Saturday, December 30, 2006
In the steam, you disappear. I feel your presence only by knowing. You sit before me until you vanish; hot clouds dissolve us into vapour. Your strong sensuality, like a sensate Zeus, yet you become a phantom. Until I am alone. When the hot breathe of air presses in on me your hands rest on mine, our knees touch. Two figures of naked skin streaming as the steam subsides. It was in the room you built, this womb of steam from which we emerge wet and hot into the cold air of the welcoming night.
We are clothed in the streaming truth of
the night sky, its melting snow.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Only I do.
This I cannot escape from. Every moment is writing.
The world I interact with is composed of lights and planes and shadows, of sounds and textures, of feelings and thoughts, of people and events. Every moment is intimate.
The life that I live demands that I read it continually. That I be agile, open, dancing. That I maintain a strong sense of self while being loving, caring, gentle, giving. That I find where the light froths and bubbles with incandescence. That I fill my days with laughter inbetween the tears and furies.
Last night, amidst the usual family crises that occur over the holiday season, with many thoughts about the way we compose ourselves for ourselves and for each other, I thought, seriously, at least half of us are quite mad, barely rational, while the other half are caretakers, angels who hold us together.
But, then, I don't want to be like that, thinking those thoughts, and so I swept all such considerations away, leaving my mind a great expansive ocean. Meditation keeps me balanced. Always the vast emptiness. The silent bliss. Surely we are each everything, dark irrationalities and the stuff of radiance. All six billion of us. So toasting this mad, crazy ravage of love that we are on the earth!
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
My first husband accused me of changing every year. Ah, mid-70s?
Do we transform into different versions of ourselves as we age through the years?
It's the brain cells that are most magnificent, the way they are born, live, die and somehow pass on their information, their memories, to the new crop, and they do this continually throughout our lives.
All the cells in the body maintain the structure of the whole of us by keeping their processes going.
But transmitting memory,
and who knows how, is a feat, a miracle.
Is this why the brain is perhaps structured like a grammar? With syntax and a lexography? So that it can write itself into the future?
Sunday, December 17, 2006
It's like there is sand or something in my eye. So I'm typing with my eyes shut. Blindly groping in the darkness behind my lids, talking to you, my readers, whoever you are...
There are changes in my life, and more coming. I really can't explain what they are. Movement, but also settling in. Establishing directions for the near and far future. Odd, obverse things that we intuit but find it hard to speak of.
An image of myself spinning slowly while my life unwinds through time...
I'm here, touching the keys, staying connected.
But I feel as if I'm floating on the other side of the star system.
Yesterday I took my dog on a very long walk to Mountain Co-op and there is a small blister in the very centre of my foot, in front of the arch. And when I stand and press down I can feel the little dome and it's like a homing signal reminding me to touch down, to feel the ground.
My life operates on trust.
Sometimes I'm winging it somewhere across the galaxies though.
Why not float in space for a bit?
I was watching, The Lover, the movie of Marguerite Duras' novel, and while it's beautifully rendered somehow it lacks the poetry of her writing even though there is a voice-over (in an English accent, which doesn't work for me, but ah well). She wrote that book, it's autobiographial, when she was 70!
There was a lot of lovemaking and my daughter came in and so I turned it off. Now that she's in her room writing in her journal and drawing (oh, we are so alike!) I wonder if it's worth watching to the end? It's like, okay, look at the scenery, feel the heat, and there was no more to add. The book is beautiful. Her writing is stunning, as it always is. No-one like Duras.
But I am babbling!
I knew my posts were going to change, but I didn't know how to come back to them.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Monsieur is an amalgam of the men I've loved/love... you know that!
But even amalgamated Monsieurs like secrecy.
