It'll be ok l'il Sally.

Thanks

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.

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,

academia is not glamorous.

But this kind of is. Sort of.

Kitties and monkeys

Kitty eats with chopsticks.

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



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



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

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

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

Damn. Piss up a rope is already taken.

We are obviously not in New York

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

Oh how I've been spoiled by the Met.

sigh.

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

Essays. ugh.

chp d.r.k.

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

Must

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



And this. Wow.

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

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

He had nothing to say about that.

After reading Barbara Guest

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

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

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

Old me

Some things I used to do.

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

Mm mmm

Holy shit its a poem

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

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

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

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

What is it
what it is
not to move.

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

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

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

Goethe, Mephistopheles

I need some opera.
New York calls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be gone, empty anticipation. Welcome, forwardness.



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

Gestalt:

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

Don't even get me started on Form.

Amantes sunt amentes.