I’m rusty now as I sit alone in a wilderness cabin. The ideal writing retreat. My family is off on a venture. Two ambition-less dogs lay on either side of me. Black and white, ebony and ivory. Last year my family vacationed at this same cottage, whilst I was away. Alberta, thats where I was. Drinking in the constant sources of picturesque scenery and cheap wine. Meeting people and forgetting their names. Walking, pacing, wonderfully the same tracks everyday and remaining silent until the silence was too much; then another wine was had. My trip did not provide any resolution for my stir, but it widened the wound; In a gracious way.
Then there is the matter of you. The dictator you, that ruins mornings. Mournings. I have digital frames memorized on behalf of your infantile gloating, your devilish grin. I beat myself on bad days for losing your interest. I beat myself on worse days for repeating any of it. The torturous part is that I feel I am running a marathon, in competition with you and another, starry broad. I’ve lost time by withering myself, scorching my walls with the memories of your pinning truth, and my nothingness. I cannot live in competition with you any longer. I mean, to you – I’m utterly obsolete, invisible. Lost in the shadow of another, I’ve already died. We, have died. How long will it be until I know this?
So I had a dream about you last night
as I write this
my throat is aching
urging for content
and recoiling from the bitter mirage
without mine willing it so
beneath a Christmas tree canopy
of lights and shadow play,
this is a dream world revised now,
So bare with me
I looked down and saw you there,
the face that haunts
and was so obviously you
olympic shock, and elation brimming
both of us conjoined
in the stare that lasted lifetimes,
our mutual disbelief
muffled the scene
as I scaled down the holiday exhibition,
you met me
held me, pressed me, hungry
so now the fantasy
of lust set alight
gnashes at the pertinent
The change of framing
from that world to this
and the dawn becomes
and yet , there had been a kiss
in knowing that things had changed
after the flood
and exact colours seized
so true to life
before my eyes opened
to a plane of black
and the liquid longing expelled
I am here
and I have awoken
to love lost.
Is there reasoning behind the fact that I feel guilt going out tonight? In black and made up awareness; Super awareness. Icarus I embody as my pleasures perch atop the highest sun. I want to anticipate, without being obliterated. How fitting that we will watch a film tonight, about the infinite, finiteness, of humanity. (2001) The paradoxical concern that haunts my every move towards the next party, show, date, stand up point of conversational initiative. Am I doing this wrong? Am I promoting a self that is not true? Theres only one way to find out. The lye down at the end of the night will reveal all darkened corners. For now the wine is at a slight advantage.
(Have a Goodnight, everyone.)
I was born with this dry, contemplative existence. I look out the window today and see the flakes falling, crystallized, tiny infrastructures and entire worlds. I feel nothing for these mini galaxies and I do not let them melt on my cap. I do not let them touch my tongue. I am soar and preposterous, vain inside and outside of the looking glass; both reflections make me sick. Looking around, I am overwhelmed with unassuming dread, faces with no eyes or words that speak truth. There is little capacity for love in this world.
Why does my mood suddenly feel sporadic and light under half moons and drunked-ness? Where am I to go in a years time? How can I obtain a calendar that measures time in something other than years? I’ve grown tired of weeks turning into months. Solid and perpetual. Have we not yet seen that purgatory is built in measured days? Years? I’d rather come to evaluate life’s events from seasonal changes. The day the snow fell I fell as well, it was not until last weeks full moon that content returned. The feeling. I consider that this would not be applicable to work schedules, the duality is too great, too infinite. Perhaps that is what we need. Today I thought this thought under a half moon and damp daze. I thought it was time for a new calendar.
What are these spaces that we decorate, exactly? Myself as a child was always compelled to adorn the walls with half – pictures and ripped magazine pages. Women with classic Ray Ban sun glasses, my families trip to Cuba. I’ve moved to Montreal and it’s the same beast, in a different costume. Now the work space and areas for decoration are separate, categorized. I tend to like sticking stuff to the walls mainly, but in synchronization. There should be balance at play. I wonder how the heavy images on my walls effected me throughout my teenage years; the over stimulation with angry consequence and conclusion. I specifically remember a conversation with my Mom where she entertained the idea with me, one that she had surely thought of before, that maybe the pictures very adding to my anxiety. I’m now sure that this is true, considering the fact that simply scrolling through a newsfeed gives me palpitations; but still I wonder. I wonder where this intrigue came from. I no doubt first saw it on some movie, a teenage girls room covered with pictures of friends and fairy lights. This was the beginning, after it spiralled out of control. I would rummage through Rolling Stones and glimpse signs of possible pleasures, possible other lives that could have been mine, or were yet to be. These “other lives” were pasted over top of family portraits and vacations, birthday parties. They were stand – still movie frames that I aspired to one day be apart of. The cigarette package, a tortured artist, full womanly lips. What were these artifacts of adornment to me? The beast now has been tamed, considerably. Adopting to a minimalist technique, I now have almost nothing on my walls. I ask, for nothing. Perhaps the indulgence of daily movies makes up for the lacking of beautiful women pasted here and there. I no longer need the reminder that beauty exists. This compartment, how contrary to the one I occupied a few years ago; A lifetime ago. Now I find myself to be a collector of other sorts. Music, books, art, plants and tea. Trinkets that can be buried. This is good, this is relief and a sign of maturing. What an interesting thing it is to consider the identity moving itself away from you’re teenage walls and into secret, compartments. Which person should I pull out today? I ask my Mother, what will I be?