For the last month I've been working at a very busy central switchboard at the executive level in a corporate bank, only a 7 hour day, but exhaustion! The board rooms, the expensively appointed dining rooms, the clients, meetings, parties. In a fish bowl. Asked always to wear a suit, be polished. Come home late, 8pm after walking my doggy, too tired to think, let alone talk or be with my daughter or help her with difficult homework assignments. Not to complain, it's money for gifts, and hopefully to move to a larger apartment (I pay rent and storage each month so can afford a better place just need the last month's rent, which this job should provide).
I was writing a book, though, when I accepted the assignment. Let me tell you, with will power, anything's possible. Almost all of the book, with the exception of the first bit, was written during coffee breaks or on lunch: work like crazy with calls piling up on the phones and then work like crazy on breaks writing in Second Cup, or one of the exquisitely appointed rooms high in that bank tower overlooking the lake. Enter whatever I wrote that evening when I was too tired to think or do much more than move my fingers over the keyboard.
Yesterday I took sick. Hot flushes and cold spells, perhaps pushing myself too hard. I came home early, went to bed. Today I've stayed in my jammies, resting, sleeping, warding off a sore throat, the flu. I just finished a 2.5 hour meditation that I did mostly on my back and feel greatly cleared. Bliss is restoring itself in me.
In a day or so when I recoup, I hope editing opens up. I just found out that I'm at the job until the end of the year, which is very good news.
It's blessings all round.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Serpents of protection.
Am I hallucinating?
Dozens of gold snakes cling to me, pour over my undulating arms, wrap around my curving belly as I shimmy and gyrate to the sensuous rhythms of flute and sitar.
I am possessed. The writhing waterfall of coppery snakes stream while I hold earth lightning in my hands like the Minoan Snake Goddess. I can't stop dancing. I writhe and undulate and spin like a whirling wind, a belly dancer, a dervish, a dakini.
I am the lady of serpents.
Everywhere they slither and coil, opening deep chthonic mysteries, an energy of creativity that persists despite inner dissentions, or the envy of the other.
The face of envy on the dance floor is a mass of dry, dead hair, an austere, thin frame, a rigid torso that wiggles without sensuality, or warmth, the cruelty exposed. Its breath re-inhaled, the fumes. Unable to prevent. Incapable of damaging. Useless flap of useless motion. Rendered impotent, powerless.
Today the dictator died; the despot is deposed.1
Afterwards the cries and laughter of freedom rise to the skies.
1I wrote this the day Pinochet died.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Only about 17,000 words and perhaps 60 pages, and most of you haven't a clue what's been going on I'm sure, but I am drawing it to a close.
Who knows if it'll be back to regular programming or not at Rubies in Crystal?
Life is so different now.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
On that day, the light that bathed the world was visionary. The sun shone with a relentless determination against the cold. I shivered in your arms. We stood in the weak Winter light receiving its lucent blessing. Even when the earth tilts and we are far away, the sun illumines us.
In your embrace, I am illumined.
Is love always a revelation?
Or is it the underlying synthesis of existence, what we are founded on, what keeps the mystery unfolding from its nascence? Is love what embraces us or what we continually strive for? Is love a substrata that we can align ourselves with, open ourselves to, if we could clarify our vision?
Is the universe a pulsation of love?
Is love light, what is evident, or the deeper hidden energy of creation?
Surely, mon amor, love is all this and more.
I know my love for you by my passion for you.
Monsieur, yes, of course I understand what romantic love is, and it's capricious, dependent on sexual passion, it's created out of desire and obsession, fantasy and the colliding of bodies in ecstasies.
It's not the stability of secure love, the compassion of creation, what is strong and unyielding in its devotion to life. The foundation is mother-love, flowing sustenance, support, what is at the depths.
When I meditate I meditate into that flow, reality, substrata, vision.
Then the molecules that comprise our reality sing of love. Existence vibrates with unifying energies of love, the life force itself. Who could not respond with bliss?
To meditate is to dip into an energy of ecstasy and re-emerge cleansed and energized with cynicism and pain transmuted, rinsed away.
In these moments love is complete.
