the vast ocean moves
far off from my home
and little squirrels
at my feet flicker their tails
and I wonder, how quiet
both are, standing in the drifts
of time
never worry
when the storm begins
one day, the cloud of death
comes over you
just as quickly
as the squirrel’s step
over your toe
and the ocean wave
like a blanket over your face
looking up at the sky
from the shore
flashes of lightning
all illumined
then gone
Friday, October 8, 2010
Friday, October 16, 2009
Experiment with Symbols
Today, I selected three cards from my tarot deck. Three holy-shit-powerful cards. On the first try, too. I'm impressed with myself. Once, a tarot reader/clairvoyant made me select a number of cards, many of which were also major arcana cards. She immediately asked me if I did "spiritual work." A little, I said, lying out of either false modesty or embarrassment. I forget. I was too spaced out in those days to remember. And by spaced out I mean I was not functioning normally. I wasn't leading a normal life. I was hidden away in my dingy apartment reading theory and being isolated. Utterly miserable. I'm so glad I will never be like that again.
Anyway, back to this experiment. I will see what happens for the rest of the day. Get back later with an interpretation.
I also had a dream the other night that I don't want to talk about for fear of reprisal from the gods. Seriously. I believe in that stuff.
Anyway, back to this experiment. I will see what happens for the rest of the day. Get back later with an interpretation.
I also had a dream the other night that I don't want to talk about for fear of reprisal from the gods. Seriously. I believe in that stuff.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Unfnished
I don’t care how much work I have and how hard my boss is breathing down my neck. This is just too terrible to ignore.
Nelly Arcan, 35, an author and public figure here in Québec is dead. And I can’t get her out of my head.
She touched me with her novel, Putain (Whore). Not so much because of the content, i.e., the story, mostly autobiographical, of a university student who turns to prostitution to quell an insatiable desire to seduce, and secondarily to pay off school, but because of its larger implications. Sounding the bell for a sort of impalpable and generalized suffering experienced by most women in a culture that consumes women’s bodies like cupcakes, sweet and tasty, but over-with after a couple of bites, Nelly Arcan was the writer of her own passion, bearing the torch as courageously and intelligently as she possibly could, scratching incessantly below the surface, and if not making the wound larger, at least making it somewhat tolerable…
In her last on-line column with local newspaper ICI, there is no sign of a tormented being on the verge of suicide. Rather, she jokingly talks about a sangria-filled afternoon with a friend, and of the huge detour the friend drags her on so as to avoid the revolting fish smells of the local Portuguese market. The writing is witty, as usual, bemused, even funny, evoking the evolutionary riddle of how it has come to be that the smell of someone else’s fart always causes serious, grounds-for-break-up repulsion, and yet how one can luxuriate in one’s own gluey stench in front of the TV for hours without thinking twice about it.
…
And if I could talk to her, I would say, Nelly, it’s okay, you don’t have to be afraid of looking normal, of being alone, of not having children, even of that bottomless pit of a wound that you have that miraculously transforms itself into a voice, a lovely voice, one that speaks the truth, and sees clearly, and makes women proud of you; you don’t have to go that way down the path of eternal unforgiveness of yourself and non-acceptance and loneliness and being misunderstood. You can leave it behind, by choice, you can laugh yourself out of it, you can have more sangria with your friends, keep on trying to teach moronic interviewers, who live intellectually above their means, how to think; French-kiss girls just for the hell of it cuz you ran out of smokes; get all the guys in the bar to armwrestle with you so you can show off how strong you’ve become with your personal trainer and time at the gym; it’s all good. You do not have to die. You don’t. Please don’t. You’re too talented, and wonderful, and yourself. And your death will make me weep at my computer because you didn’t deserve it. Not you. Even though you did it to yourself. You didn’t deserve the way the eternal magazine covers freaked you out in the end, making you think you were nothing, making you think you only deserved to disappear into nothing, because you weren’t good enough, because the viscera of being trapped under your skin finally got you. If that is what it is that got you. Because, I don’t know obviously. And no one can. But there is my echo to your suffering, which of course always, always comes too late.
Nelly Arcan, 35, an author and public figure here in Québec is dead. And I can’t get her out of my head.
She touched me with her novel, Putain (Whore). Not so much because of the content, i.e., the story, mostly autobiographical, of a university student who turns to prostitution to quell an insatiable desire to seduce, and secondarily to pay off school, but because of its larger implications. Sounding the bell for a sort of impalpable and generalized suffering experienced by most women in a culture that consumes women’s bodies like cupcakes, sweet and tasty, but over-with after a couple of bites, Nelly Arcan was the writer of her own passion, bearing the torch as courageously and intelligently as she possibly could, scratching incessantly below the surface, and if not making the wound larger, at least making it somewhat tolerable…
In her last on-line column with local newspaper ICI, there is no sign of a tormented being on the verge of suicide. Rather, she jokingly talks about a sangria-filled afternoon with a friend, and of the huge detour the friend drags her on so as to avoid the revolting fish smells of the local Portuguese market. The writing is witty, as usual, bemused, even funny, evoking the evolutionary riddle of how it has come to be that the smell of someone else’s fart always causes serious, grounds-for-break-up repulsion, and yet how one can luxuriate in one’s own gluey stench in front of the TV for hours without thinking twice about it.
