Ten minutes, early in the morning. Noises from the neighbours' plumbing interrupt the silence. It is too cold to keep the windows open or there would be no silence from the early morning traffic. There is no real silence in the city, only a distance from the main roads at which one can perceive the absence of really loud noise.
It is dark out. The dark comes earlier and stays later these days, it is that time of year again. It is time to set the clocks back soon, an act that feels like a good idea at the time until everyone realizes that it is a human act with no affect on the universe. Commerce. In rural areas they don't like the time change because the livestock react badly.
Last night I had a dream about a ball python. The situation surrounding the dream was something going not as planned, and the snake was on my person the entire time. Snakes symbolize knowledge and darkness. Dark time of year is a time to reflect on things past and learn from them. Perhaps there are no secrets in this dream at all.
Morning. Time to leave for work. Soy lives in tea, tea lives in mug, mug is attached to hand. Extra shoes in the bag for tomorrow. Tomorrow features a distinct lack of dress code clothing. Tomorrow's specials include Blue Sweater for $5.49, Yellow Flower for $3.00 and Exoticism for $10.00 (or current market value).
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Saturday, October 20, 2007
what doesn't bend breaks
What calm looks like: the throwing and slamming of things, the use of the fuck word. Irritation at simple things like light and noise but not light and noise of home, light and noise of commerce and cars, retail and reinvention of self. A need to clean house. Cleaned my closet, left me feeling vulnerable. I don't know if I want to get rid of these things. But I don't wear them. Almost like the pants that are too wide in the waist and too short but I wore them today. What part of "I used to..." doesn't fit this sentence? Pardon my calm exterior. It is fear. Vulnerability. My quiet. I do not find this relaxing. This is not my idea of a good time, nor is it my idea of a relaxing day off. I wanted to say that. Instead I kept quiet. For weeks I didn't touch my letter writing stuff because you piled it all in the middle of the table. I am particular about how it is organized - it does not live in a pile. It was a neat pile. I was paralyzed by it. How am I supposed to feel when the top of the pile is a skeleton: photo taken by exboyfriend who invited himself on my grief vacation. (But it's a good photo...) I had planned a solo vacation to re-arrange things in my head again. Now I cannot return to the same place without those memories. And sure some were good but there was too much booze and half of it was my idea because I didn't know what else to suggest and I didn't want to stay home because my emotions were not in the same place as his. I guess what I'm getting at is "I'm going to go there too" doesn't work when I've already said, "It's over." How do I be a bitter bitch? The heartbreaker by virtue of breaking hearts never gets to whine about how the end of things really made her feel. I quietly say leave me alone, you don't listen. I say fine and suck it up. I still owe you money but I don't have your current address. I haven't heard from you in months. I feel bad about that. I want to ... yet I'm living with someone else and how what went wrong went down is still haunting me. I don't like that. Doors slam around the home and things are re-arranged and put in different places and I am confused by this. They were fine where they were. I am not ready to re-arrange things.
Tranquility eludes me. I do not understand why things are done the way they are done tonight. I do not understand the lack of communication, the shut off answers when I ask questions. I wander from room to room in squashed silence - I was not squashed, I merely have less than nothing to contribute to this particular sequence of events. It is not mine yet it transpires in my house. It is not directed at me, but it occurrs in my space, in my presence, and once in a blue moon a verbal exchange is directed at my face.
A reassuring hand on my body in passing. Love. It feels so strange that the sequence of events excluded me in such a hardcore manner. I may as well not have been here. I do not feel unloved. I do not feel taken for granted like the furniture. I feel more like an observer presence. I see and hear and feel the events but have no part in them. I can tell you exactly how it went down.
Now ice cream and laughter and I do not understand the sequence of events preceeding... I do not understand the emotional transformation. I do not become edgy when the home is cluttered. It does not affect my ability to function. Out of the home pollutants of noise and sound and smell get to me. When I walk into the grocery store and the lights glare and the music is obscenely loud and the lineups are monumental and everyone pays with plastic including the dude in front of me who has to try his card three times before accepting that it isn't working... the cacophony leaves me wanting to drop my purchases where I stand and just leave. When did anywhere start creating such hostile environments? But it is not the only one. Malls play music outside of the stores and everything is brighter, shinier, more expensive to catch the eye of the consumer who has no attention span.