When love is everywhere, and easily accessible, why do we resist its flow? What causes us to shut ourselves off, slam the doors, refuse?
Why are we often hostile to each other? Hurt, wound, maim, destroy.
Is it because, even with love's promise, there is no eternity?
When she isn't swearing at the ocean, she is at her computer, blandishing other writers. Everyone is a threat; she battles everyone. No-one is safe.
Monsieur, you fell into that place of great chaos in me.
I didn't know if we could continue. When you left it was okay because none of the difficulties had to be faced.
Why are we always escaping each other?
I wished to write a conventional letter of love, Monsieur. But all I've managed are fragments and far too many questions on the nature of love itself.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
At the seashore she shouted incoherently to herself and flung handfuls of sand into the air.
Sand from a beach so white it was like the pause between paragraphs.
I wanted to make it over the event horizon this time,
to get desire past fantasy into the real.
But I couldn't.
In the angry, cold wind at the bus stop sand blew in my eyes.
My eyes filled with tears, the world of bright sun became unfocused.
When I stepped on the bus, my collar was wet with salt tears. The bus driver was concerned, 'How are you this morning? It's cold.' 'Yes, and that high wind blew sand into my eye - I'm not crying,' I laughed, 'it's okay.' And he smiled and closed the door and pulled the bus out into the traffic.
You are a floater, tumbleweed, a fellow nomad.
How could it be any different?
The point in the tracks where the switcher is.
You pulled it and we separated;
or, you went off elsewhere.
it frightened me.
The trainyard was
a terrible vision
of the conventional.
I am responsible
for the manoeuver
that caused the
The trains sometimes run beside the ocean and she was there, skeletal,
antique black lace gown, shrieking,
You said all your women are possessive
and you had to hide them
from each other.
Monsieur, what you are suggesting is so unexpected, and breaks all the rules of jousting.
Deleuze knows: we cannot be anything other than rhizomatic nomads.
I sit at the switchboard, connecting people, transferring calls.
All day I do this.
into the unknown.
What carries us though?
How do we rise each day
and move with such agility.
I'm not sure how I breathe,
eat, walk, see or hear, how my heart beats,
let alone write my way through
What is talent? What is the muse?
Why do we have to make art, create
businesses, produce culture, perpetually
shape our world?
This morning is full of
This morning you are too far
away to share in this conversation
Monsieur, when you pull away after an event, trip, workshop, conference, when you say, let's just be friends, or let's take a break, or suddenly stop writing erotic notes, it is clear you are pursuing other interests.
How can you not know of the transparency?
With your worldly desire for encounters, I offer you up without complaint to your pursuit and conquest.
When it ends I may not be here, and that's a risk, but you don't care at departure (you have your eyes set elsewhere, mon cher).
But then, somehow I remain.
Only you could not know the complexity underneath, the way resistances and acceptances flow chaotically. Loyalty, consistency, these are crucial, yes, but, ultimately love rules over everything.
You are a good man, Monsieur, and you love me, I know that.
In your absence I don't stop loving you.
I explore the configurations of desire in a mutable world of connections.
Shades of love
in an over-bright world.
Is love ever found
in the glare?
Monsieur, stop! I have never laid
claim to you.
Nor shall I ever.
No, I've never said, mon homme, mon amour, you're mine.
What a strange idea, Monsieur!
How opposite to the way I am. Impermanence rules!
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
As if a fever broke.
In the shower, warm water pouring over me but as if I came in from the storm somewhere out in the wilderness. The steamy fog unrolled itself and you found me sipping morning coffee and we talked.
Of uncertainty and even though decisions were made I felt they were also being unmade and that endings were beginnings.
Can the paint on the canvas be unpainted? Or must we whitewash and re-paint? Will sandpaper take it off? Could I sand myself to an essence, a place of blank openness, the untouched whiteness of the beginning?
To forgive is not to condone, to allow the same behaviour to continue, the patterns to play out their relentless rhythms.
