Kitties and monkeys

Kitty eats with chopsticks.

These cats are not using chopsticks. And look very mischievous. Dark, even. Planning evil cat music.



And this, well, is something. An invitation to dance, perhaps.
Who loves monkeys. I loves monkeys.



Am planning an essay on miniatures. One needs great patience to work with miniatures, creating a world of one's very own. A microcosm of the macrocosm, where one reigns omnipotent. So it is written.

One must love herbs as they love and protect and nourish us.

http://www.proliberty.com/observer/20060517.htm

Damn. Piss up a rope is already taken.

We are obviously not in New York

where student discounts and cheap tickets at the opera are made available to people of ANY age. Montreal, how can I afford your "culture"? You need to give students a break. Even 15% off. And while I'm here, come on, stop spending your money on such bad advertising. I'm sick to death of those wide angled face shots. Opera singers were never meant to be seen that close up. They can't act "through" the lens. It's not believable. If you're going to continue to do it, you need better make-up artists and even better actors. And I have to pay all that money to see one of your operas. Yeesh. Make it easy, will ya? It's no wonder you're in all that debt.

Oh how I've been spoiled by the Met.

sigh.

God, academia, who wants to get into bed with you? Relax a little, give us a mug of hot chocolate and take off your shoes. Then that essay might seem more appealing... and maybe even conquerable.

Essays. ugh.

chp d.r.k.

in the back in the narrow length of stunning the alley or the neckline
slim, you retreat the angle of a sentence breeches, one taught thing, one
split, the frost the panoptic loss the hour the ear, one hears the move west
one breaks to hold to mark to centre. Unsettle, select, I see nack, you hear a,
song is where it lies, the lie the necessary the nack the lust. One is or one is.

Must

bring out the guitar again.
Oh let it be a shell pink 69 tele.
please.



And this. Wow.

Rimbaud considers me middle aged
we talked
it's o.k.
I've already outlived him by 5 months

although I don't feel middle aged.
I don't feel anything.

He had nothing to say about that.

After reading Barbara Guest

swallowed          throat
leaves       to end forgiveness
picked part a part a bande
a broken
descent
a means to mean an end an outside or
water       salt
in the mouth

are you lighter
are you in the zone are you
a direct line
of intimacy of fields of voiceless
stone

here where ___________ shivered an answer on her skin
exiled flame
exiled

Old me

Some things I used to do.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6CSJhAn1cPA

Mm mmm

Holy shit its a poem

In the name of the closet
in the
jealousies in boxes at the back what good advice
it is
in the closet, where decisions.

You’d think I’d forgotten
how to spell how to get along get
by
make
sleep, the mystery right out of it.

The mistake a body makes made
no the boat is an essential thing or
etre et néant
this practice of conversation
a field, concrete or whispering,

remembered, the first
of the greater triumphs
the in and out and
end, and then again
it is true the hands have it.

What is it
what it is
not to move.

Gave a presentation on Jack Spicer at McGill today.
Cool.

Love his mirroring, dictation and "core"respondence (my play).

Had I not reserved the flame for myself, I should have nothing to call my own.

Goethe, Mephistopheles

I need some opera.
New York calls.

October Musings, in Time for the Turn (of leaves, life, etc.)

October. Possibly the best time for les pensées. Death and dying abound, the air is thick with the scent of it. The heart pressed as a sieve. What extractions shall this years press produce? Exciting times. The fruits of alchemy and medicines almost cured. Prepare for the big rest. Well, not the BIG rest.... and so,

"Death is not an Event in life. We do not live to experience death." (Wittgenstein)

Fascinating reading, Badiou and his ruminations on singularity, truth, universalism. He writes of Events which occur and (perhaps) do not occur, and other such trickeries which enable the mind to continually pursue infinite combinations of possibilities. As a friend of mine once said to me, nothing is impossible in a world of possibilities. Jean-Paul Sartre weighs in on this in his wonderful writings--of which continue to sway my feminine mystique.

Lucretius, Epicurus both also weigh in on death. I'm part Epicurean, part everything else (everything in the slightest and broadest, most fragmented perspective). Inclusive and not. Binaries switching at the rate of sound. It's a wonder I remember to turn off my shoes (yes, that's the connection my brain just made, and I'm writing it here, for posterity. There is no hope!).