In the magazine shop it was silent and the lights were turned up no brighter than necessary for reading. Why can't all places of retail be places of relaxation like that? I don't want to go shopping anymore. I save major grocery shopping for Planet Organic once a week and have no desire to go out in between. I have wasted too much of my life standing in lineups for things I don't really want in hostile environments.
Peace at home is my sense of loss. Items piled on top of my sacred objects. Other sacred objects piled into a corner. I feel like I am the one in the corner. I don't live like that.
I am trying to take deep breaths and remind myself that I am loved. I don't think that's even the issue though, or perhaps even relevant. I feel vulnerable because someone else touched my stuff? As crazy as that sounds, maybe that is it. There have only ever been two things no one has touched in my life - my sacred objects and my writing utensils - because you can't put shit on top of the Koran and I don't like it when paper is piled in between envelopes. I think the first one will get you to hell and the second one just plain annoys me.
Today I have learned lots. I suppose that is the day's saving grace.
Tranquility eludes me. I do not understand why things are done the way they are done tonight. I do not understand the lack of communication, the shut off answers when I ask questions. I wander from room to room in squashed silence - I was not squashed, I merely have less than nothing to contribute to this particular sequence of events. It is not mine yet it transpires in my house. It is not directed at me, but it occurrs in my space, in my presence, and once in a blue moon a verbal exchange is directed at my face.
A reassuring hand on my body in passing. Love. It feels so strange that the sequence of events excluded me in such a hardcore manner. I may as well not have been here. I do not feel unloved. I do not feel taken for granted like the furniture. I feel more like an observer presence. I see and hear and feel the events but have no part in them. I can tell you exactly how it went down.
Now ice cream and laughter and I do not understand the sequence of events preceeding... I do not understand the emotional transformation. I do not become edgy when the home is cluttered. It does not affect my ability to function. Out of the home pollutants of noise and sound and smell get to me. When I walk into the grocery store and the lights glare and the music is obscenely loud and the lineups are monumental and everyone pays with plastic including the dude in front of me who has to try his card three times before accepting that it isn't working... the cacophony leaves me wanting to drop my purchases where I stand and just leave. When did anywhere start creating such hostile environments? But it is not the only one. Malls play music outside of the stores and everything is brighter, shinier, more expensive to catch the eye of the consumer who has no attention span.
In the magazine shop it was silent and the lights were turned up no brighter than necessary for reading. Why can't all places of retail be places of relaxation like that? I don't want to go shopping anymore. I save major grocery shopping for Planet Organic once a week and have no desire to go out in between. I have wasted too much of my life standing in lineups for things I don't really want in hostile environments.
Peace at home is my sense of loss. Items piled on top of my sacred objects. Other sacred objects piled into a corner. I feel like I am the one in the corner. I don't live like that.
I am trying to take deep breaths and remind myself that I am loved. I don't think that's even the issue though, or perhaps even relevant. I feel vulnerable because someone else touched my stuff? As crazy as that sounds, maybe that is it. There have only ever been two things no one has touched in my life - my sacred objects and my writing utensils - because you can't put shit on top of the Koran and I don't like it when paper is piled in between envelopes. I think the first one will get you to hell and the second one just plain annoys me.
Today I have learned lots. I suppose that is the day's saving grace.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Not Angry Anymore
Dear C-----,
It's been a long time. Too long. Sometimes when I'm coming home from a long day at work and it's dark and the crowds are on the streets in front of the bars I wonder if I could just walk into the Commie and find you there. You'd be with the boys talking philosophy only on closer examination one of the boys would be a 17 year old university philosophy major first year student and she'd be drinking in your words like liquid gold only to go home disappointed at the end of the night as you retreat to your piano and a glass of scotch.
I know it isn't like that these days. You aren't here anymore.