I forgive myself.
For being there: for being hurt or hurting.
That is all we can do.
It is so precarious, day after day,
these inner desires, meltings,
The Mirror I Don't Want to Hold Up
Do I pick men who can't make a commitment, unattached, single, deliciously attractive, brilliant, because then I don't have to?
How many years did it take me to learn how to spell commitment? It was the word I balked on, always. Entrapment. Then I had to become liquid and be what he wanted.
Commitment is a deep promise.
Not ownership; not possession. I can make a deep promise to love you unconditionally and with futurity.
Whoever you are.
In what ways are we culpable?
In what ways do we cause the events that befall us?
How often do we set up situations that implode and then we can disappear back into our lethargies. Perhaps whining; perhaps blaming; perhaps only sad.
If I look deeply at the words I spew forth I find hidden pins, off-putting things, tiny hisses and flashes, not quite the blinding spitting snake, but almost. Or do I exaggerate?
Sometimes I prevent myself from having what I most want. It's a determination against myself.
What can I say, Monsieur? I am a complex woman.
I am trapped in my own fears, fears which disperse and vanish like fog in the gleaming sun when confronted.
Fears don't like to be faced: they hide; they lie; they rationalize; they obfuscate.
Like insects fleeing the light in the night on the counters of an old kitchen.
When I decided to obsess about writing the way I do a lover, I stopped sleeping. Now I keep my notebook with its empty white sheets beside me to write blindly in the night with a pencil without looking.
Words that flow in the symbolic between the imaginal and the real.
Reflecting and shaping.
All day, euphoric and tired,
such nights of intense love-making.
It was a small sea-breaker, Monsieur. But love flowed over it.
An ocean of love that could not be
Monday, December 04, 2006
But this is how I deal with my capricious interior.
Even with falling away, I remain close.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
What's in the white spaces?
Is it a white font of writing that curses us? Hidden writing that... She talks under her breath, muttering, blaming; I hear her the way one hears the ocean in a seashell held up to one's ear. In those spaces between the blocks of black words.
Especially when I see virid and cinnabar feathers lying about, and can hear the swishing of the endless sea foam beneath her squawking, the way she belittles us.
A burqua of white around my head, the snowy landscape. The purity of the whole unbroken light, its whiteness.
I don't think so.
Once she was back in her unkempt house, where she was looked after until she regained her strength, the tirades began again. She said she was living out of a dumpster which was of course ludicrous. She lashed out at anyone who was younger, brighter, more beautiful. Which was most of the women in the world since she was old and on the decline.
The black habits continued. Dark and flapping with a cane at the seashore, she looked like a nun. Except for the florid red lipstick, the crimson suede gloves, the cherry red French lace petticoat under the thick layers of black burlap when the wind blew.
Friday, December 01, 2006
In the distance to the East, look, the mist is broiling into a squall and the water froths with whitecaps and it looks as if the turbulent sky has fallen into the water, their boundaries disturbed.
Elsewhere, patches of snake green appear and disappear on the surface of the water according to the whims of the fleeting sky.
The winds blow the mist at velocities I can only imagine. What appears like steam billows past the window at race neck speeds.
Despite the rippling shoulders and back of the lake, the harbours in the islands are still. Like moments of meditation.
I think of letters and numbers, words and money, invisible, flowing, like the continuous traffic on the highways splayed out before me in all directions, transferring, shaping. Do we corrode the landscape with our civilization?
From the Island View Room with its antiques and Persian carpet high in the corporate bank tower the sky is an opague pale grey; it has stopped raining but is thickly overcast.
In the distance the Scarborough Bluffs are lit by sun and look like the white walls of a white city of vision.
How do we fit into the landscape we have so crudely carved?
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
The corona of the sun is hidden.
There are no sun spots today; no solar flares, no solar storms.
The world is quiet. Lying under a blanket of mist. The wind is absent. If the birds fly, they fly blindly.
