backyard disciples and one mean deus ex machina

poem, revisited

2011-11-29T19:02:00.001-05:00

dissecting the goods

there is an antidote
in the melancholy of a seed

the effect of rising
or a finale

the statements we make
or suffer through

we eat stones, fish
for compliments

eat the fish we kill

Master of Arts

2011-11-13T20:22:00.014-05:00

Graduation day is the 22nd. Hard to believe it, but I now have a Masters Degree in English Literature.

Six years ago, moving to Montreal, I had no idea I'd end up with an MA. I only intended to complete my Creative Writing degree in the two years of coursework remaining. What began as a quick fix to just 'get a damned degree' turned into an introspective journey which led me to another Major discipline of study, which then turned into an outright switch to an Honours program, in Classics. What can I say, I fell in love: 3 years training in Ancient Greek and Latin, poetry, art, drama, theory (may the gods save me--how I love theory), and now I'm some kind of Master of Arts. Seems unreal, I'm in a bit of shock. And I feel incredible.

When one sets out to achieve a goal, the end is never clear it seems. Good life advice: never look to the end. In fact, the end can seem entirely gray, nihilistic. And when that so called end is reached, what is to come? What dreams? It is an interesting time and I'm embracing the excitement and uncertainty with a level of calm, which is followed by moments of pure panic. How colourful, how fun, how terrifying.

And now, considerations on the PhD... the return to poetry... Plato in Greek... a return to yoga, running... and chocolate. May the alchemy continue to enhance.

Oracle seduces the tripod, or is it the other way round...

Pottery Guild EXPO this weekend

2011-11-08T20:18:00.003-05:00

WHAT? Come view or purchase pottery and work from local weavers, glassmakers and more: 7 to 10 pm Friday (Vernissage), 10am-5pm Saturday, 10am-5pm Sunday.

WHERE? Maison du Brasseur, 2901 St. Joseph Blvd, Lachine (#173 bus from Lionel Groulx--15 minutes). Will also include wood and copper enamel artisans. Refreshments available. (above Raku pot not for sale--its my favorite)

new poem, fragment

2011-11-08T01:07:00.000-05:00

Flu(ent)

Two fires in me
one, afflictions sweet lights avalanche in arabesque
Two birds
blue at the cuffs, spun thin
policing
full in their manteaus near, rubbing in the dovecote.

....

poem in progress

2011-08-11T18:59:00.003-04:00

...

we ate late
thin instruments in arms
subtlety held in place with marks, rouged, the skin of things the slit between us.

And what of hands, what of the bareness of hands
      (that night, dressed in hunters outfits)
      Acting on whim, the knowledge that all things must pass through
          We pay our returns

there need be no astonishment only pure margin
articulation of loss
the friend who opens
several themes at once
      the almost there        the devouring of all recognition        the demand

...

2011-07-30T22:37:00.002-04:00

One imagined two small windows
cut into his skin. His breasts
look out upon the tree.
The other thought the shape
of his tongue was poetry.
The word, he said
drawn like an arrow,
so fits
into the body of the bird it hits.

Robin Blaser, from CUPS, "3"

Review “Poets Talk"

2011-05-11T11:11:00.003-04:00

Review “Poets Talk: Conversations with Robert Kroetsch, Daphne Marlatt, Erin Mouré, Dionne Brand, Marie Annharte Baker, Jeff Derksen, and Fred Wah”
Editors Pauline Butling and Susan Rudy
University of Alberta Press, 2005
_____________________________________________________________________________________

Poets Talk is an accessible reference book of poet dialogues conducted throughout the 1990’s and showcases a variety of Canadian talent in interview cast, the communications focusing on specific segments of a poet’s work and concerning a brief history of both poetics and polis. Editors and interviewers Pauline Butling and Susan Rudy established the book to be guided by means of section titles—Historicizing Postmodernism; Struggle and Community, Possibility; Hybridity and Asianicity, for example—which also serve to support the smart, precise questions posed to the poets from the dual questioners.

This is an important, informative, and captivating book. The interviews characterize modest postmodern beginnings, salvaging, excessivity, sense, and cultural poetics, while still serving up the stuff of intimacy. The project, as noted in the preface, “developed out of a research project on innovative poetry in English Canada” that the editors began in 1991. Both editors were engrossed with contemporary writing, and, puzzling over new contemporary texts, they knew what they had to do: “Let us go talk to the poets.”

The editors begin with probing questions on the why’s of unconventional punctuation, repetition, and fragmentation. The interview with poet great Robert Kroetsch discusses form and place, and how, as Pauline suggests, “Canadians are almost embarrassed about place, or place of origin, because it isn’t valued.” Kroetsch considers happening upon a Roland Barthes book while in England in ’63, he begins the interview, and refers to reading a text closely. He notes when he first started teaching graduate school, no one was “talking about the poems (of Williams and Stevens) the way I was reading them. I mean this notion of “gap” and what we now would call deconstruction.” He speaks of teaching Olson, and Williams providing inspiration early on, discovering Jack Spicer and reading bpNichol. Pauline asks, “You’re always subverting the form… what your relation to the material… to what extent is it writing you?” Kroetsch responds, “Well, I’m very compulsive about secrecy and concealment… it’s almost a paradox that I publish, because my real ambition is to write and never be seen.”

Pauline and Susan take turns posing intelligent questions, working through past and present narratives in the poet’s work, “what do you pay attention to when you’re working with contradictions? You’re unraveling in some ways, but you’re also partially putting things together.” Robert decides, “Insofar as I’m a postcolonial writer, I have a dread of systems, because I’ve felt victimized by them, or erased.”

Influenced in part by Gertrude Stein, the first thing Kroetsch seeks to do is to revisit foundational elements of writing he renders insufficient, to “destroy grammar right off the bat. I just want the reader to know grammar won’t say what I have to say.” The poet speaks of the process of writing an incredibly painful poem, and how words would start to come apart; yet through his use of the couplet, of fricatives, of a sense of organized rhythm, a sense of comfort and reassurance is gained. “I found the couplet very generative. Using the verse form was a way to contain my grief.”

The second interview concerns author Daphne Marlatt who discusses technique; “I really want to let each poem begin to show me where it’s going. If I know what my intent is before I start writing, I’m bored; the piece just dies, so I’m the kind of writer that needs to let the writing slowly manifest itself.”

Pauline aptly notes, “I find your use of the prose poem forces more attention to the horizontal language axis and puts words into metonymic relation, in contrast to the lyric form which torques the line in interesting ways but mostly on a vertical (metaphoric) axis.” Daphne replies thoroughly, summing up that “an English sentence has a tremendous capacity for detour, and that’s what’s pulled me further and further into prose.”

Through an alternating discussion between language, feminist and personal aesthetics, Marlatt considers negotiating line lengths, posturing the Zukofsky, Creeley, and Corman short line, and filling out the arbitrary length of a conventional margin.

Pauline asks Marlatt about structure, “You said earlier that in the prose poem you work mainly with the sentence. Do you have a definition of a sentence?” She replies, “I have more of a sense of what a sentence isn’t. I’m more interested in undermining the conventional notions of sentences, so I use a lot of sentence fragments,” these fragments adding to a feeling of her work as “more organic, it’s always connected, no matter how loosely”.

The book continues to uncover where these authors derive their inspiration, how they formed and reformed structural elements, and their positions on canonical authors. Pauline asks Erin Mouré, “what about canonical writers, the overcoat of dead poets?” Erin discusses her time at university, that she studied philosophy during her short stint, “I figured I would read literature by myself, but philosophy—like formal logic, epistemology, and metaphysics—I figured I wouldn’t just bring it to the beach and read it so I’d better take courses.”

Susan comments on the sometime complexity of Mouré’s work, “So your work requires alternative ways of reading. But few of us have learned how to read carefully and attentively at all, much less in relation to such complex texts.” Erin suggests, “perception is about absorbing only what you’re attentive to. And most people are only attentive to the expected.”