I think sometimes I've accepted that you've moved on. Some days I'm fine with it. Mostly I just miss you. You revolutionized my world from the day I was little. Remember the road trip we took to E-------- when we spent the return discussing alternative energy sources that could be found on the prairies and how it could be the next big boom? Your optimism was contagious and by the time we arrived home I was convinced we could re-conquor the world.
The new boom in S------- is actually oil. I think that motherfucking sucks, although I admit the economy could use the boost. How will the arts community cope?
Remember when we went for four days on coffee and Grandma's cookies and my writing and your big ideas? I idolized you then and in a sense I still do now. It started when I was 16 or so and you were thinking outside the box and it gave me hope. Every time I wanted to slit my wrists I went deeper into my own dark places and found revolution. I'm not saying you saved my life per se, but your existence certainly made small corners of my world a whole lot brighter.
I think of you now, somewhere where the sun shines and there is always heat. Your ocean shore has replaced the wild north. I often wondered if your experience going to Uni here wasn't just the most massive culture shock ever and I've often wondered how you coped with that, where the you who meditated on clifftops fits into the you who is so full of idealism.... you'd lead an incredible revolution and at the end of it I'd be the one sitting at your feet as your fingers tickle the ivory, scotch to scotch, asking in a quiet voice if you are really alright.
Are you?
I want to know if you are okay. I have no idea what your life looks like now. I know all too well how a change of scenery and a pretty lady can alter a person's perception of everything... and I know what it means to risk it all because I do it every day of my life. I'm not sure you knew we had that in common. We do. I risk love every day. All the time. The kind of love that makes me think the M word is a possibility for my near reality. Love where there is nothing more beautiful than the sound of his voice in my ear, the hugs with no words that mean everything... I know you know what I'm talking about. You might be the only person I know who truly understands this fragile stability in the same way I do. That it is wonderful, tenuous, delicate and hell hath no fury like that directed at whomever dares fuck with this love. It is a line that is not ever to be crossed.
I'm sorry. I know I'm too harsh and judgemental sometimes, that I jump to conclusions and would rather fight with other women than be their friend. But it's the other side of that same love that gave rise to things I said, things I did, and things I left unsaid. I wish it hadn't happened as it did but I wouldn't be the person I am if I didn't..... speak my mind. Right or wrong, it is my truth. My perception, my story. Not to be judged just as I shouldn't judge. Who am I to call someone else's truth red or blue?
I'm sorry that your mum figures we've been fighting for ages, that somehow she had the impression that it went on for months. I thought it was a couple isolated incidences and then I didn't respond until I asked to be left alone in a not very nice way. Family gatherings have been tense without you but if you were to visit, when you visit, I don't expect to be invited. I don't know what I'd say if I was invited. I'd say I'm sorry and I'd mean it and I'd be accused of being insincere. It's happened already. I'd be nice and it'd be thrown back in my face. I'd be nice because I meant it. I'd reach out if I thought it'd do any good but instead I'm writing a fucking anonymous letter on a blog you probably stopped reading and... I don't know what to do. We can't just keep denying each other's existence for the rest of our lives. You were almightily influential in my life and for everything that's come of it except the not speaking I'm grateful. I have enough gratitude to tumble the pyramids. I don't know how to express it. I don't know what forum to use to scream at the top of my lungs that I love you and I miss you and I wish you'd just say something.
Maybe I wasn't that important to you. Maybe I was never anything more than something like a little sister wanting to be as cool as her older brother but never quite living up to all either of us thought I could be. I don't know.
I'm not even that sure I care.
Are you okay?
I love you you know. That isn't easy to say coming from someone who is dead to you. I never stopped loving you. I never will.
Sincerely,
J. Barrett
It's been a long time. Too long. Sometimes when I'm coming home from a long day at work and it's dark and the crowds are on the streets in front of the bars I wonder if I could just walk into the Commie and find you there. You'd be with the boys talking philosophy only on closer examination one of the boys would be a 17 year old university philosophy major first year student and she'd be drinking in your words like liquid gold only to go home disappointed at the end of the night as you retreat to your piano and a glass of scotch.
I know it isn't like that these days. You aren't here anymore.