…
And if I could talk to her, I would say, Nelly, it’s okay, you don’t have to be afraid of looking normal, of being alone, of not having children, even of that bottomless pit of a wound that you have that miraculously transforms itself into a voice, a lovely voice, one that speaks the truth, and sees clearly, and makes women proud of you; you don’t have to go that way down the path of eternal unforgiveness of yourself and non-acceptance and loneliness and being misunderstood. You can leave it behind, by choice, you can laugh yourself out of it, you can have more sangria with your friends, keep on trying to teach moronic interviewers, who live intellectually above their means, how to think; French-kiss girls just for the hell of it cuz you ran out of smokes; get all the guys in the bar to armwrestle with you so you can show off how strong you’ve become with your personal trainer and time at the gym; it’s all good. You do not have to die. You don’t. Please don’t. You’re too talented, and wonderful, and yourself. And your death will make me weep at my computer because you didn’t deserve it. Not you. Even though you did it to yourself. You didn’t deserve the way the eternal magazine covers freaked you out in the end, making you think you were nothing, making you think you only deserved to disappear into nothing, because you weren’t good enough, because the viscera of being trapped under your skin finally got you. If that is what it is that got you. Because, I don’t know obviously. And no one can. But there is my echo to your suffering, which of course always, always comes too late.
Monday, September 14, 2009
The Split
Today is the day that my son leaves home. He is only a year and a half, and already his path is winding its way into the outer world. Granted, he’s only going two streets over to the home daycare until 3:30, but still, it feels like he has left.
And last night was not great. After having awoken in a bed other than mine in his dim night-lighted room, he was upset. He started jumping up and down on his crib mattress, screaming, his monosyllabic complaints having turned into yelps then into wails. Nonchalantly deciding it was time to go in and check on him, I went into his room and held out my arms to take him out from behind his crib bars. He was still screaming, so I took him to our bedroom as usual, to sleep with me for the rest of the night. But this time, he didn’t stop screaming, as I went to put him on the bed; and I noticed something was wrong with his little mouth. In the dim light of our room, I inspected the little lips and teeth more closely; they were darker than usual as he thrashed his head from side to side. Then I saw that his teeth were more defined, outlined by a darker substance than saliva; his mouth was full of blood.
I panicked and ran down the stairs with him in my arms, yelling for my husband, “Hon, Hon! Come here.” Olivier ran up from the basement, “What’s wrong?!”– “Look, he’s bleeding!” Olivier told me to calm and got a facecloth and moistened it. He wiped Vito’s mouth clean and tried to peer into it, lifting his upper lip; too in pain and upset to be manipulated, Vito clung to me tightly, turning his head away from his father, screaming and crying.
Luckily, he had probably just split his lip while jumping up and down behind the crib bars.
It was one of the worst feelings ever, to have your son cry and hang on to you with all his strength, only to be unable to know what exactly is wrong with him; and the remorse of knowing that you had not rushed faster to his side to comfort him. And to know that you always come so close to misunderstanding your own flesh and blood: the anguish of the little body telling you he is afraid and alone and wants to be near you, summarized by the split lip and the bloody teeth. His blood and tears left printed on your white nightgown.
And last night was not great. After having awoken in a bed other than mine in his dim night-lighted room, he was upset. He started jumping up and down on his crib mattress, screaming, his monosyllabic complaints having turned into yelps then into wails. Nonchalantly deciding it was time to go in and check on him, I went into his room and held out my arms to take him out from behind his crib bars. He was still screaming, so I took him to our bedroom as usual, to sleep with me for the rest of the night. But this time, he didn’t stop screaming, as I went to put him on the bed; and I noticed something was wrong with his little mouth. In the dim light of our room, I inspected the little lips and teeth more closely; they were darker than usual as he thrashed his head from side to side. Then I saw that his teeth were more defined, outlined by a darker substance than saliva; his mouth was full of blood.
I panicked and ran down the stairs with him in my arms, yelling for my husband, “Hon, Hon! Come here.” Olivier ran up from the basement, “What’s wrong?!”– “Look, he’s bleeding!” Olivier told me to calm and got a facecloth and moistened it. He wiped Vito’s mouth clean and tried to peer into it, lifting his upper lip; too in pain and upset to be manipulated, Vito clung to me tightly, turning his head away from his father, screaming and crying.
Luckily, he had probably just split his lip while jumping up and down behind the crib bars.