Dionne Brand’s interview concerns community and how a certain center would host events and bring about readings; about how immediate those audiences were, and how she had to “not simply represent but also break, violate” in terms of resisting “only saying what was appealing” to the immigrant Canadian audience. Pauline asks about Brand's writing in long form, “Did you feel the longer form allowed more space for the political work that you were involved in? Or was it more of a craft issue?” Dionne responds, “I just don’t like short poems. I don’t think they’re sufficient. I mean they can be, when people who can do it well do it well. But I wanted much more speech.”

The book is an integrated meeting between poet and poem, providing examples of each author’s work to fuel discussion. Writer Marie Annharte Baker, after discussing a playful piece, is questioned by Pauline, “You obviously enjoy playing around with words.” Baker responds, “I think there are so many imprecise meanings in the English language and that’s why you have to play with the words.”

In terms of process, each writer is given the chance to detail a sort of linear ideology, and an opportunity to play within those boundaries, just as Jeff Derksen arranges, “maybe I fall into being a mystic Marxist in some sense, in that the revelation will have to be ideology revealed.”

Interviewing Fred Wah, the editors sought to question his position between writing prose and poetry, “I wasn’t a prose writer and I had always been suspicious of story because story is something that had been very much controlled by the “mainstream,” by the West, a British inheritance. I had been able to undermine that for myself in poetry because poetry is language-based, whereas story is much more context-based.” Wah goes on to speak of rhythm, ambivalence, options of the “I”, and ethics in a poem, “it’s the kind of ethics I’m talking about and why I found Olson so useful in the sense that belief and ethics were being brought into poetry. Before that, I thought poetry was just this neat thing, this beautiful little thing in our culture. But no. It was the first indication I had that poetry might be for the imagination, and the imagination might be used to bring about worlds.”

Thematically, "Poets Talk" seems to want to leave a particular stamp on these writers, following certain lines of questioning, which presupposes that the poets are limited in their abilities to only explore certain motifs or persuasions. Such categorizations placed on the writers did not always serve to enhance the interviews. This collection nevertheless largely sets out what it desires to do, providing a “forum on poetics, a dialogue on the what and why of poetry during a decade of seismic shifts in poetic thought and practice.”

As Pauline asks Daphne Marlatt, “Does the period mark an ending?” She responds, “It just indicates a momentary resting place, a point of growth.” So too are these interviews; a point of growth from which to further discover the talk of poets.

2011-03-12T18:26:00.012-05:00

RIP Haley, 1990-2011. Majestic cat. Fighter, Mouser, Affectionate maine coone monster. you will be missed.

Memories.
She was one of the smartest cats I've ever known. She understood what I'd say to her and act on it. Walked like such a lady, her back legs always crossing in front of the other. She loved to roll on her back and play, but would bite you if you touched her belly. She often gave love bites as a sign of affection and licks on the nose. She'd sit at the edge of the bathtub with her tail in the water swishing back and forth, and always wanted to be so near to me--sleeping on my chest and wanting to cuddle under the blankets. She just loved attention. It took her awhile to get used to someone, but when she did she'd shower you with purrs and head rubs. One of the most vibrant memories was when she'd lie across the tops of chairs and couches with her legs hanging over the edges. She always had a sharp, knowing look about her and a keen interest in everything. When these sweet personality traits stopped, I knew she had begun to lose her spirit and that her frail body was taking over her mind. I ignored the signs, or didn't understand them--her walking into rooms with no purpose only to turn around and leave, what may have been her seeking out new places likely for her to hide when the time came. I knew that she knew it was close. It even began to hurt her with her weakened legs when I'd pick her up for our regular cuddles, where she'd place both of her large paws over my right shoulder and lay her chin down while we walked around. These last few days were so difficult for me to make the decision--one day she seemed strong, the other so weak and unlike herself. I could not bear her to suffer, and as difficult as this journey has been today, as tough as it was watching her take her last breath, I feel comfort in the fact that her spirit will live on somewhere--her kind, gentle giant spirit. I hope it will live on within me. She was often so strong when I was weak--coming to my side, sleeping almost on top of my head when I was sad. A great comforter. A queen among cats. Will miss her always, such a good companion, such a great, miracle cat who seemed to have many many lives. I rescued her from the Edmonton SPCA back in 1991, and ever since she has been rescuing me right back. Her presence will be a great void to fill. Death is not for the weak, and yet it is precisely for the weak. Strange how that is.

Love you Haley girl, so so much are you missed.

2011-02-27T15:17:00.002-05:00

we need to stop resisting our lives and begin to live them.

self-sabotage is like trying to carve a pumpkin from the inside-out,
the skin has holes and life just leaks out, unawares.

2011-01-25T00:22:00.004-05:00

Alexandra Paldriana
Aerin Caragh
Fainche Keary
Saraid Morgance
Raelin Vanora
Blair deClermont

future version (visions).

2011-01-04T01:27:00.001-05:00

map of tokyo
map of ages
map of falling
map to fill
map of insignificance
map of pooring
map to nowhere
map the going
map my mistake
map the anger
map map mappy
map of danger
map the dosha
map the caring
map of wrists
maps to piss

New Year

2011-01-01T22:31:00.003-05:00

I've decided to embark on this new year by following the random advice of Yogi Tea fortunes. Perhaps I'll become a millionaire or cure some horrid disease. Can't wait.

Pascal, Pensées #355

2010-12-26T00:56:00.003-05:00

Continuous eloquence wearies.

Princes and kings sometimes play. They are not always on their thrones. They weary there. Grandeur must be abandoned to be appreciated. Continuity in everything is unpleasant. Cold is agreeable, that we may get warm.

Nature acts by progress, itus et reditus. It goes and returns, then advances further, then twice as much backwards, then more forward than ever, etc.

The tide of the sea behaves in the same manner; and so apparently does the sun in its course.

2010-12-25T02:56:00.001-05:00

"Through Heaven's wide champain held his way; till Morn,
Waked by the circling Hours, with rosy hand
Unbarred the gates of light. There is a cave
Within the mount of God, fast by his throne,
Where light and darkness in perpetual round
Lodge and dislodge by turns, which makes through Heaven
Grateful vicissitude, like day and night;
Light issues forth, and at the other door
Obsequious darkness enters, till her hour
To veil the Heaven, though darkness there might well
Seem twilight here"

~ Paradise Lost, Book VI

so much love, perpetual round, so much light from above. miss you still.
Blair O'Connor, beloved father, December 25, 1973.

old poem

2010-12-23T01:37:00.007-05:00

In preparation for a book length publication, I'm riffling through and revisiting old songs, old friends:

the cottage

The pens here have all dried out.

This season makes me sneeze.

This time it's really the weather.

***

I drew our lives on my leg this afternoon while you were swimming.

I was going to show you as you were toweling yourself off.

But something came up.

***

Later, my catalyst was this book.

It had your initials inside.

We didn't speak for hours.

Commercial

2010-12-19T16:50:00.001-05:00

I filmed this commercial for a Montreal video game company, Gameloft, a couple weeks ago.

Apparently, I'm not into aliens.

2010-12-17T00:32:00.001-05:00

2010-12-16T21:50:00.003-05:00

Apparently hypothyroidism can accompany kidney failure. Good lord. I forsee more blood tests in my future.

http://www.endoconsultants.com/Lab/Thyroidtests.htm

At least I understand the numerous symptoms I've had for the past 8 years. Funny that a doctor didn't dot together the connections. Damn doctors.

Update:
My hair, which has been falling out at an increasing rate, has now surpassed the 'small amount' I'd anticipated. I am losing my hair. My doctors better do something, and fast. This is not acceptable. Free health care, or free health (minus the care)...

