Lisa Robertson, and even more personal reflection

Sorry folks, this blog is nothing but the display of far too personal pain lately. But somehow, it helps in putting it out there.

To something else:

Saw Lisa Robertson read last night. She is quite eloquent, and with a humourous bend in her dialogue (which occured afterwards, a comic routine aided by Erin Moure, who couldn't stop giggling. Cute.). I liked the selections she read from The Men most. From her newly re-released book (a new Canadian version from Coach House, who else) containing several essays about this subject matter and that, she read a specific piece about "the history of scaffolding", which she shared with the audience had to mostly be made up from photographs; imagine, no previous history had been invented. She said she thought the scaffolding to be animate, which made sense, as the piece could have replaced the word with a human being, and been as affective. Perhaps even more so. There were moments where I drifted which did not occur during the reading of The Men. I'll have to order that one through BookThug. Very enticing material.

I asked some questions. Noone else seemed to have any. I had lots. Even more, and more. Asked if she saw herself as a language poet (as I've heard many not familiar with her work to refer to her as). She outright said no (which I agree with, but wanted to hear it from her mouth), but if she had to associate with one group over another, she said she'd have chosen "feminist poet". I can certainly see that in her work.

If a man writes about his manly life, what type of poetry is that considered...

Maybe it's all just plain goddamn poetry.



On another note, sometimes the more I learn the more I feel I know
absolutely
nothing.

I need a vacation. I need money for a vacation. Maybe a retreat where some kind people will lavish kindnesses upon me, provide me with many affectionate embraces, and give me the answers I'm seeking (so I can stop thinking about it all; it's driving me mad trying to figure out my future). I've been putting wishes out there, from my own whispering lips to the air, skyward I suppose, as is the practise. It has worked in the past, but this time, perhaps I'm wishing too much. Or, don't know quite what to wish. My wishes recently had been shared with my closest friend, now (as you know) separated from. Can I wish the same things? A cabin in the woods, a cottage somewhere near water, enough money to sustain myself, a healthy life, many books and thoughts and companionship to drown in, love ... ?

I have been reading pieces of The Apology. But maybe it's too soon to dive into philosophical readings. My heart is weak. Too easily torn at the moment. I associate too much with the heart. The mind is lazy, perhaps. Or tired. Or even, untrained... yes, could be that. But the heart is too often master of myself. I need to achieve some balance there.

Or, I will continue to think things such as this:

Sorrow is like a tree. If you've become accustomed to the leaves dropping, falling slowly, with merely a sound to inform you of their leaving, it is as if the very hope you require to go on--to continue to love--slowly disappears until the tree is bare. I do not want a bare tree. I want spring.

But can one person master the elements on their own... all on their own?

I want to believe in love, oh I do I do.