Angel Girl

Small, young girl, you shuffle slowly through the woods next to me, quiet and unsmiling, heart deeply saddened by your slight years, eyes blank but pleading, and silent your fears.

You tell me how angry they make you, all the people in your scarce existance, and i hear louder how much they crush you, hurt you. The snow shimmers dancingly in the golden sun in our forested world but you, my fighting fragile girl, have long since lost your own sparkle. I smile from time to time, laugh and exclaim even, despite knowing my efforts are past being contagious. You tell me your dark dreams, dark thoughts, dark life. I want nothing in this world right now except to make you smile, make you shine a little, make your hidden soul move. You don't even feel like a person. You barely feel anything anymore, you no longer want anyone, you want to be no one and nowhere. You tell me how you think the nurses in the hospital mixed you up with another baby when you were born.

You are tough. Tougher than you ever were meant to be, and ever had to be. You tell me that you don't cry. That even in those raw times when you want to more than anything, when you almost did yesturday night, how you won't let yourself. You have become a master. You don't cry. You don't even worry that you may.

Yesturday night was one of the best I've had. It was probably one of yours as well. We walked and walked and walked over the crunching snow on the frozen Winnipeg river, aimed towards a distant skyline marked distinctly by twighlight, then by dawn, silhouetted by a wooden bridge on one side, a tall silver tower on the other. Even the very air we breathed was shadowed by the night. You were different I think, you seemed free, young, OK again. We talked about the beautiful wilderness, the warm melting winter, the way that we both just wanted to live in the woods for a year with no city distractions. We looked for stars, and planets, and the Northern Lights, and ended up finding red satelites and twinkling blue planes and friendship. You told me about the Native Spirits, and the animals and the land.

For that brief moment on our stargazing walk, life was ok. Life was manageable. Not just for you, but for me too. Becoming friends let us both experience a new freshness. A new perspective on life.

Angel girl, take those minutes of freedom back into your hand, swallow them, let them nourish you with the reasons for living, let them dispell the depressive weight you carry with you day after day after day after day.

Rebirth of something old

Quiet.
Then, crack of the whip.
Thirty more crack their whips too.
Horse whinnies echo strikingly over rocks
As, simultaneously, they respond.
Uniform clashing of voices,
horse and man and echos,
Of the night flight taking off.
A thousand earthquakes from horse hoofs
Thundering to somewhere new.
Sound has been reborn.

The silence has been broken!

Stay tuned. More to come.

To Need Such Adroit Attention, the Situation Must Indeed Be Desperate

like the tiny silver

that slices slivers

in the black

My Eyes Are Shadows

i walk
under the stars on a gravel road
in a tiny town in the tiny glasshouse
of night sky that protects the rest
from piercing light that explodes
everyday. everyday. everyday.
sometimes the tiny stars are
the only lights i want
because they are sharp but
small and still allow for the night
instead of the star called sun
that allows nothing but its
radiance and vast shinings
and creation of shadows
shadows that cover my eyes
sometimes i just want whats small
want the world to be small
my world, myself, small
like the tiny stars
i barely see above my goulish
head in smoky air
like the tiny silver
that slices slivers
in the black.

Comatose

I didn't hear you leave

I wonder how am I still here

And I don't want to move a thing

It might change my memory

Oh I am what I am I do what I want

But I can't hide

And I won't go

I won't sleep

I can't breathe

Until you're resting here with me

And I won't leave

I can't hide

I cannot be

Until you're resting here with me

I don't want to call my friends

For they might wake me from this dream

And I can't leave this bed

Risk forgetting all that's been

Oh I am what I am I do what I want

But I can't hide

And I won't go

I won't sleep

I can't breathe

Until you're resting here with me

I won't leave

I can't hide

I cannot be

Until you're resting here with me

- Dido

Black Dresses need White Wine

Sherri and i had fun last night...