Dancing the Wolf

2010-12-05T13:11:00.006-05:00

Dreaming of wolves again (my shamanic animal). Two wolves this time, one baby wolf, white, one mother wolf, tawny. The mother pulls me in with one paw, one sharp powerful pull toward her and the babe-wolf. I take it as a necessary shift in perspective, one in line perhaps with the near completion of my Master's degree, and the parallels of change with regard to aging and starting anew. What paths will the wolf lead me on through the forest this time? Or, might it be time to become the wolf, and lead myself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NNK30nwReRQ

2010-11-29T00:07:00.000-05:00

my mother sewed my baby teeth into the ground
and up came a race of blood hungry.

2010-11-21T20:59:00.002-05:00

"The thyroid gland is an endocrine gland that is involved with temperature regulation and many other vital roles including the immune system. Poor concentration, confusion, memory problems, cold hands/feet, weight gain, menstrual problems, dry skin, thinning hair and low energy levels accompany hypothyroidism (a decline in the secretion of hormones from the thyroid gland). Aging often leads to hypothyroidism and Dr. Dean believes that this is 'an under-diagnosed epidemic.'"

Good lord. The specialist needs to call me back asap before I metabolize into a rock. Although I do have a kind professor who's offered to share some of his meds with me. (interesting scenario)

Das Magnificent.

2010-11-21T01:15:00.007-05:00

Das Rheingold.

How lucky I was to have seen the Met production (via HD Live) today. Not being familiar with the music of Wagner (shame on me), I was overcome with its effects, the Lepage set on the Met stage both expanding and contracting with the swells and crescendos of the transformative music. It hits you between the eyes, at the peak of the throat, to the tips and tops.

If only the two upcoming productions weren't sold out at the Met yet... but alas... (this opera is so massively impressive it demands three separate productions--it may even be four--which is to be expected. Sitting through 9 hours of straight opera would be tenuous at best... but an interesting experiment I'm sure the likes of Mozart even contemplated).

Wow-o. I have to buy me a box set of this magnificence. It's times like these when I wish I could simultaneously sing opera professionally, return to making etchings with steel plating that would attempt to capture these epic scenes, and inscribe my passion into words fit enough to cover my body in images of light and moss. And so on.

2010-11-14T10:57:00.006-05:00

Last day to attend my pottery sale. That's right, pottery. We all know poetry doesn't pay. I had to add another consonant, rearrange some letters. Kinda like poetry, but with cash.

Poterie Lachine

2010-11-09T00:09:00.002-05:00

No, I do not need to read at your parade. Your collective costumes, lean smiles (right hooks), cutting marks into paper like sacrificial lambs: I shall survive keeping my pen in my pocket keeping my word pinned to the outer corners of my mouth keeping the bird in the house. Although you do not feel the waves, the eye flat against the wall, the curved curved curved attack of absence: hardness is imminent. And what a gift.

2010-10-29T21:35:00.001-04:00

adulthood: the realization that the cute, charming, idiosyncratic characteristics of oneself that once was integral to note during a 'ritual of love' no longer seems recognizable even to its originator. And, more words than is necessary to describe stuff.

tiny dancer

2010-10-21T21:28:00.005-04:00

Awareness, the hyperreal, fragmentation, performing self, reflections, obscure and transparent light, labyrinthine constructions, centering, balance, the breath between chaos and order, alienation, rebirth..... these are just a few of the words that came up today during my visit with my homeopath as we navigate the 'me' that 'is', attempting to decipher what kind of an "organism" I am (her choice of word, and interesting at that) in the process of finding a remedy for my sleepy thyroid. What strikes me, what shocked me, about these terms (of which there were plenty more) is the close resemblance they bear to actual essay topics I've engaged over the last few years. As if I've been writing myself out of a mystery, merely to become entwined again into an alternate universe of mysteries.

We are such fascinating creatures, us turtles, clams and elephants. Such magnificent things.

It also turns out that my love, obsession rather, with miniatures allows me the ideal perspective and additionally calms my soul. Love tiny spoons and books. I could spend all day in this library, tending the fire and running my fingers along the tiny leather spines.

To create a little flower is the labor of ages
~Blake

2010-10-08T17:32:00.004-04:00

strange, surreal world it is, living with the effects of a thyroid condition. Feeling weak, but that creative type of weak where things appear less vibrant and are somehow given to rests in time. More drawn out, more specific. As if I'm suddenly in a Picasso painting, able to navigate the inner workings of the artist, or of the complex arrangements of particles and chemicals at once united into the paint. Unity. And fibres of silence. And rest, so enticing. Stalled air. Large cool glasses of water. Vested in feathery bed, with best friend purring. Need some energy soon. Homeopath will visit next week. Feel like I'm typing a telegram. Stop.

2010-10-05T12:15:00.003-04:00

I have embarked on my academic teaching career. Today I gave my first official lecture to a group of 75 students on the subject of Wordsworth, the sublime (one of my favorites), and tenets of Romanticism. The only thing lacking was Puccini filling out the background. Alienation, individualism, Turner paintings, apocalyptic revolution and "spontaneous powerful feelings"... as if I were made to teach this stuff. Fabulous.

It took a lot longer to prepare a lecture than I'd anticipated. Good lessons learned today. Do not overwhelm students with too much information, do not be too verbose, and ensure quotes are precise. Good good.

And now, to return to the pile of work awaiting my tired little head, which I shall soon rest, after cleaning my pile of neglected dishes of course, and after marking the tests that have been lying in wait, of course.

But first, I must attend to some Verdi.

2010-09-28T23:40:00.000-04:00

I need more cotton candy, and Shelley Duvall in my life. I was always charmed by her onscreen presence.

2010-09-20T10:54:00.002-04:00

http://epc.buffalo.edu/authors/blaser/blaser_hunger.html

3

I asked a man to consider poetry.
He said, 'There is no joy in it.'
I was unsure in these sounds
and unable to knock against chaos.
Across clear sound the boatman sings
like a star in our firmament.
He bends to an outward journey.

I said: there is joy in this image:
10,000 blossoms to one tree in the orchard
counted and named.    The measure of childhood
was how many trees stood shining and white,
stood bare to the rain, naked and wet.
And joy in the small face reflecting
the white surface of the trees.

It was joy to tear at the earth like a scorpion.
The insect blood turned man or child god.
The small face shown    a jewel
or a leaf turning windward.      This child's head
twists.     A broken branch
on the dark wet grass.

I said:
                  My emblem became a tree.

2010-09-14T23:57:00.001-04:00

sometimes you just gotta jump on the bed and sing anarchy.

Don't know what I want
but I know how to get it

2010-09-10T11:36:00.001-04:00

Claude Levi-Strauss conference Sept 24-25 at McGill

http://www.mcgill.ca/iplai/savagethoughts/

2010-09-06T23:45:00.004-04:00

Montréal, c'est comme si votre coeur est un grand espace où l'amour se soulage dans le vide, en silence.
Il n'est pas possible de reconnaître le visage souhaité quand les rues sont mouillés par les larmes.
Pourquoi nos chemins, avec des mots lentement savouré seulement à être démoli de mentir avec vous, rencontrer à nouveau au point du stylo,
nos victoires tenue rapide en dessous des marquages voulu,
faire une victoire proche, celui de la nature et de l'ordre, à la fin, pour vous.

Isabelle Huppert

2010-09-01T01:51:00.007-04:00

So this is what its come to. A 30-something woman crying her eyes out because she spilled beer onto her Macbook. Will it ever work again? she cries. Will I lose all my graduate essay work, research, MA thesis summer preparation? Not to mention the multitudes of other files as yet unrealized. To blame: persistent fruit fly at beer glass edge. One small swipe spills half a glass into unsuspecting machine. Result? loss of power, loss of "I'm worth more than that, you little French bastard" poem which was going to be sent to the little French bastard. A good poem too, for Christ's sake. Rejection. This is why the beer spilled. A reminder that my life, once I engage in it, is chaos.

To blame (for real): surge of anger at being perpetually lost amid the complex (simple?) world. Forever in a state of engagement, and then, disengagement. Forever the struggle, the turn of phrase, the doubt. The state of unreason, unsettling: the many books I cannot focus enough to read (lack of iron in the blood, it turns out--one explanation at least... another: so many books to read, where to begin? an earlier blood test could have saved me some self-flagulation. on a 20-225 scale of low iron, I have 16. Surprised I'm not comatose).