Do you have your fog lights on as you make your way along the snaking highways? Somebody stops or swerves in the flow of cars and there is a pile-up. Buckled metal and torn and broken lives, but not yours. You are caught in the stopped and slowed traffic and are late.
Not to meet me, but the others.
I am behind the fog.
Am I seeing anything other than dim forms and whiteness?
Today envy wore black hair and a black blazer with a red chiffon blouse and a smiling demeanour in the office tower that could be anywhere in the world.
The time went by too quickly.
When I saw the date, I knew.
It was very strange, this feeling.
I could not know what it was all about.
But I knew the day was significant.
It had arrived; such long waiting, and now it was here.
What did it mean?
Sometimes I feel like the woman in the sea-cottage who holds the tide-line tight in her hands. Then I don't drift in and out like the moon-pulled sea; then I remain, present.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Yet you are a wild man.
When you strip your clothes, the frenzy begins. How can such passion hide under a veneer smooth as the pin stripes in a suit?
I remember, and am awakening. Erotic energy rises like smoldering bush fire. In your absence.
For you are not here, only there.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Do I hallucinate you? Who are you?
My hallucination of nature doesn't agree with your hallucination, that's all. Or to you it's not a hallucination, but reality, and you strengthen your position with references to nature writers and by being in a group who believe similarly.
Except it isn't. Reality, I mean. You're taking a position on reality, writing your own essay of it, complete with a thesis statement. Only it's all your thoughts on it, a master narrative, if you will, that continually runs through your mind shaping what you see according to the story you carry.
Which is fine, is good. We'd go mad without our stories. They cohere us, put us in social and historical context; they organize reality for us.
Reality probably needs organizing! For all I know about it.
Everything we can say about Nature, the original substratum, the wilderness is constructed.
Sure, bring the sun in. We don't know what 'sun' is anyway. It's just a word!
Whatever that is in what we call sky is not sun, light, right, might, sol invictus, or illumina...
Culture creates the overlay.
The overlay enables us to all live together, but it isn't true.
Can I burn under the artificial sun
in the Turbine Hall of the Tate Museum in London?
Will the fog
of the weather project
Friday, November 24, 2006
"I don't find anything out there. I find my own relation to the spaces. We see nature with our cultivated eyes. Again, there is no true nature, there is only your and my construct."
You say the wilderness you walk in every day exists.
But you have named every tree, shrub, bird, insect. You move through a wilderness of labels, of theories of ecosystems, of words and images that describe it. You cohere this experience of wilderness; without you, it wouldn't exist.
How can we see but through our own perceptions? A trained and honed perceptual apparatus with its own caring, ethic and aesthetic.
Could we stumble blindly through the bush --- what would we see?
What of the feral child's experience of the wilderness --- raised by wolves, who move by scent and on all fours, who tear at the beating body of fur and blood with bared teeth?
There is only the subjective, the relational. How can there be an objective universe?
We create the world we live in.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Within the film of my life I create the story I am living.
That story also shapes outer events. The world coheres to my version of it.
Do you understand that
is a mass hallucination?
That we have agreed
to hallucinate it this way
and we teach our children.
Referring to what is just out of reach. Emotion, idea, situation, description, always approximating, never fully expressing what they create and shape. We are not feral. Culture moves through us, syncopates its rhythms in us, punctuates us.
veils of words and images drifting over the world
When the winds subsided they stabilized her with intravenous fluids, medication. They checked her blood, ran a CAT scan, an MRI. In her stupour, she relented.
I could feel the tension of resistance dissipate and she became like a boxing glove gone limp. The stuffing disappeared. She could no longer hit; the psychic force of her anger gone.
Her black dress lay on the floor, salty and ragged. She looked strangely newborn in her hospital green gown. Unlike herself.
Only her fingernails were glaring red.
Would it build again, the tempest?
