyms for death." –Cheri Huber

Distraction Street

2006-11-21T14:44:00.000-08:00

My mind wandered away today. It didn’t even say goodbye. I had needed it to do something important, turned around to ask it – and found it was not only oscitant, but gone entirely. Pixilated, I watched it just drifting whimsically across Distraction street – J walking, bumping into the hoi polloi, and barely missing being hit by a bus by just a fraction of a second. Then, quite by accident, it quietly found something beautiful to fixate on, and just stared at it for a moment whilst softly singing a decemberists tune. It didn’t stop wanting to look at the beautiful interruption… until it was approached by one of those guys who dolly around boxes all day and try to sell things no one would ever need whilst standing on a side walk. Jolted from finding commercial absurdity in a moment of beautiful distraction my mind fled yet again. I think it might have then run to you actually, for just a little while – carrying with it the intrigue that given I have yet to reconcile the longstanding pertinacious conflict between my ear and the telephone…somehow, you just became one of a very tiny collective of people whom I have found myself able to dialogue with in that particular context, for 211m and 59s longer than my 15 minute normative max.

But now I really should go; my mind has returned from its tiny trek, and I need to put it back to work. I should really give it a sharp reprimand for its absence…but I feel forgiving. It only wanted to peer and ponder at something pleasing; something very hard for me to begrudge right now.

Strange Tickles

2006-11-20T16:22:00.000-08:00

An Intentional Lack of Poetry…

I feel quite done with the angst. For now anyway. I’m in such a strange mood today…and can’t quite get - at it. Every time I hear Van Morrison I want to bite flesh. “Strangeness” is tickling me in outlandish places. I wonder if I spin around in circles, if things will straighten themselves out? Still waters may run deep – but they also can go torpid after too much time. I want to jump into this mud puddle like a torpedo…in brand new white under-things. But, I am just going to inventory…because unless I do that first, all creativity is doomed to be exceptionally banal…notwithstanding, extraordinarily confusing.

1) Yesterday I got mail from someone new; someone interested in my “potential” – in the dating realm of “potentiality.” Exiting the shell of anonymity and pseudonyms, I was shocked to find out that he shares the very same name as someone that I have already been with. Now, that’s just fucking weird. And we’re not talking years in between these “they;” this would be immediately consecutive (for the most part.) I don’t think I can date him if only purely for this reason. I think it would be a catalyst to craziness in my subconscious.

Besides, for the sake of clarity – it would involve something like the Kindergarten methodology of differentiating between the vast number Scott’s and John’s. I am not sure that I want any of my past lovers to have the first letter of their last name, necessarily attached to them. Scott B. and Scott P. always had to remember to write the B dot and P dot on their name tags….and I felt sorry for that. It seemed to point a finger at a potential lack of authenticity…a slightly more onerous demand than the others to have to distinguish themselves. For a short time there were, in fact, actually two Scott P.’s in the same class – which just fucked things up entirely.

2) Three days ago a potentiality that had been in the making turned out…disastrously…and truth be told, it was actually not disappointing. Not that I enjoy judging things under a relativistic lens, but sometimes finding out that someone has a neurosis which bugs the fuck out your own neurosis, makes you want to hug and squish all the friends you have…the ones whose neurosis get along with yours just as well as the rest of you.

3) I saw someone special to me, whom I’d thought that I would likely not see again. It’s true. I thought this for a while; maybe… if my polarities didn’t inadvertently balance. I went to get my underwear back. Interesting, it’s still there. It’s interesting to take note of the fact that although occasionally there is dissonance between rampant expectation and reality - that when the clash of emotions and resulting drama of a summit moment has reached it’s last standing ovation - when it all has been processed, and it has all settled down…suddenly, (deep breath) there in the peace is a place where there are just...no expectations at all. I’ll just as easily give as much – or as little - to someone, as they can give to me in return.

This upcoming year, will be the “Year of Reciprocity.” Fuck January. This is my November Resolution.

4) My dear, sweet, amazing friend from “Far Far Away” is coming to visit soon. I cannot adequately express the anticipation. This is a relationship that is different than any that I’ve ever had…it has the very best and most beautiful flaws…and is absolutely, perfect. It takes niether anything away from pre-existing dynamics nor future pending pairings…and seems to exist, in an entirely different dimension.