The sick cats are trying on my patience, arresting my love for them by perpetuating my lack of sleep. Woken up last night by two separate puking events. Why does puking have to be so loud, and involve such drama. I have dramatic cats. No surprise there.

And what of my MA? should I finally decide on a "plausible" thesis, or have any direction on how one actually DOES write a bloody thesis. Impossible task... the problem is, THE PROBLEM IS, I think I will fail, I predict failure, and so I navigate toward the most ridiculous path of all: isolation; paralysis. I cannot fail if in isolation. Nor can I succeed. It is a stalemate. Another thing I fail at: chess. Oh chess, how much like life you are. Dull, lengthy, surprising, unconventional, conventional. I hate you and I'm addicted to you. Your pretty fucking horses. (or perhaps, "stall mate"? def: the inability to move forward due to negative self talk).

Negative self talk is killing me. Physically, the symptoms are out of control. Emotionally, my anger could do me some serious harm. Cognitively, I'm sabotaging my own life. But why? Am I not a nice person, good person? I know what Nietzsche would say. Something about the good in FACT perpetuating the bad. Fucked up. So I'm bad. That explains it.

What to do with this perception I've been given, this interpretive mind, amid all the rest of this chaos is bloody impossible to define. Feeling stuck. And this laptop, containing my words, poems (not that they ACTUALLY matter, poetry tears down the walls of despair and loneliness only to build them up again within the realm of trite verbosity) my research, is broken. Everything breaks. Falls apart. And then gently repositions itself without notice. Surprise, all is well. Is that what Shakespeare had in mind?

I exhaust myself. I need someone to read to me. Let me shut my eyes. I will absorb or I will sleep. Either way, a goodnight.

Apprehensive, fit to be tied

2010-08-29T19:24:00.004-04:00

Si le temps est l'essence de la connaissance, et l'abandonment posséder la structure d'appréhension, où se trouve le coeur rempli errance à terminer dans les points de suture de la grotte de réalisme? Où, où est le coeur? Et pourquoi est-il saigne?

I'm rather tired of boys who fain interest in romantic affairs only to become occupied with more important (distracting) matters. All I ask is that where there is doubt, please keep it in your pants. To sum up:
Intimacy: an arrow that shoots toward the end only to be constantly stalled with breath, with air. A paradox, no. Zeno's paradise. (Much better in French. L'intimité: une flèche qui tire vers la fin que d'être constamment au point mort avec le souffle, avec l'air. Un paradoxe, non. Paradis de Zénon.)

I am not a deus ex machina. I only play at one.

2010-08-15T10:55:00.005-04:00

The poetry of Robin Blaser has not an ounce of unintended reluctance (unlike my own verse); he reminds me of poetry's effect: the adherence to change, to reconstructing the anatomy of my own heart--musculature, flow, cage.

I am about to explore the concept of eternal return (coined by Nietzsche) as it applies to Blaser, as he references it in his works, the expansive collected poems entitled The Holy Forest.

I am, in other words, preparing for my Masters thesis. Let the exhilaration and exhaustion, the verbosity and self-doubt begin.

2010-08-09T11:02:00.001-04:00

this city, with its grave nobility

presented with a mirror, it does not reflect.

Still, Still

2010-07-24T22:44:00.004-04:00

Maybe its the air, the dry-wet accumulation of so many intersecting droplets; the coming rain. Maybe the scent of just cleaned chalkboards, their hint of dust as the hint of heat leaps from the pavement and mingles with the teasing raindrop--a moment on the skin, and then nothing. The body is scented in nature's play. Part dusty sidewalk, part stillness. Post-performance, pre-rain.

Maybe its beyond this earth, the machinations of a grouping of planets, stirring a torment of desire inside me. Reminiscent of what I cannot yet see. What I long to embrace. What I cannot step into. Iatromantis. I belonged somewhere before. Of this I am certain.

I have just come from watching "I am Love," a film with Tilda Swinton. Her character reminded me in parts of her transformative performances in Orlando. She is, without a doubt, superb. And separate from this known fact, I have always felt a kinship with her. She seems endlessly youthful, as my spirit also attests. She is awkward and elegant in one step. Her energy is like no other. And she is so brave. And at once so weak. A characterization I have often fallen into.

The movie was very awkward at first, perhaps intentionally, as it was quite slow to develop and the characters weren't exceptionally interesting. Attractive, yes. It is Italian... but there was a moment, precisely when Tilda's character had an erotic experience with two prawns--cooked by her son's chef friend she then ends up (amid the flowers and syrups and insects and sun) lying naked with in various locations on a hilltop in Italy. Subtle, sweet, evocative. Raw. The end of the movie is superb. A fresco of finality, a slow, repetitive thud against identity. Magnifico.

Headshots tomorrow. Very exciting.

Garden Update!

2010-07-22T22:43:00.003-04:00

I picked a cucumber today that was the length of my forearm. Nature never ceases to amaze me. And, she's quick!

Will have a wagon full of tomatoes soon. Big ones small ones heirloom ones and mystery ones. I'm reaping the rewards of planting herbal teas now. So refreshing in the heat.

Hooray!

2010-07-11T22:17:00.001-04:00

You must have a room, or certain hour or so a day, where you don’t know what was in the newspapers that morning, you don’t know who your friends are, you don’t know what you owe anybody, you don’t know what anybody owes to you. This is a place where you can simply experience and bring forth what you are and what you might be. This is the place of creative incubation. At first you may find that nothing happens there. But if you have a sacred place and use it, something eventually will happen.

- Joseph Campbell (mythologist, writer)

2010-07-11T12:39:00.002-04:00

Vague and insignificant forms of speech, and abuse of language, have so long passed for mysteries of science; and hard and misapplied words, with little or no meaning, have, by prescription, such a right to be mistaken for deep learning and height of speculation, that it will not be easy to persuade either those who speak or those who hear them, that they are but the covers of ignorance, and hindrance of true knowledge.

John Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1690)

little lost, little little

2010-07-09T20:41:00.005-04:00

I have now just completed one year of a Master's degree, achieving all but one of the required courses. Having taken 6 courses over the past 10 months, I shall now move onto the thesis preparation, and prepare for my first experience teaching a conference during both the fall and winter semesters. I will admit that I'm really looking forward to teaching. I loved helping students when I was a student mentor in my undergraduate program. I still run into one sweet girl who took some advice from me, and is now very pleased in her studies.

But still, after all this work has been done, I am feeling unsettled. As if the program doesn't quite fit me somehow. I miss my old studies in classics, and wonder what can be done about it. I will not abandon a degree near completion, but this feeling will not leave me. I dream of fragments of Greek script, museum work, travel, and teaching. I have noticed my work suffering as I'm not as keen to read 3 out of the 5 texts required in classes, and find the assignments aren't getting the best out of me. hmm. Perhaps the truth is simple: I am used to A work; I'm producing A-/B+ work. And not sure what to do about it other than practice practice practice.

A professor once told me I'll know what suits me when I can't put something down I'm reading in bed. That something is hard to articulate, but I'm trying to get closer to "a subject"--at present it spans philosophy, classics, Vogue, Chinese poetry, modern poetry, Tolkien, Nietzsche, and Peter Kingsley... there are others, can't remember whats at the pile's bottom.

The problem is, the obstacle is, that the course work takes a lot out of me and I have very little left to read what I want. Seems a flawed system, this required course work... and I am disappointed in the breadth of courses having been offered in my program. I really did think English Lit was close enough to Comparative Lit. Silly me.

Update: I may have uncovered a source for my spaciness. Low blood pressure. Apparently, my family shares this delicate indulgence. I shall have to employ two hunky Egyptians to carry around a fainting couch should I be inclined to dream too heavily (while walking).