I think sometimes I've accepted that you've moved on. Some days I'm fine with it. Mostly I just miss you. You revolutionized my world from the day I was little. Remember the road trip we took to E-------- when we spent the return discussing alternative energy sources that could be found on the prairies and how it could be the next big boom? Your optimism was contagious and by the time we arrived home I was convinced we could re-conquor the world.
The new boom in S------- is actually oil. I think that motherfucking sucks, although I admit the economy could use the boost. How will the arts community cope?
Remember when we went for four days on coffee and Grandma's cookies and my writing and your big ideas? I idolized you then and in a sense I still do now. It started when I was 16 or so and you were thinking outside the box and it gave me hope. Every time I wanted to slit my wrists I went deeper into my own dark places and found revolution. I'm not saying you saved my life per se, but your existence certainly made small corners of my world a whole lot brighter.
I think of you now, somewhere where the sun shines and there is always heat. Your ocean shore has replaced the wild north. I often wondered if your experience going to Uni here wasn't just the most massive culture shock ever and I've often wondered how you coped with that, where the you who meditated on clifftops fits into the you who is so full of idealism.... you'd lead an incredible revolution and at the end of it I'd be the one sitting at your feet as your fingers tickle the ivory, scotch to scotch, asking in a quiet voice if you are really alright.
Are you?
I want to know if you are okay. I have no idea what your life looks like now. I know all too well how a change of scenery and a pretty lady can alter a person's perception of everything... and I know what it means to risk it all because I do it every day of my life. I'm not sure you knew we had that in common. We do. I risk love every day. All the time. The kind of love that makes me think the M word is a possibility for my near reality. Love where there is nothing more beautiful than the sound of his voice in my ear, the hugs with no words that mean everything... I know you know what I'm talking about. You might be the only person I know who truly understands this fragile stability in the same way I do. That it is wonderful, tenuous, delicate and hell hath no fury like that directed at whomever dares fuck with this love. It is a line that is not ever to be crossed.
I'm sorry. I know I'm too harsh and judgemental sometimes, that I jump to conclusions and would rather fight with other women than be their friend. But it's the other side of that same love that gave rise to things I said, things I did, and things I left unsaid. I wish it hadn't happened as it did but I wouldn't be the person I am if I didn't..... speak my mind. Right or wrong, it is my truth. My perception, my story. Not to be judged just as I shouldn't judge. Who am I to call someone else's truth red or blue?
I'm sorry that your mum figures we've been fighting for ages, that somehow she had the impression that it went on for months. I thought it was a couple isolated incidences and then I didn't respond until I asked to be left alone in a not very nice way. Family gatherings have been tense without you but if you were to visit, when you visit, I don't expect to be invited. I don't know what I'd say if I was invited. I'd say I'm sorry and I'd mean it and I'd be accused of being insincere. It's happened already. I'd be nice and it'd be thrown back in my face. I'd be nice because I meant it. I'd reach out if I thought it'd do any good but instead I'm writing a fucking anonymous letter on a blog you probably stopped reading and... I don't know what to do. We can't just keep denying each other's existence for the rest of our lives. You were almightily influential in my life and for everything that's come of it except the not speaking I'm grateful. I have enough gratitude to tumble the pyramids. I don't know how to express it. I don't know what forum to use to scream at the top of my lungs that I love you and I miss you and I wish you'd just say something.
Maybe I wasn't that important to you. Maybe I was never anything more than something like a little sister wanting to be as cool as her older brother but never quite living up to all either of us thought I could be. I don't know.
I'm not even that sure I care.
Are you okay?
I love you you know. That isn't easy to say coming from someone who is dead to you. I never stopped loving you. I never will.