5) Last but certainly not least…I have a new enigma of a person "out there..." He kept me up very late last night, and made me smile at least 57.5 times…it is fucking wonderful to meet lovely new people. I must say that I am looking forward to meeting in person...

(oh and I have decided to actually a cook feast of a dinner tonight...(yah, yes - I have. yes...shut the fuck up. I'm serious) I have determined, that because I love food - and I do, love food, that I must invest more in making it...and making the time for it that it deserves. It's part of the new reciprocity endeavor.)

slipping in

2006-11-14T21:07:00.000-08:00

she hears the knock that catches her off guard…
scrambling to finish gluing her heart back together
“who’s there?” she asks quietly…
“music,” answers her bard
she sighs…
she thinks…
always music…
she laughs…

it was like air slipping in through a crack
as she sat like a carved statue of herself…
listening…gracefully...her head
tentatively turned back
the introduction was engaging…
the bass deep; guitar complex…
maybe she did
maybe she didn’t
want, just a little bit more?
but intrigued she moved – very slowly,
towards the handle of the door…

every time her heart smiled it yelled
baby please don’t let yourself get hurt
but every time she breathed
she thought my god baby
it can’t possibly get worse

she’d laid her heart too many times
on a table with a cheap garage sale price
at least maybe this time
maybe, his music would be the barter
a lyrical tip that would suffice
for a kiss

Unbound

2006-11-12T14:49:00.000-08:00

We had a tiny piece of intangibility; creating such a sense of peace. And although we didn’t seek it, it surrounded us like water, teased out of its secret hiding place. With laughter we let it linger, and then we tried to grab it; maybe it could be the essence of souls… so we poked at it with our fingers, and it started to make holes. When it changed we thought it was broken, and the joy started to disappear…and confusion turned to sadness; after we looked too quizzically at what we’d touched, and emptiness appeared. One wanted to bury it with sorry, and leave it there, dead, deep in the sand…the other wanted to try to make it alive again, with her breath and with her hands.

And as they left it lifted, regaining its unbounded mutable shape…and then it tried to run after them, though they’d parted and did not wait.

Break it Down

2006-11-11T21:27:00.000-08:00

I wonder who this person is, that has challenged a person whom I have come to love. I have been reflecting on my feelings surrounding this curious exchange. The assumptions from words…and in anonymity…create interesting illusions; evoking a myriad of emotions. But let it slip. Let it fall. The deconstruction of a seemingly simple tale…is never so simple at all.

The “things in me” no doubt were seen… by some of the kindest eyes that ever took the time to look…the attributes discovered in me, reflected in the palpable joy as precious as the one who sought…to notice. There was a significant sense of wonder in the laughing moments between us, in the commonalities so special and rare, and it was because of the beauty of those moments, that the magic began in me – inspiring the irresistible want, and the deep desire to care; for I could have listened to your music for so much longer…I never grew tired of hearing you sing - You moved the quiet song within me also - No, it is not the feeling of being done wrong, but rather acknowledging the experiences between us you said were similarly special, that makes your absence sting.

To sully the time with resentment…to believe with disillusioned eyes that all of the exceptional fondness was disingenuous would be to tell a most damaging lie; for I do not believe that I could come to love, a person so dishonest, or intentionally unkind. That is never who I saw when I gazed into your eyes...or when I really listened. The pain that surrounds me is not sanctimonious judgment - but rather real and intense loss, of someone I truly believed to have shared with something unique and rare…someone whom I can only believe when he says he was not ready…who was wonderful, but wonderfully unprepared...someone whom I will continue to feel for, and with the misfortune, that with my love I only scared.

The pain is in the wondering…what it would have been like if he were ready; wishing that he might have been able in the face of mystery, to have known himself well enough to want to kneel in the sanctity of splendid, vulnerability. You cannot truly miss something that never existed; and essence is not remembered with sorrow if it not exceptionally beautiful; missed, with a profound ubiquity. Although I feel that it ended much too soon, I will never consider that all of it was empty, nor deem it insignificant or untrue. I just wish it had been something that despite causing fear, could have inspired the desire to hold me; that I could have meant that much to you.

So please, if you don’t feel your own pain… please do not feel mine. If you didn’t want me enough to stick around, come back...or even change your mind...know that whatever it is that I am feeling, for what it's worth and what it was at the time, if you don't want or miss me...I'll move forward. I'll be just fine.