Epicurus on death. Do not fear it (and so, do not fear (the) Event): "Death is nothing to us. For all good and evil consists in sensation, but death is deprivation of sensation. And therefore a right understanding that death is nothing to us makes the mortality of life enjoyable, not because it adds to it an infinite span of time, but because it takes away the craving for immortality. For there is nothing terrible in life for the man who has truly comprehended that there is nothing terrible in not living. [Death] does not then concern either the living or the dead, since for the former it is not, and the latter are no more." And so we fear more losing the grip of consciousness. Is the idea of that "which gives no trouble when it comes, is but an empty pain in anticipation."

Be gone, empty anticipation. Welcome, forwardness.



Too, Epicurus believes that "unhappiness is a kind of "disturbance in the mind," caused by irrational beliefs, desires, and fears." Oh how familiar. I'm convinced once one begins the journey inward, down Freud's unconscious staircase (further narrowing dark chasms, but always with handrail--if you're watchful and guided by "something"...) one must proceed with caution. Although once begun, the journey invariably changes the pilgrim. What's sought? Awareness. Thrills--little and big ones. It's where they live.

Gestalt:

The theorists of gestalt sought to connect how the mind perceives Entires out of Incompletes (elements). "To the Gestaltists, things are affected by where they are and by what surrounds them...so that things are better described as "more than the sum of their parts." Patterns from chaos. Patterns from chaos. What else is there?
http://www.bastoky.com/Perception.htm

Don't even get me started on Form.

Amantes sunt amentes.

These are the days.

I am slipping away, the hours are too long, and not long enough. Treading time, I falter.

At once a mystery, the mind, it begins to dim or shut off. There is lack, much. There is time, too much. There are ideas and threads. I've sampled the wine, the affection. But am no closer to the truth. No closer to love. It is an ever evading dream. Only a dream, perhaps. For twenty years I've been chasing a dream. It's no surprise then that reality's sting, once in the "vast open"--to quote the poet Ashbery--is so harsh. That aging is such a dilemma. Who will want me now. Who would love an aging woman whose body cannot compare to those still in their bloom, whose face changes wildly with each passing day. A stranger grows before me. It is not the dream, it is not the love I've never been given but have fought so hard to keep. Is it true that which you pull at with all your strength, desire, and thought can simply defeat you in the end? What does the end look like? Is it empty? Is it love? There is no love. There never has been. I've been fooling myself all these years. I am a fool who points to the moon. How can one sacrifice so much of themselves in the hopes of gaining love and be the one who is left empty handed while the other one, who loved and still loves, knows he will find it again. As if love is cheap. A commodity. It is nothing. There is no love. There is only pain.

Hey wait a minute. When did I stop having fun? I need more fun.

Oh right, I'm writing an essay. Fun starts tomorrow.

Dreams of the Un Well

Late afternoon dream:

I am moving. I am moving into a large apartment on the ground floor. Outside is a Depanneur, a few tables where the store sells fruit and vegetables outside. Next to the store is a Brasserie. The apartment grows once I'm inside of it. It expands to fill several rooms, complete with 70's era furniture, about 6 sofas, and two wall mounted telephone boxes--one working, one not. I think this is cool.

I open the back door to see a homeless, drunk older man with a foolish toothless grin walking toward my place with several fishing rods in his hands. I am busy collecting several black kittens which have rested between my wooden door and screen door, as it is pouring rain. As the man approaches I have two choices: continue to rescue the hungry cats, or close the door and save myself from the mad fisher. As I contemplate my choice, to the left of me I glance a rather evil looking man with something in his hands--a weapon of some sort--and I know it's intended to kill me. Do they want the furniture? The kittens? The fisher man had a kitten in his coat. Not sure. I make a decision. My life or the kittens. I choose mine.

And then I wake. I blame my cold.

Compliments of Virginia Woolf

from The Death of the Moth

"Street Haunting"

"Is this the true self which stands on the pavement in January, or that which bends over the balcony in June? Am I here, or am I there? Or is the true self neither this nor that, neither here nor there, but something so varied and wandering that it is only when we give the rein to its wishes and let it take its way unimpeded that we are indeed ourselves? Circumstances compel unity; for convenience sake a man must be whole. The good citizen when he opens his door in the evening must be banker, golfer, husband, father; not a nomad wandering the desert, a mystic staring at the sky, a debauchee in the slums of San Fransisco, a soldier heading a revolution, a pariah howling with skepticism and solitude. When he opens his door, he must run his fingers through his hair and put his umbrella in the stand like the rest."