Sincerely,
J. Barrett
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Persimons and dirty martinis
What's the sound: sizzle from the oven. Lights off in the fish tank, night, lights on in the living room, no red glow from the curtains on the window. Music loud, accusations of being bad neighbours. It is Thursday night. Coffee table needs to be washed down, hosed off, covered in gasoline and set alight. Shoes by the door, high heels reminiscient of 1945, navy blue, they belong to the woman in the navy dress with white polka dots. Her red lipstick is brighter than the curtains, a bit of a shine when the light hits her lips as she speaks. Her hair is finger waved perfection, brown and shiny, glossy like her eyes. She hooks a perfectly manicured finger in the pearls around her neck and rests her feet on the coffee table. She is beginning to get drunk and a dribble from her martini hits the carpet as she bends forward to put it on the table. She is telling stories about the last man she slept with, a married man who is part owner of the bar next door to where she'd been out with the girls the night before. She feels bad for his wife but she doesn't seem angry that he didn't bother to tell her he was married to the cute little nurse. Her language slowly becomes more foul as she begins to describe how their intimacy failed to thrill her. Her voice trails off as she stares after the olive in her martini. Her stockinged feet now fall gracefully to the floor, a shade different than the beige carpet. Her friend watches her, wonders where she bought the bra that gives her such amazing cleavage, wonders where the boys are tonight. Wonders where they could go within walking distance of home to pick up, wonders if they could both score on the same night. Wonders if they could score with nice boys who weren't more interested in doing a line of blow off their chests. Her friend wants to know how he could go back to his wife after she gave him a blow job and tell her he merely had a late night at work. Again. The martinis are starting to go to their heads and she asks the woman with the red lipstick if she feels like going out. Her friend looks at her like she's crazy and looks at her stockinged feet and when their eyes meet again they are giggling like schoolgirls, racing to the bathroom to fix their makeup. She shakes her head as they leave the basement apartment - they could definitely be mistaken for nice girls at first glance. They could definitely be nice girls - if they wanted to.
Monday, March 26, 2007
A Poem for Grandma
a large tree falls over in the forest
a small corner of life realigns itself
shifts
Each branch of the tree is broken
by gravity, by other objects, by sheer force, by age.
The tree no longer had strong roots.
It could no longer take in oxygen
asphixiation
That tree was there before I was born
and I knew it all through my life
there were things I would tell the tree
that I've never told another living soul.
The tree breathed gently, lived gently
in the grace of god and
She told me always, quietly, gently
that I needed to do what was right for me.
One day I walked into the forest and
the tree was no longer standing.
She had fallen. Shifted. Redirected.
She lay broken on the forest floor, shattered remnants
of her beautiful branches
scattered
I did not try to pick her up.
I knew I could not. I knew in the deepest part of my soul that this was her broken end.
I asked her spirit to leave in peace
because I knew it was the right thing to do
I felt in my heart that my request was true
Yet no mortal coil shuffling
hurts more than one we've blessed
I have not been back to the forest
in over a month
to see her wood overgrown with new spring life.
I do not know what she looks like now
or even for sure where she rests. Perhaps she has been collected.
All I know is that my dear dear friend
is missing from my life.
I know a void. It has a certain shape, a certain size.
A certain voice and a way of certain embrace.
I am left believing it was hard for her to go.
The wind tugged at her weak roots and
her leaves had trouble
taking in oxygen
I did not want her to stay like that.
I am angry that we could not have fixed it.
In my grief all I have to give
is my hair
all I have is to live
my life
All I know are the words
to a prayer.
a small corner of life realigns itself
shifts
Each branch of the tree is broken
by gravity, by other objects, by sheer force, by age.
The tree no longer had strong roots.
It could no longer take in oxygen
asphixiation
That tree was there before I was born
and I knew it all through my life
there were things I would tell the tree
that I've never told another living soul.
The tree breathed gently, lived gently
in the grace of god and
She told me always, quietly, gently
that I needed to do what was right for me.
One day I walked into the forest and
the tree was no longer standing.
She had fallen. Shifted. Redirected.
She lay broken on the forest floor, shattered remnants
of her beautiful branches
scattered
I did not try to pick her up.
I knew I could not. I knew in the deepest part of my soul that this was her broken end.
I asked her spirit to leave in peace
because I knew it was the right thing to do
I felt in my heart that my request was true
Yet no mortal coil shuffling
hurts more than one we've blessed
I have not been back to the forest
in over a month
to see her wood overgrown with new spring life.
I do not know what she looks like now
or even for sure where she rests. Perhaps she has been collected.
All I know is that my dear dear friend
is missing from my life.
I know a void. It has a certain shape, a certain size.