2010-07-02T22:50:00.008-04:00

Don't distract me with your "false being"--choose an identity.

I'm only functional (re: content) in the void.

...Thanks, Lacan (and Zizek) for messing up my head.

Since I'm here: Nice bed, Z. Pretty flowers. Awesome puppetry.

Dedication to an island

2010-06-28T00:16:00.002-04:00

The mountain teems like a kaleidoscope
fractals, reminiscences, so hard to bend a curved line. In a reluctant mood, I bend willingly.
Itself was to the creasing what suddenly of rust moony blast was to the fall. The I falls in continuity.
Satiated. No, too slow a word. Resuscitated. Removed.

Un Pointe pour 99 cents.
Elicit, rallied. Regine Robin’s sense of anticipation: the end. Not getting what one wants.
A walk pursued as a thought, without intention.

All of us, primeval. Sculptors of the crescent, of the marked shaped figured spine, the curve of the land against the wet, the line carved into it.

Pock-marked, suffused with all things, intact and
1 informs the 2
relapse, speculation,
get your feet wet.
As if dragging could be kept. Like a pet.

Porcelain, disappearance like insects, the in is in the liking, the out gets a swat.
This is the whitened one, trap hands tight to the wall or the artful,
minds will fend the aether, ecclesiastics in blue.
Pastiche, virulent.
Rusted lines, the wood already decayed, a civilization. Hemlock, the politician speaks.
Be full or disappear be full to disappear.

We are educated or we are forgotten chronicles we are a new and failed body of water we are creasing at the seams we are between the not and the not. Curved, courage; soft blue wilderness will not last, lover.

I have carved you a new education. One with keeping. A love that will crack.

2010-06-16T00:20:00.003-04:00

Post forthcoming on what I've been up to, where I'm at. Stay tuned! Death, rather re-death, or pre-mature death, or selection of dyingness leading to death... great stuff. Liberating! The Tao, Mulan Quan, Wu Wei, Nietzsche, Lacan, and more!

I must return to piling up duties, for now. I love you.

2010-06-08T14:45:00.002-04:00

oh god, I AM Antonio Salieri.

To turn or not to turn

2010-05-31T13:06:00.004-04:00

I've been wanting a space of earth I can call my own (or rent my own) for awhile now. I finally found it in the beautiful almost country like setting in Lasalle, on the south western part of the island of Montreal. I've also been meaning to set up a serious garden of my own, which I began yesterday at one o'clock, and after completing two rows of four, arrived home at 9pm. Hard work, but I prefer it to working in an office!

What is earth, the feel of it in the hands, the roughness of stone and silk of sand. The natural chemicals released as the ground is turned, worked, sifted. The movements, the bending, natural arc of the body, the hand. The mind curves in turn, atuned to the natural rhythms of the earth. Seriously, it's flesh and blood poetry. And I'm hooked.

BEFORE

AFTER

2010-05-29T22:59:00.001-04:00

2010-05-23T14:52:00.003-04:00

Intuitively, passionately, without reservation (well perhaps just a little), the fantasy suspends essential parts--it is atemporal; it is vertigo.

I wrote about labyrinths last December, a work I shall return to soon. They hold such fascination. Were once believed to hold miraculous curative powers. Are meditative. Transgress the planes of consciousness. Yum.

Mixer Upper

2010-05-18T22:52:00.003-04:00

1 part Gabriel Byrne, an armful of Gerard Depardieu, many cups of Sir Ben Kingsley, a brawny helping of Liam Neeson, and a full serving of Bruce Lee.

Stir.

Oh, and that ginger from Queens of the Stone Age. And Titus Pullo, of course.

Kрасивая печаль

2010-05-16T21:37:00.006-04:00

Since I discovered the Russian language at 21, after being engaged to a beautiful Moscovite for a brief stint, I have sought out opportunities to be closer to their culture, music and literature. Simply put, I love Russians (u ya lublu Ruski yazik).

I am tied to their passion, their pain. Their ability to adapt and create amidst shift and structure, plague and suture. The gift of insight into all that is flawed, that is human.

And so. I am always moved to tears watching this, the two, together. This union of omni-potens between the man who breaks my heart (20 years now) Vladimir Vysotsky, and the man who puts it back together, Mikhail Baryshnikov.

2010-05-12T15:04:00.003-04:00

Bruce Lee, where are you when I need you?

I have lost my centre and cannot seem to retrieve it. I need a team of martial artists to take over my life.

That's right. A TEAM.

Home

2010-05-11T14:28:00.006-04:00

Hold me, silt and dust. Cover me the light, the air, the
silk. The river like a bow, we lie together. Our backs
bent. Caledonia Highlands, Prince Albert's footprint, and
John F. Kennedy Jr.

Of the lion's coat, a ship of Ἑλλάς, now golden-crowned;
tongues of thieves. Borrowed sight, but none of vision. The backs
of my grandfathers preparing my way to return
to the earth. Hard ground, now harder to (re)turn.
New Ireland, Albert Mines, Micmac Road. Trout in Wolfe lake,
Salem, the tracks removed. Lupines, caves, the lady slipper.
Wild blueberries at dawn. The trees, the lighthouse, the trees.
Cape Enrage. Ocean views, cliffs of vertigo.

Steeves, Phillips, O'Connor, Milton, Henwood, Clements (Clermont).
Germantown, Coverdale, Doyle Hill. Hillsborough, Middlesex.

Waterfalls. Bridges.

The silt, the dust, the covering
of air. Call one home.

(now, where to find 400 thousand dollars... anyone want to live on an organic commune with me? Complete with swimming ponds and forest paths, and so much land to get lost in)

Montreal Cats

2010-05-07T19:27:00.009-04:00

Just a note for any cat owners out there in Montreal.

I have two cats (15 and 20), both who decided to get sick at the same time (one suffering from kidney disease and one from hyperthyroidism). I've been treating them with *some* recommendations from my vet but have had most success and witnessed the most progress and healing in dealing with a wonderful homeopathic practitioner who deals almost exclusively with animals. And I've switched their diet to RAW food and took away the dry completely (I only feed canned food at night, and only Wellness). (Read the truth about dry cat food)

My cautionary advice: I only know of ONE certified natural homeopathic animal practitioner in Montreal, and she is affiliated with the NHC and MICH homeopathic schools (Read up on homeopathic medicine for cats). Others area vets and former petstore owners, etc. tend to market themselves as homeopathic but use multiple remedies (ie. "urinary tract infection" remedy, that may contain 5 different medicines). This goes entirely against homeopathic treatment, which traditionally uses one remedy at a time. The idea is to treat the WHOLE patient, and then observe the one remedy's affects. This is also the case for human treatment.

Addendum:

Animals deserve humane and proper treatment. Moving day is coming up in Montreal. Please don't abandon a domesticated animal. Contrary to popular belief, they cannot care for themselves once they've been fed and taken care of by humans. Call the SPCA or a local animal shelter, and put up ads on telephone posts, craigslist, or kijiji. Ask a family member or a coworker to take care of your pet until you can find it a permanent and caring home. Take responsibility for the innocent creatures we share the planet with, and for those you agreed to care for in the first place.

Dear Montreal

2010-05-06T21:55:00.004-04:00

You are beautiful, really, but we must have a chat.

For nearly 5 years now I have been witness to your charms--the moonlight over your slim cousin, Saint Lawrence, stirring birds and beasts alike; your poetry, music to the streets at night, the sign posts and snow hills soiled with the print of human. Dirty, hard lucked; but music nonetheless.

However. The ease with which you judge your inhabitants harshly--in their dress, manner of being, the neighbourhood one lives in, or the amount of money one may have--is heartbreaking. Is this the air of the early poets who nominated the lonely walks of Montreal as intimate, rich, fierce? Are we not all of us Lords of Life?

My heart is heavy tonight, darling. I want so much to love you, your lights, your old walls and heavy ego. But there seems so often no place for my kind. Or rather, that I am invisible among thieves.