A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever

Just a reminder to all of you out there who, as of yet, have not had the opportunity to experience the wonder and delight of CHACOS: even though the Canadian winter season is fast approaching, CHACOS are still the top choice of footwear to consider! The top-quality sole, (option of three types!) is not just durable and noteworthy on earthy terrain, but performs flawlessly on multi-season surfaces like ice, snow and...iced snow. They're great for parading down a festive sidewalk, a frozen skating rink (imagine peoples' faces when you glide effortlessly by, while they struggle to stay in an upright position on their single-purpose Bauer's!), or even the airy ice-storm clouds. Then, these versatile little buggers easily make the transition from such a chilling, northern climate to hot, sweaty Mexico when that January time roles around and you decide you've had just about enough of this frigid air and are more than ready to say a huge "HOLA" to the tropical, life-saving kingdom of Mexico!

To put it simply: CHACOS are the pride of yesturday, the sustinence of today, the reason for tomorrow.

Firestars, Starflies

now away from the crowd and
away from the place
the stars burn out that
used to light up her face,
and now he's walking alone
in the middle of the night
and is she thinking of him
because she's on his mind,
and staring so deep into the same black sky
and drifting so far into the same black void,
and thinking of you,
and thinking of you,
and thinking of you,
and thinking of you.

Void of the Innocence of Perfection

Alright, so it's about time to update this void. At least, that is what i have been told more than a few times now. i have had many good intentions to in the last month or so, but life has a way of throwing you curve balls (as the saying goes) out of nowhere that can be completely consuming. And when i say curve balls, i truly do mean curve balls. Like rediculous angles that you wouldn't believe are possible - i sure did not. But that's another story to be told another time.

Which reminds me of the book "The Never-Ending Story." Now there's a great read. i don't have a copy of it out here in the prairies with me, but now that this thought has popped into my mind, i think i really want to search for one. Really, i would strongly suggest it. At least, six years ago, when i last read it, i definitely would have. But maybe that was just because Mike recommended and loved it so much. I was always one to trust that opinion.

i don't have anything in particular to blog about momentarily. Usually my poetic juices run amok and overflow, or, at the very least, my words formulate themselves in artistic, vague patterns to produce what are, hopefully, glimpses of written art rather than thoughts and babbles on a page. None of that is present right now. I wonder how long until it will be until it is again. In some ways, i have had life completely sucked right out of me, and with that life goes creative capabilities and inspirations. Sometimes i wonder if i would rather keep what i know, what i hold fiercly close to me, what defines me in many ways, like writing, over even my sanity. Scary thoughts, but holding some degree of truth nonetheless. Sanity is only worth much when it accompanied by personhood, identity, self. At least, that is what it seems like when personalized. But maybe i am just misguided. That happens every now and again. Regardless, this is not a topic i should be comfortable flirting with just yet.

It's like yesturday night. I was at a social, a Halloween one in fact. After the social, the floor, littered with beer and broken glass and dirt and paper and other unknown liquids, was just the perfect slippery-ness for me to be much too tempted to give up sliding on, especially because i was wearing "hot, strappy one-inch sandles." So i started spinning in circles, letting the wet, liquid-saturated floor propell me on. As you can imagine, shortly after i found myself sprawled completely un-gracefully on the same disgusting floor, beer seeping into my clothing, people staring bewildered and amused. Anyhow, that same incident illustrated completely, at least to me, what i mean by flirting with topics. Perhaps this means nothing to you, the reader, the wonderer. To me it does though, and just because of that i am not about to go back and delete this entire, possibly useless, paragraph. At any rate, the social was amazing just what we needed. Dancing the entire night away without thinking about anything. Dancing myself out of my head.

It is snowing outside today. The perfect snow. By perfect, i don't mean perfect as in glass- elevator-on-the-blackest-night perfect. I mean tiny drops of perfect, gentle, graceful snow barely floating down from the heavens. Complementing the November bareness entirely, a foreground for the dark browns, greens, blues and beiges that characterize the Winnipeg streets. Perfection. Ah, how my eyes will never be drawn away from seeking perfection in everything, even what i see. Perfection. The false allure of the hopelessly innocent.