A certain voice and a way of certain embrace.
I am left believing it was hard for her to go.
The wind tugged at her weak roots and
her leaves had trouble
taking in oxygen
I did not want her to stay like that.
I am angry that we could not have fixed it.
In my grief all I have to give
is my hair
all I have is to live
my life
All I know are the words
to a prayer.
Friday, March 09, 2007
independance day
Gold and beaded jewellery
don't make it up to me
but I know you would
if you could
oh you would if you could
concrete floor cold beneath my feet
something is wrong but I
can't admit defeat
it's noting tangible and I know
you'd make it disappear
with your kisses
if you'd kiss me
any day above ground is a good day
but today is too much
I need to liberate
this mortal coil
who do you think I am?
Who do you want me to be?
because
I would if I could
you know it
if I could make everyting alright
with a simple hug
it would be so.
I don't know
anymore
maybe I never knew
anything
maybe for once I'm
wrong
or wronged?
don't make it up to me
but I know you would
if you could
oh you would if you could
concrete floor cold beneath my feet
something is wrong but I
can't admit defeat
it's noting tangible and I know
you'd make it disappear
with your kisses
if you'd kiss me
any day above ground is a good day
but today is too much
I need to liberate
this mortal coil
who do you think I am?
Who do you want me to be?
because
I would if I could
you know it
if I could make everyting alright
with a simple hug
it would be so.
I don't know
anymore
maybe I never knew
anything
maybe for once I'm
wrong
or wronged?
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
breaking in a Moleskine
It's 1 a.m.
I'm a writer and an insomniac
I can't find my pen
does that mean you're sleeping
with the enemy
I'm doing it again
it's a compulsion
it's like treachery
stuff to do
piling up in my room
but I can't seem to detach
long enough
the written world
that which cannot be heard
fills my head, consumes
the minutes tick by
into hours that fly
I've stopped asking why I
don't sleep
it's not the company I keep or
the companionship I seek
when there's pen put to paper
I grow weak
Are you still up?
I'm a writer and an insomniac
I can't find my pen
does that mean you're sleeping
with the enemy
I'm doing it again
it's a compulsion
it's like treachery
stuff to do
piling up in my room
but I can't seem to detach
long enough
the written world
that which cannot be heard
fills my head, consumes
the minutes tick by
into hours that fly
I've stopped asking why I
don't sleep
it's not the company I keep or
the companionship I seek
when there's pen put to paper
I grow weak
Are you still up?
Monday, March 05, 2007
I'm Irish. (for Bill Barrett, R.I.P.)
Do you want to know me? I asked you a question. Are you going to answer or are you too busy staring at my eyes? Yeah that's what I am. Blue eyes, black hair. I colour the hair. Sure I do shave it clean off too. You ask me, long hair only brings a woman trouble but you didn't ask me. Nobody asked me. Nobody asked me what I wanted to be. My ancestors didn't give me a fucking choice. Nobody ever handed us anything on a silver platter. We wouldn't've accepted it anyway. But that's how it goes. Take it. Nothing I have in this world I didn't make for myself. You heard me. Don't need a university education to be somebody. But being somebody won't get you through the hard times. God gets you through the hard times. Hard times? Not just people dying, stuff like that, but family things. You know what I mean. Church got us feeling so shameful we're scared to try to change the bad things because we're not good enough. So we distance ourselves from the problem, anger as a shield. You want to know where my passion comes from, my anger? Ask my ancestors. Ask why the county's not named after us anymore. Ask why we drink like fish out of water, struggling to breath. Ask why we struggle our whole lives trying to BE somebody only to find (shame shame) that it's not good enough either, it doesn't measure up. Want out of the cycle? You have to be somebody. But fame and notoriety go hand in fucking hand. My grandfather killed himself. He had it all. He made pictures of famous people. My silence in the family is his blood on my hands. You want me to suck it up? Aw princess, whatsamatter? You don't like it when I sound like this? Don't worry baby, I can handle it, I'm Irish, remember? Sit down and eat your potatoes. I made them just for you. No, really, it's fine. I'll just go wash my hands. I'm fine, really. Eat before it gets cold.
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