And so I retreat to your garden.
And I thank you for that.

You are a place one can disappear into. That's quite a feat, you, being merely an island.

Or perhaps it is I who remains the same,
wherever it is that I land.

(Re)Creation, or a New Mythos

2010-04-29T21:27:00.005-04:00

"When I retire I'd like to supplement my income by becoming a poet."

I'm not making this up, folks.
And, can I tell you just how full my banks are from writing poetry?

When I retire I'd like to supplement MY income by becoming a brain surgeon. (suggestion inspired by Margaret Atwood)

I realize I just compared poetry to brain surgery. I'm fine with that.

My G&M article

2010-04-27T14:20:00.004-04:00

now live!

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/books/in-other-words/poetry-month-wanda-oconnor-on-artie-gold/article1548155/

Thanks to Judith Fitzgerald for asking me to do it!

Another set of Amour/Armour

2010-04-25T22:32:00.003-04:00

I keep dreaming of spaces. rooms, houses. unknown cities. For days now.

Keep writing of the abstract, the logos, renewal without a clearly divisible path... or a link back to logic. the centre does not hold...
My brain is worn out. I think I seek escape into foreign recesses of my mind.
Or I am trapped in an ontological web of Calvino's Oulipo...

The problem could explicitly be a case of deferment of Being. Solution? make something new. I shall build a home I can live in. Lessen the journey. All I need is a lot of money. maybe I can write a meta-fictional narrative of this nonsense.

Too many doors. Possibilities? Distractions?

While I'm here... does anyone believe in love anymore? Or am I just a silly romantic yet holding out for the real thing? hmm.

Spicer poem for April

2010-04-23T23:09:00.002-04:00

This ocean, humiliating in its disguises
Tougher than anything.
No one listens to poetry. The ocean
Does not mean to be listened to. A drop
Or crash of water. It means
Nothing.
It
Is bread and butter
Pepper and salt. The death
That young men hope for. Aimlessly
It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. No
One listens to poetry.

(Spicer, Collected Books 217)

Artie Gold

2010-04-22T14:51:00.006-04:00

Wrote a piece on Artie for the Globe and Mail "In Other Words" book-blog. Will be appearing online shortly.

“Where are the lids? The lids to everything?”
Artie Gold, before ROMANTIC WORDS

It is no coincidence to me that Artie Gold, Montreal poet, died on Valentine’s Day, 2007. His poems, written in Montreal where he lived for 30 years, wreak havoc in the heart. Suffering from recurrent lung deficiency, it is no surprise that the physical enclosure of solitude the disease eventually required of him may have, as a point of necessity, afforded him the state of habitual transcendence. To the moon, to the heart—always the traveler. Reading through Artie’s poetry might lead you to believe a number of things about him: that poetry sometimes pays the rent; that the “pure lyric beauty of the wave” breaks the borders of “inside/outside”; that one might believe love is simply met, “I can win you with a coke” or that it is not at all effortless, rather “plies deep… waylaid, it had a habit of suddenly throwing down / its basket of roses and running… too many times love has occurred, reared its beautiful head.” The magnetism of Fort Poetry, as he called it, held him—a field where he could position the external world as fulcrum to his heart, shifting and mellowing glimpses of the “light alone that is foreboding / enough in itself.”

Feeding each instinct off the other, the proof of the inability to ‘get at’ in Gold’s poems is in the living movements, and in the weight of the image, “like a waterfall behind a lightswitch / things wait there just out of reach.” He is well aware of the impermeability and the consciousness of uncertainty in the condition of being human, and depicts with authority these states of change—one moment visible and the next “spilling the illusion,”

reaching for something by which to retaliate         at life
I shoot my foot         I am not sure of the enemy         a whistle blows
and I am dragged off stage to be replaced
by some other idiot. it's cosmic

The poet assures us our loneliness and struggle, “It is war I wage. the falseness within me against the individual,” and yet he at once remains a portico for those of us seeking light and the promise that the mystical process will continue,

                                                       The lights
jarr, as in any analogy there are
elements that must mean something because
they must; but mean nothing
                                                       because they cannot.

Gold’s vision is a collection of the predictable, the underworried, configurations of the city and the body, the chase of idea. He is a philosopher of place, identifying himself through incarnation with the objects themselves, happiest just to enter, “if nothing was to happen in autumn / why would the wind enter the woods.” Gold, alchemist of “love’s passage,” intrudes, slides, returns,

the illegal swimmer

Not realizing the night,
accepting the cold the water’s arrogance

breaking into the water; intruding
in an element with no love
so men are fooled and drowned.

mercury, it will slide,
rush up our bodies;
and we are returned to earth.

my foot feels the water
slide never embracing it
steps aside.

we might sooner cherish silver.

Untitled poems quoted above, and “the illegal swimmer,” appear in before ROMANTIC WORDS and THE BEAUTIFUL CHEMICAL WALTZ. With thanks to Endre Farkas, Ken Norris, and Stephen Morrissey for kind approval in using Artie’s work and photos. Poems will be appearing in the upcoming fall release of THE COLLECTED BOOKS OF ARTIE GOLD, © 2010 Talonbooks.

Update

2010-04-21T19:55:00.005-04:00

I'd like to report that my most treasured and beloved 15 year old cat Bissy, although still fighting a terrible disease, has been doing better through the miracle of homeopathy, vitamin supplements, fluid treatments, and much affection. An Apollo sized miracle (thank you, spring, for bringing back the Sun).

To share in her continued health, and to hope it continues as long as her body can manage it, I provide this video.

Love and flowers. So happy to see the sun again.

Keeping clean, staying healthy!

Swami Satchidananda

2010-04-16T17:00:00.001-04:00

On giving and expecting and receiving.

"If it comes, let it come. But don't look for it."

2010-04-12T22:45:00.007-04:00

Feeling like a fraud in grad school.

Something Nietzsche writes about those who learn on their own or are receptive to pursuing and have the ability to translate read knowledge into unique theories (not unlike an alchemical process) vs. those who simply need to be taught by others in order to achieve a sense of knowledge... perhaps achieve a small "e" enlightenment.

I believe I am sadly of the second type. Slave to the slave mentality: a seriously depressing realization. That I need to be told something--grounded in a way--in order for my creativity and logic to kick in. That I can't parse Plato or such entirely on my own without seeing what everyone else sees. (when I do read the dialogues, I see things not quite as they should be)

I am a fraud to the academic system. I don't think like everyone else. It's a serious failure. I would trade sacred and dear things to me to be able to see clearly, contemplate without interference of emotional quotients... I am far too sensitive to the lights of metaphor, spatiality, romance. Temporal flux.

I cannot figure how to resolve this. It's as if I have no longer any mind to position clearly. Any true sense. Lost in words. A jungle of misinterpretations.

Sink or swim... I know these are not the only options. Silly world.

Draft Thesis Topic

2010-04-04T00:45:00.006-04:00

(drum roll)

After much muching and books overflowing with muchness regarding who, when or why, I have narrowed the topic down considerably. Yes, it may become once again enlarged while thinking and all that.

Robin Blaser (and literary period, and particular stylings) through the lens of the Pre-Socratic philosophy of Heraclitus (and I'll get by with a little help from my friends: Nietzsche, Wittgenstein, Oulipo, Spicer, O'Hara, and donkey).

That is all.

Sex at 38

2010-04-02T14:12:00.013-04:00

Ingratiating wayward body,
turning
turned,
still

there is some fusion, some arbiter in linking fields

immanence
or lack.

But still
the shoes pile up
the omniscient voice,
(instability)

the paradox of Zeno--this stepping ahead
too quick
without a map.

The last exercise was a steady one
hands focused on the incline
knees bent in supposition to the Being
that is Air

so quiet, She
so drunk with the scent of it

slipped into

a static
as plastic
bag
in the sauntering wind.

*addendum: "sex" is a misnomer. More spiritual lovey-ness.