It was one of the worst feelings ever, to have your son cry and hang on to you with all his strength, only to be unable to know what exactly is wrong with him; and the remorse of knowing that you had not rushed faster to his side to comfort him. And to know that you always come so close to misunderstanding your own flesh and blood: the anguish of the little body telling you he is afraid and alone and wants to be near you, summarized by the split lip and the bloody teeth. His blood and tears left printed on your white nightgown.
Friday, September 11, 2009
The Proust Questionnaire
Ma vertu préférée
La générosité de l'esprit
Le principal trait de mon caractère
La détermination
La qualité que je préfère chez les hommes
La virilité
La qualité que je préfère chez les femmes
La sincérité
Mon principal défaut
Le manque d'attention
Ma principale qualité
La patience
Ce que j’apprécie le plus chez mes amis
L'absence de jugement
Mon occupation préférée
Le jeu d'acteur
Mon rêve de bonheur
( je n'ose pas le dire par superstition)
Quel serait mon plus grand malheur ?
De perdre ma famille
A part moi -même qui voudrais-je être ?
Madonna
Où aimerais-je vivre ?
En Irelande, dans le nord de l'Ontario, ou dans un village en France
La couleur que je préfère
Le vert
La fleur que j’aime
Le lys
L’oiseau que je préfère
Le héron
Mes auteurs favoris en prose
Joan Didion, Paul Auster
Mes poètes préférés
Michael Oondatjee
Mes héros dans la fiction
Antoine (version de Shakespeare)
Mes héroïnes favorites dans la fiction
Antigone
Mes compositeurs préférés
Bach, Beethoven, Schubert
Mes peintres préférés
Michel Pleau, le Groupe des sept, Rembrandt
Mes héros dans la vie réelle
Noam Chomsky
Mes héroïnes préférées dans la vie réelle
Louise Arbour, Lucille Teasdale
Mes héros dans l’histoire
Sitting Bull
Ma nourriture et boisson préférée
La bière, le poulet rôti et la cuisine française
Ce que je déteste par-dessus tout
La violation des droits humains pour le profit
Le personnage historique que je n’aime pas
Pinochet, Nixon, Mulroney
Les faits historiques que je méprise le plus
Le génocide des amérindiens
Le fait militaire que j’estime le plus
La défaite des nazis
La réforme que j’estime le plus
Celle d'Obama en matière du système de santé américain
Le don de la nature que je voudrais avoir
Une fine taille
Comment j’aimerais mourir
Très vieille dans mon lit ou dans mon jardin de fleurs
L’état présent de mon esprit
Le bonheur
La faute qui m’inspire le plus d’indulgence
Boire de la bière
Ma devise
Toujours plus
La générosité de l'esprit
Le principal trait de mon caractère
La détermination
La qualité que je préfère chez les hommes
La virilité
La qualité que je préfère chez les femmes
La sincérité
Mon principal défaut
Le manque d'attention
Ma principale qualité
La patience
Ce que j’apprécie le plus chez mes amis
L'absence de jugement
Mon occupation préférée
Le jeu d'acteur
Mon rêve de bonheur
( je n'ose pas le dire par superstition)
Quel serait mon plus grand malheur ?
De perdre ma famille
A part moi -même qui voudrais-je être ?
Madonna
Où aimerais-je vivre ?
En Irelande, dans le nord de l'Ontario, ou dans un village en France
La couleur que je préfère
Le vert
La fleur que j’aime
Le lys
L’oiseau que je préfère
Le héron
Mes auteurs favoris en prose
Joan Didion, Paul Auster
Mes poètes préférés
Michael Oondatjee
Mes héros dans la fiction
Antoine (version de Shakespeare)
Mes héroïnes favorites dans la fiction
Antigone
Mes compositeurs préférés
Bach, Beethoven, Schubert
Mes peintres préférés
Michel Pleau, le Groupe des sept, Rembrandt
Mes héros dans la vie réelle
Noam Chomsky
Mes héroïnes préférées dans la vie réelle
Louise Arbour, Lucille Teasdale
Mes héros dans l’histoire
Sitting Bull
Ma nourriture et boisson préférée
La bière, le poulet rôti et la cuisine française
Ce que je déteste par-dessus tout
La violation des droits humains pour le profit
Le personnage historique que je n’aime pas
Pinochet, Nixon, Mulroney
Les faits historiques que je méprise le plus
Le génocide des amérindiens
Le fait militaire que j’estime le plus
La défaite des nazis
La réforme que j’estime le plus
Celle d'Obama en matière du système de santé américain
Le don de la nature que je voudrais avoir
Une fine taille
Comment j’aimerais mourir
Très vieille dans mon lit ou dans mon jardin de fleurs
L’état présent de mon esprit
Le bonheur
La faute qui m’inspire le plus d’indulgence
Boire de la bière
Ma devise
Toujours plus
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