Introducing Frederic Chopin - Aesthetic Genius

I am sitting here as the world calmly fades into the pastelled background of another gorgeous Autumn sunset, watching outlined grey clouds provide the skeleton-like framework that contains this present scene; a scene that i can feel more deeply and completely than i'd ever be able to see. And seeing it is moving and striking enough. Striking the chords of my human existance much in the same way that those genius musicians of the 16th and 17th and, especially, 18th and 19th centuries struck chords in their beloved instruments, providing the framework that allows me to understand and communicate life in a way that, otherwise, would be impossible. A framework that is not skeleton in any form.

Chopin's Nocturne #1 in C#- leaks into the emptiness of this tiny, whitened room that holds my head and my body. But somewhere above is my mind, floating on the harmonies of his bewitching, melancholy passage. I swear i can smell it, taste it, feel its wafting magic invade every second of this moment. His music far surpasses simply the tangible.

The Warsaw native Frederic Chopin is by far my favourite pianist, favourite composer, favourite musician. He is a musical genius needing to be, at the very least, considered by anyone seeking aesthetical experiences. This current nocturne that i am listening to surpasses even the greatest works of - Liszt, Tchaikovsky, Schubert - all other musical masters in the same periodic box as Chopin. And it is by no means his greatest composition - not even close.

I wonder what Bach, who some say so strongly influenced Chopin in terms of composition, if given the opportunity, would think of Chopin's music. I wonder if he would realize how his own similar compositions fade in comparison to what Chopin was able to produce years later. I wonder if he would have incredulously realized how much he had missed in structuring his compositions such as he did; how he missed developing a language that, fortunately, Chopin was later able to develop in his place.

That being said, there are definite basis of comparison that would, easily, put Bach as the superior. In terms of aesthetics however, Chopin reigns supreme.

Travels of the Brilliant

Now here's an absolutely brilliant poet at, arguably, his best:

somewhere i have never travelled
- E.E. Cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

...like i said, complete lyrical brilliance!

Why i am starting to despise flying...

So today i flew to Winnipeg...landed...and then found out West Jet lost my luggage. Yah, not too impressed. i am starting to really not like domestic airline companies...

A Puppet Motions Only in Response to Stimulus

The cheese beside me is orange and white and crumbly and probably should be completely moldy by now, but really is not. Or maybe i just did not look close enough: by now my eyes have refocused onto the cucumber melon vitamin e lotion, the small white pencil box, the silver paperclip. Whir, whir, whir. The sound lingers from the fan that devotedly blows cold air upstairs; up the sixth level stairs. It's dark outside, night-time. There are wet looking streaks on the window, sort of sparkly against the black. It must have rained earlier; maybe it still is.

The sudden, shrill ring of the telephone pierces the not-exactly-quiet silence of the room. Two voices saying hello, a few lines of chatter, laughing, two voices saying goodbye. The room resumes its current position, with the addition of a dull, monotonous dial tone pulsating through it now. I feel my hand click the phone back into its place, simultaneously realizing one of the voices was my own.

Strange. i do not even remember moving, much less the words i've just spoken. The thought of figuring out who i was just talking to and what was said vaguely crosses my mind, but then extinguishes itself just as quickly, just as insignificantly. Whir, whir, whir. A moth, a fly, a mosquito circle in the light fixture above, dizzily spinning around and around. My head is dizzy too, but it is not from sickness. The window again. A vehicle passes, its driver probably headed to work. Should be morning by now. Again vaguely, i recall my own work that i have to get to today, my own job that waits neatly in its place for at least a few more hours. There are people to attend to, places to get to, courses to teach.

Whir, whir, whir.