* contributing to a series of "Sex at" poems published originally by the dear-to-my-heart Artie Gold and super Barry McKinnon, among others. And now, there's a book (of which I just found out I'm in. hmm): http://www.chaudierebooks.com/books/collectedsex.html

2010-04-01T10:46:00.002-04:00

Birthday plans:
walk on the mountain
good books
great conversation
shopping for bday present for myself
sauna? sadly, no time. Must read more Lacan, visit with professor, and attend tonight's Psychoanalysis class.

Chess night at Cafe Pi. Hoping people decide to come.

Love birthdays.

Birthing words, the labour of idea

2010-03-30T12:43:00.003-04:00

Coinciding.
Coincidence?

I'm turning (over/under) another year up. Last two days to revel at this "age."

Also working on thesis topic for Master's degree. Am overwhelmed with ideas. How to narrow?

Nietzsche, Epictetus, continental philosophy, Miller, Lawrence, postmodern theory, Plato, dystopia/utopia, apocalypse, Sartre, space and form, Olson, O'Hara, Duncan, Spicer, Gold, Guest

2010-03-29T17:44:00.000-04:00

me against the world.

world=1
me=1

All tied up.

Oui, c'est toi! je t'aime, Les fers, la mort même Ne me font plus peur!

2010-03-28T22:52:00.006-04:00

So many thoughts. And no time to write them. How frustrating.

Reading and writing a paper on D.H. Lawrence's Sons and Lovers brings much to the surface. The nature of human intimacy. The neglect and simultaneous love we suffer for and with each other. The necessity of wanting, of denying. Of wanting again. It's thanks to the intensity of the sexual drives inherent in us we manage to populate the world at all.

Another thing: applause on opera cd's should be banned post-haste. Very annoying. So pretentious. Bravo!

I'm thinking of becoming a writer.
Again.
(sigh. when time permits)
I think what holds me back from taking on the mantle of "writer" completely is what I consider an inevitability of moving that much closer toward depression. I try to move away from it! But most writers (all?) I know are neurotic, obsessive, given to bouts of melancholia, and, well, pretty much alone (or perhaps that's just me, ha). Maybe I need to spread my eyes a little wider? Hmm, I'd also like to have some money. Being poor (the whole of my life): not much fun.

C.D. Wright, Sina Queyras, and the female voice

2010-03-08T13:22:00.005-05:00

We had the pleasure of hosting poet C.D. Wright a few days ago through the Concordia Writer's Read Series.

Terrific conversations were had (and lucky me was invited to be present) between Stephanie Bolster, Mary di Michelle, C.D. herself, Sina Queyras, and lovely accompanying guests.

C.D. is delightful. Open, closed, brash, sweet, and tequila to boot. My kind of woman. I do feel in sympatico with her, her and I being country gals (or at least hailing from those areas where calling one by their first and middle names is the norm). And, come on, we even have the same shoe size.

During the drink portion of the evening, after C.D.'s reading that transported us from locale to locale and opened us onto what I referred to earlier in the Master class she gave at Concordia University as her "uncertain intimacies," Sina raised the topic of the veiling of the female voice which got me thinking. Sina writes in her latest Bookthug publication (of entries from her blog for the last few years) entitled "Unleashed" (suggesting perhaps that we're "in for it," something of which I fancy), that women are "less likely to take public, intellectual risks, less likely to hold forth ideas in a room of men."

She encourages women writers, then, to be bold, take a stand in one's convictions and opinions and simply just do it, adding that one's opinion can be "nuanced over time." Agreed. Although, what often holds me back is--upon embracing my public space and engaging with an audience, say--I often am "unengaged" back. One must have a constant reserve of initiative then, I would think, to want to continue to "show" in the absence of response. I think there is a reason for this. I wonder if women are overwhelmed. I know I am. And the internet is a cess pool. Although, yes, I choose where to find resources, and how long to endure them, if it comes to that.

I admit I often think little of my voice, and I suddenly knew when speaking about the lack of female voice still constant today, that, given my past filled to the brim with such experiences of being silenced myself (to contemplate the scenarios have always brought resurgence of silenced thought), I chose to try to escape the silence... with more silence. Ironic? Well, I think my eyes have been adjusted "some" (New Brunswick speak). I think I'll take Sina's food for thought, and engage what I have always denied myself--vulnerability.

Frightening.

But, powerful stuff. I'm working on it.

2010-02-14T23:16:00.002-05:00

“You have to be very fond of men. Very, very fond. You have to be very fond of them to love them. Otherwise they're simply unbearable.”

"Men like women who write. Even though they don't say so. A writer is a foreign country."

"No other human being, no woman, no poem or music, book or painting can replace alcohol in its power to give man the illusion of real creation."

"When a woman drinks it's as if an animal were drinking, or a child. Alcoholism is scandalous in a woman, and a female alcoholic is rare, a serious matter. It's a slur on the divine in our nature."

Marguerite Duras

My Pottery

2010-02-12T14:00:00.002-05:00

A few items I've made over the past few months.

2010-02-07T12:00:00.004-05:00

Life is throwing me curveballs these past few months. I'm entirely a prisoner of my apartment taking care of two sick cats several times a day. I feel trapped. Trapped! No amount of music, movies, dancing in the kitchen or what have you is lifting my mood. I'm sinking.

Sex Pistols to the rescue.

2010-02-05T18:42:00.001-05:00

And then she wakes up

and notices that the world

didn't wait for her.

Losing time is not fun!

Attila at the MET!

2010-01-21T02:21:00.003-05:00

I might get to see two operas this February (a Valentine's gift to me? Why yes!). And to boot--by some happy coincidence, "Attila" features my new favorite Bass, Ildar Abdrazakov (see below).

Superb!

As well, La Boheme is on. What terrific timing. I've yet to see it live at the Met. Anna Netrebko is singing Mimi!

I think I shall take off for reading week and treat myself. I need a vacation from the break up (which continues to rear its ugly head--but one year is up in June--I'm getting there bit by bit) and the chronic kitty care (granted I can find a suitable nursemaid who doesn't mind needles). Opera is just the thing (Isn't it always!). And a trek or two through Central park. And a few coffees on Broadway, in Chelsea, or wherever. And of course, Strand Books. And the RUSSIAN TEA ROOM (http://www.russiantearoomnyc.com/). God I love that place. Last time I saw that famous rockstar of the Rolling Stones with his equally famous much younger mistress... while I read some Kerouac. Fitting?

Love New York. Love.

List

2010-01-12T15:59:00.003-05:00

of things for today.

I want:

-to have the most amazing Russian bass I saw in the Metropolitan opera's production of Faust 3 years ago (Ildar Abdrazakov) to call me up and ask me out. And subsequently fall in love with me. And then sing me to sleep. Or sing me awake. Whatever! I will in return fill his ears with choice Russian phrases I've learned, poems that are dear to me, and I shall giggle. And wear the best of my high heeled shoes. Or giggle while wearing high heeled shoes. While listening to him sing. Or even talk. God.

-to sport a star trek costume around town. I'm under the impression people find me odd, unapproachable. Eccentric? So, might as well live how I want. In fact, I might raid a costume shop. Be someone new every day! (If you're the hot opera singer reading this, a little delusion and madness is endearing, yes?)

-to disappear to Italy. To Tuscan hills, wine fields, life drawing classes in Rome, the Italian opera. Italy needs me. I just know it. Scratch that. Italy WANTS me.

-to fall asleep on a cloud and have the most restful sleep of my life and when I wake, my treasured cat will be well again, my worries will be abated, and I will have love again in my life. A life without love is a cruel trick of fate.

amare è vivere è amare
Однажды в бассейне свет ваш голос стремится мое сердце.

2010-01-03T02:16:00.002-05:00

You grow old on the days your diet is inadequate.