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
If you discard me, or appear to, for you never actually do, I am comfortable; if you don't, I panic, sending dozens of invisible arrows to scare you off, so you will shy away. My mixed messages, subliminal. No, I do not always do this knowingly. I'd like to stop, if only I knew how.
For me to be still, and not flee in every other thought, and be your woman is most difficult, even if I am perhaps your woman.
Capture terrifes me.
Like conventional relationships.
Love that is richly fantasized, and remains. Approaching but never arriving. Hidden in each other's lives. Intimacy, this dance of closeness. Which can't settle.
Can we roam through each other's hearts
like oceanic tides?
Monday, November 20, 2006
What is to keep her from sweeping out to sea, her black dress like a murder of crows flying about her?
Her eyes are lit with terror as the water rises, foaming.
She shrieks at the turbulent sky; her voice joins the screaming winds.
She is thin and flaps like a scarecrow.
She stands on an outcrop. The water swirls around her feet, but doesn’t wash her away. The rock holds her safe.
Her face a venom of fury
when she sees me.
What is it she desires?
Sunday, November 19, 2006
In this silence in which I wait.
You cannot know, mon homme chéri.
For I do not wish to burden you.
A relational line, a trajectory, a specific set of connections, patterns, motions into. Fire of desire. The threads extinguish themselves in the smoldering flame. What is moving towards erases itself as it burns, charred, blown away in the wind.
Will you catch me?
Or will you let me pass by?
Money is the mediating transmission of the world we have created for our inhabitation.
Money flows as invisibly as language through the atmosphere, roaming the globe, making our world, enabling us to live, eat, work, support ourselves, our families, each other.
Money transferred to luxury cushions us against the harsh elements.
Money is our mediatrix.
The earth turns on its axis but the world turns on money, capital that sloshes through the global markets with the force of the daily oceanic tides.
Investment is risky; art is risky. Of course there is the rote way, the safe way through the tried and true, but that’s not where the excitement is, nor the gains. Do we invest in our talent?
Phrases, sentences, paragraphs, flowing, flowing, on and on. Picked up and read, retained momentarily. Onward, joining, dispersing, shoals of words, tides of words, flowing through our consciousnesses, into our ears, our eyes, and out of our lips, from our fingertips.
The weave of words that weaves our world, shaping it into familiar patterns, without which it would all fall apart and yet which like a membrane separates us from reality. Mimicry. Artistry. Telling us how to see, how to be. The language that shapes us, shaping. Weave of words sculpting.
Is inseparable from time which structures us, organizes us into communal cohesion.
Who cares if we are carriers of the word, transmitters of culture?
The intimacy of love sighing, your lips
kissing you, I
melt in your mouth
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Like a streak of fish, a discourse of signifiers referring to each other, signifiers whose identities are only their relations to other signifiers, an entire system mediating reality.
The colour; the ocean.
Floating like thought.
The discourse into which we are born is a discourse of love, at the depths. Never mind the story.
Love creates itself.
What else do we need?
Thursday, November 16, 2006
As I move somnolently through the world of banking and investment, I hear hissing. It is like my muse is calling. In this number-drenched world of income, or how we survive communally.
Do an aesthetic of art and an aesthetic of finance arise from the same roots?
What does the Gorgon want? Why is she imaging here?
Writhing, coiling in these numbered halls
papered with endless account statements...
No-one emerged unscathed.
She rose, a soot-blackened woman, from the fine layers of silted taupe ashes, with scorched feet, able to see in all directions.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Can I see myself as you would see me?
The gaze is whose gaze? And what is desire, Monsieur?
Desire is more than a fantasy; it is a will towards, a propulsion. Desire materializes us.
Eros is flowing differently now, the topography's changed, or the flow of the meridians is irrigating me differently.
Desire materializes us only to
It's a paradox, mon amor.
I incarnate deeply into my errogenous body
as I disperse under your touch, turn molten.
Until we are nothing
lit by each other's passion.
But I imagine this, Monsieur. In the space of desire where my fantasies enact.