Something is itchy on my back behind my head, and i am slightly aware of the numbness my foot is experiencing from being held in such a locked position for, what must be, a long while. i reach out and let a single finger slip up from my ankle to my thigh, feeling smooth, unbreaking skin the whole way. i stop and let it fall back. Do the same with a strand of hair, with my arm, with my forehead. Reminds me of something, though i am not sure what. Memories do not really exist. They just seem like stories someone must have read to me a long, long time ago, probably when i was really quite young.

Did any of this used to mean anything? Did any of this matter, signify something, become of importance in some way or another? Were they always just such raw motions, or were they ever actual responses to meaningful stimulus?

Bent Yellow

it wakes
her slumbering body
even before it hits the floor,
even as it seemingly suspends itself
before any echo is ever heard.

it breaks
slivers of bending silver
in the single yellow beam
over the floor,
the down-fallen shards silent a time frame later
waiting to be swept back up
disposed of and left to be thought of as broken.

she only stares at them, unmoving
waiting just the same
defying every command telling her to
clean up the fractured reflecting pieces,
clean it and wash it and fold it
neatly back into place
as it should belong.

such is what stops her:
the reflective pieces reflect her
unblinking eyes that betray her
unblinking state
and fragile soul that barely can hang on
any longer
or, just as much, even simply know how to.

dangling dangerously, fraying.

time passes, the sun sets
rises again
and the wind whispers its
breeze through leaves of gold and brown.

life goes on, an infinite circle.
but even the sun is just fire
and fire can always be doused,
and so the sun too will cease to shine
and the yellow beam no longer be there
to reflect the broken shards that
allow her to really see.

but things don't become whole
just because they cease to be visible.

Whimsically Capturing Moments of Alone

Solitude
When you have tidied all things for the night,
And while your thoughts are fading to their sleep,
You'll pause a moment in the late firelight,
Too sorrowful to weep.

The large and gentle furniture has stood
In sympathetic silence all the day
With that old kindness of domestic wood;
Nevertheless the haunted room will say:
"Someone must be away."

The little dog rolls over half-awake,
Stretches his paws, yawns, looking up at you,
Wags his tail very slightly for your sake,
That you may feel he is unhappy too.

A distant engine whistles, or the floor
Creaks, or the wandering night-wind bangs a door.

Silence is scattered like a broken glass.
The minutes prick their ears and run about,
Then one by one subside again and pass
Sedately in, monotonously out.

You bend your head and wipe away a tear
Solitude walks one heavy step more near.
- Harold Monro

Writing on Blank Discs

How long it has been since concrete words, ideas, and thoughts have floated here...suspended themselves in the air of this greying backdrop the way piles of dust in a streak of light do. How long it has been since thoughts and and words and ideas have ceased to be abstract and loaded, to simply be what they are, and carry the meanings that they should. Meanings hoped to be, supposed to be, recognizable, known, understood. Meanings attached to the symbols, or it is not anything. Just words on a page, words in the air, circulating above for a little while, then expelled. Not anything...is that to be less desired than everything, even when it comes with the inevitable damned spilling of feelings? But oh, to remain numb. Frost bite numbs the skin it has poisoned.

How long, how long, how long. i write through the ambiguous and i express through it, and i feel through the endless enigmatic ambiguous... now, should i fear, have i left the ways of thinking in the concrete, in the solid, to have entered and reside in the world of the unknown, the unshown, the unclear. Recently i have not written - have not written...it sounds strange and anxious and out of place even to even see those three words form - out of what i presumed was a lack of substantial inspiration, motivation, emotion, condensation. Heh. Whatever. Such nonsense. i am a writer. Of course i write. i have ceaseless inspiration provided by looking at a blade of dew covered grass, at a kernal of popcorn, at the color blue, from holding a hand, from hearing an "a" quiver on the string of a violin.

So just write. Write, write, write.