"Let thy food be thy medicine, and thy medicine be thy food."
Hippocrates

Pray for kitty Bissy

2010-01-02T14:29:00.006-05:00

My darling cat Bissy (Abyss) has been diagnosed with kidney disease this past month. Am trying a number of remedies and raw food, among other excellent quality canned food, but eating has become a large obstacle. Syringe feeding and medicating has taken precedence as I wait for even a hint of improvement. During the difficult times I've had, this sweet cat has been gracious, loving, affectionate and such an endearing companion. To return these gifts is my utmost intention, and I do so through treatment and lots of belly rubs, which she's always been quite fond of. Beyond this, and treating her with sub-q liquids, I admit to needing a Bissy sized miracle. Eating is paramount and is simply not happening. To those reading this, my friends, please offer some words of grace and solution to the aether parts. I would surely appreciate it.

Biss in healthier days: July 09

Putting on a brave face about two weeks ago. Before the rapid weight loss.

Bissy with many food options, none of which she finds palatable.

2009-12-25T22:56:00.001-05:00

Stop thinking, and end your problems.

Tao Te Ching

2009-12-23T20:51:00.005-05:00

Is at a loss. Not a lack really, more a missing. Deterrent? Nah. Although I've always fancied the word "hindrance." "Proclivity" is also very nice.

Where do I belong? Does anyone belong anywhere? I've never had a "home." I need to find one. To buy land. To have a place that is finally mine no one can take away or move me out of. A place I can plant herbs, build a fence out of trees, house a happy family of bees, make things with my hands.

Where do I go from here? I have to go somewhere... I'm tired of standing still. Or waiting. I have a plan. But how do I set it in motion? And is it the really true super duper amazing life plan that I want? I think so... but how to be certain is beyond me. Can a person really live in the country and be paid to write articles traveling overseas? That is one of the things in my plan.

Back to work.

p.s. in an unrelated matter, I was just thinking that it is such a loss to not be together with George, he that studied the Tao Te Ching and appeared so wise, when I realized that 'wait a minute'--he didn't follow the Tao at all. It wasn't real. It was my own illusion making him into a beautiful philosopher. Which leads me to this:

WANTED: handsome philosopher teacher. Intimacy issues (and wandering hands--with others) need not apply. I'm terrific company, and can teach a thing or two myself.

How

2009-12-13T21:55:00.001-05:00

is anyone expected to keep up with the universe? sheesh. Change is constant, man.

"no process of change is eternal: for the nature of all change is such that it proceeds from something to something, so that every process of change must be bounded by the contraries that mark its course, and no motion can go on to infinity”

(Aristotle, Physics 8:2)

Moving, moving on, and onward

2009-12-08T01:57:00.004-05:00

After seeing G. 2 times within a day and a bit, and having to witness what I considered until 5 months ago the love of my life walk right by me both times without any hint of acknowledgment (cruel cruel punishment for what? I still don't know. I think he's just an empty soul), I must say I've finally made it to the top of the hump. Now I can look toward the mountains and lush lake and tree filled valleys I've been craving for so long through the difficult uncertainty of the past 4 years.

I did not call to wish him well today on his birthday, which was a hard thing to not do. Instead, I wrote a list, an affirmation really, of my future plan as I see it today. It involves a woodsy cabin with a loft space for a bed and a writing nook, a garden for herbery, and a little studio to make pots (to make money, hopefully).

I.am.happy.

2009-12-08T00:59:00.001-05:00

When free from distress, we should be on the alert for
what’s terrible,
and when life is going well, look especially
then to our lives,
that they haven’t been destroyed while we weren’t
looking.

Philoctetes by Sophocles
(Phillips 2003)

This quote does need to be in context, go out and read it!
Love the character of Philoctetes. What a great play.

Publish or... ?

2009-12-01T00:34:00.001-05:00

"Spicer and Duncan were both people who stressed a lot that you shouldn't publish until you're ready and it was important not to publish a lot of junk."

Compliments of Jacket Magazine.

the jerk eats meat after all

2009-11-27T23:29:00.004-05:00

ego eats the rope.
There is no reading list
isn't that a funny joke.

Beneath the reach of that enigma
is muck
and you know it

Shave poor substance, darlin
and appear as you are
wet faced and bare to the world
a sickness carved upon the pillow

who comes to play in pools of the fools
who are taken in by magic
propositions
or
prepositions.

You know it when you see it
if you have the
I

2009-11-23T13:58:00.002-05:00

It's not their fault.

The "magazine" has to publish on schedule. Pay its "editors," empty garbage cans every evening. Grist the pencils.

I could fill my eyes with bad poems. Enough syllables to suffocate lang-wage. Which is really the problem.

Stop publishing bad poetry.

Lovely day

2009-11-22T19:11:00.002-05:00

Good day today. Great pottery studio. Someone gave me a bunch of free clay too since it was our last day of throwing.

Cupcake Camp, Montreal version, let me indulge in a plethora of pastel goodies to benefit Kids Help phone, a charity close to my heart.

And new(ish) shoes! Nothing like cake and shoes to cheer a girl up.

2009-11-20T00:30:00.001-05:00

It'll be ok l'il Sally.

Thanks

2009-11-17T19:16:00.003-05:00

goes out to my grampie Doyle O'Connor who I knew for the first 5 years of my life and who passed on in '79. He gave me the gift of music. It has influenced my poetry, my life. Saved my soul time and again.

Isn't it interesting for the past 3 years I let that connection idle.

Time to bring out the instruments again. Maybe I'll have me an old-fashioned hoe-down New Brunswick kitchen party to signal the return of music to my life.

Would anyone come? I could always strap on the ole instruments and perform a one-gal band. ha, my 2 cats would run for the hills.

Back to work.

2009-11-16T14:33:00.008-05:00

I've a planned "ceremony" to sever the bond between my George and I. I don't want to do it. I don't toss the soulmate around often, but there it is, and I'm compelled (for the sake of my own health) to get the relationship out of my system (how my gut turns at the idea, how my teeth tighten and body tenses). How I feel. C'est tout. After 4 months of separation it's still so strong, this bond. How else to explain it...

But I'm not really here, still. Not yet existing and under a cloud of what was. There is still no 'what may/will be' and one must look toward. And so I must break this bond. And I don't want to. What I DO want to do is reconnect, establish the connection once again, feel loved feel loved feel loved. Have I made my point? What difficult tasks I've been handed in this life. If only they knew how hard this severing is... it is a grieving. A grieving all over again. And once again, a grieving alone.

If only I'd become a dancer. But that may have made it worse--constant exhaustions of emotional release in a studio filled with other bodies not interested in your world, your powers of mysterious dissapearances. How is it that we all manage to share a planet and yet know not one person from the other? Perhaps no one cares. Perhaps it isn't necessary. Perhaps perhaps perhaps. I need to figure it out. Or I'll never get what I want.

I need to get out of here for awhile. Sever the connection, sever the fibres. Refuel my soul. Reconnect with myself.

No poems today.

Addendum. Or appendix. Or pancreas:
Apparently I'm still grieving the death of my father, grandfather and the absence of mother parent... dang it. I'd like to eventually move on from said grieving of relationship please. Problem is, I would make a wish, but at this point don't know what to wish for. Exactly. Sort of have a wish "cloud", which is currently over the head, and raining a bit. Better than shotgun caps through the knee. Could be worse.

But I do want to "have" something. Something that would incubate for a few months and something I'm pretty sure would have a name. I'm against the clock. Dang it.

Sadly,

2009-11-14T20:54:00.000-05:00

academia is not glamorous.

But this kind of is. Sort of.

Kitties and monkeys

2009-11-09T23:36:00.009-05:00

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.

2009-11-09T11:04:00.000-05:00

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

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

2009-11-07T01:29:00.001-05:00

Damn. Piss up a rope is already taken.

We are obviously not in New York

2009-11-05T02:01:00.004-05:00

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.

2009-11-04T21:13:00.003-05:00

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.

2009-10-30T22:43:00.002-04:00

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

2009-10-30T01:30:00.002-04:00

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

And this. Wow.

2009-10-28T19:56:00.003-04:00

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

2009-10-25T23:43:00.005-04:00

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