Empty. Blank. Empty blank discs. Discs that should contain, that could contain, everything. But
quiet now. It's all understood. There is so much going on inside that i simply cannot grasp a hold of it and express it using modern day, contemporary, 5-vowels, native Canadian English. Or any other spoken language, for that matter. No, even my precious words, my adored written ink, can betray me, shrug shoulders and leave unable to be of assistance this time.

And so sit, and ponder, and let it be. And just try to allow emotion, try to let it be legitimate, acceptable, "ok." Just this once perhaps. What else is there? Infarction. Frost bite kills the skin it has poisoned.

A Wild Rose

forest-dusted tower of a stem stretching
endless polished arms towards the silver heavens,
folds of virile redness
an arching rose, most compelling of all and
adorned with carmine lust,
but adorned first in thorns, a scarred perfection,
adorned in what will always betray
the precious rose that longs to be beautiful
and label it wild.

Arcane

happiness, the feeling escapes this yellowed body,
drags along joy and bliss and ecstacy with it;
i know it, because i see the remains stamped into the rusty dirt
i see the crumbles like crusts of bread fed to green ducks in a park,
green ducks in the azure-like ripples of an oval mirror.

but i see the vanishing trendils of loneliness too,
and sadness and hurt and fear;
and in its place, a cold stony nothing,
a vast emptiness that is more chaining, murderous, than any feeling, desirous or not, i used to know:
a human devoid of everything
that gives this world all authority to call it "man," call it "woman," call it "human being;"
a black wasteland of human shell, of nothingness,
as black as the cold, stone feathers of the ravens.

after that nothing
and after there is nothing left to believe in
i find i still believe in something:
crawling towards it, away from it, irrelevant,
(despite how)
each nothing has wrecked each view of this life.

and even though each time i can never see the world the same
there is always something to believe in when there is nothing.

Thick

vibrance, vibrant, human being, living being
flashes of color dripping wetly overhead
flashes, moments, ah reaching, pulling,
is there such thing as a grasp
floating, floating, invisible evaporation
grey clouds lingering, thickly suspended above
grey, dreary, grey street
grey and stale, grey dismal bell jar
jar of fireflies gone out in smoke
brightly flashing, blinding, so real, so real, surreal
human, human, living, being, human being
human being devoid in greyish mists
mystically encrusted mists, fantasy air
breathe, air-filled lungs, pumping, life
vibrant life stained with grey condensation

Dinner For Two

I thought I knew what it felt like to see enchantment that night. Enchanted; most people recognize the feeling, but that evening I actually glimpsed it, saw a vision of its magical wings envelope my world for a fraction of time. The world, with its normalcy, was behind me, suspended, and I was immortal in enchantment.
I could swear your face was glowing with excitement; perhaps though, it was only the result of a hundred candles burning in the darkness around where we sat. We sat, alone, at a table isolated at the edge of the waterfront. You had moved the table there during the day, amidst the noise and commotion of the marina, while the boats and seedos incessantly backed into the water, only to emerge again hours later; in and out, in and out, much like the waves that gently lapped against the dock now, completing the calm stillness of that night. At the time, I thought you had to be the most creative person I had ever met. Perhaps, I was just too easily impressed.
You brought take-out, explaining shyly how you were just horrible at cooking, that you would have if you could, but this was the best you could do. I laughed and told you I would not want it any other way, and you smiled and poured two glasses of crimson wine into delicate glasses where it sparkled with the stars.
This is what dinner for two should be, I remembered thinking. All alone, with the glittering magic of the night, the moon, the stars, the candles, silvery, silent, consumed.
It’s funny how you remember certain details after a fact, when they seemed so insignificant at the time; mere background decors, barely noticeable. Eventually they become emblems, symbols that you wish you had seen, sort of overlooked signs.
I remember we both noticed the lighthouse in the distance, glaring its golden light in a single streak across the dark water miles away. It stayed on almost the whole evening, watching us, until it abruptly, unexpectedly, flickered twice and went out. I never imagined you and I could fade as suddenly as that light.