Conscious is a kind of knowing

Midafternoon sleep
brings a lyrical flow of long-stilled limb
and memory of echoing soft
footsteps from dreams;
a fastening of sandals, then
a retreat, with backward glances
as the sun, through a southern window,
kisses my cold eyelids
awake again.

Sleep must have been waiting
to throw its black silk
over my head
before whisking me to an Orient, the Eastern Coast
of that-which-never-was

-      -     -     -     -    -    -    -    -

– thus have I returned,
(not a little touched) from visions that arched my spine
and took my voice away

and changed it.
Is this it?

A wry set of symbols,
documenting the consternation of being
halfway there.

Say It Again, Sam

From the uncompromisingly intelligent Dana at http://reasoningwithdana.tumblr.com/ – boy, have I often wished I had the guts to impart this very frustration to people (read: my ex-boyfriend). I could not resist reblogging. Thank you, Dana.

A girl in need of rain

Now, there is a girl in need of rain
- dirt in her fingernails, spray in her hair,
a basement-creature in wait,
an interminable twitching of clock hands and human feet.
- watching dustmotes
as though trainspotting,
learning Italian at night
and tearing chunks off discounted loaves.

- her windows are unwashed;
tomorrows tend to be hazy, retreating humbly
into the sink-ful of coffeespoons.
- she turns a page, not quite understanding
in the flickering incandescence - the rain
speaks louder than she does, and it is a dim light indeed
which slowly blurs her into the room.

When I didn't

– because 
it was rutted gravel
danger-ish with potholes

and because Mom was
walking
watching behind
my own impatient and 
fore-going figure

and also 
there was a car
(possibly tourists, probably sane)
coming up that road
headlights putting me
the nineteen-year-old kid
on the spot – 

when I didn't,
because of all this
gravel in my shoes, 

give in and
jump-twirl
foot-to-foot jazz-handed flinging joy
across the parking lot,
something in me
cracked.

I hope it will heal with tomorrow's sunrise. 


(Gros Morne, summer 2010)

A few musings on Calvin & Hobbes

The Essential Calvin and Hobbes by Bill Watterson
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Another review I just saw (almost totally unrelated ... oh well) reminded me I should give this five stars. I have loved C&H for years. One of my greatest disgusts with generally-sad newspaper comics is that Calvin and Hobbes are not there.


Chronicling the practically endless exploits of fine young Calvin, his stuffed (?!) tiger Hobbes, and occasionally others: Calvin's wartorn parents (especially his fabulously sardonic dad), the ever-sappy neighbourhood kid Susie, and  long-suffering teacher Miss Wormwood. I can't properly describe these comics. Seriously, just go try them. Or retry them. Alternately wry, uproariously funny and heartwarming, they will capture the heart of anyone who's ever had – anyone who's ever been a child. Watterson's illustrations and his dialogues are equally brilliant. There is not one strip that won't have you smiling, at the very least. The very stuff to read when you're at all pressed by negative feelings. Laughter is good for the soul, as hereby proven.


However. One minor cautionary note, potential readers:


Calvin is a freaky kid. Damn realistic, though - nicely caricatured but realistic, hence artistic. Did I mention sadistic? (Apologies.) Reminds me of myself, not too far beyond his age. If he'd owned Barbie dolls, he would totally have played out his unconscious fascination with violence and its emotional ramifications through WWIII pseudo-Holocaust Barbie games.


One of my current book-related sorrows is that I left my copy of this collection at home when I came to university. I just had to pick and choose. This is coming back with me next time I travel home, though.





View all my reviews

A Doll's House - my initial reaction

A Doll's House by Henrik Ibsen
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Fantastic, awe-inspiring character creation. I want to explore all the nuances of Christine Linde, and Dr. Rank, and Krogstad, and especially Nora. Anyone who essays to interpret this merely as some sort of feminist power-politics commentary is seriously shortchanging themselves, and misusing the play. I'm itching already to reread it, multiple times, as well as to actually see it. (Maybe I'll start with the Christopher Plummer & Julie Harris version, I think it's all on YouTube.)

Yep, I am officially an Ibsen admirer.


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I Write Because (1)

This is an 'experiment' I like to do on my own, as well as with my creative writing group. You come up with different answers every time. It is a continual source of self-discovery. I share these against my better judgement. After all, I have a weird sense of humour. 


- i sometimes have the notion of a green sky and bright orange trees, and it's only right that i should document such phenomena.
- it's my duty. my mother had lost her soul to a minor demon and could only get it back if she promised her first-born child to the services of apollo.
- coffee makes me high, and in that state one can get really entertaining poetry.
- as my pen scrawls i feel like i'm dancing as my feet cannot
- i was seven when i declared i'd be a writer, and nigh-on-thirteen years later my pride has not allowed me to repeal the vow.
- yes, i apparently did make a vow. to whom? i write to find out, hoping that i can catch him peeking over my shoulder.
- it's better (i stubbornly believe) than having a love life
- imagination's the only method i might ever get of having a love life
- i like putting my secrets at risk of discovery when i commit them to paper. a thrill-seeker, me.
- in stubborn denial of reason.
 the sound of scribbles can be grounding. or titillating.
- i am a hypocritical environmentalist. i enjoy working with paper. a lot.
- the soul needs to pour itself somewhere when it gets too unruly to contain.
- i need to feel i have the licence to change everything by twisting my mind into knots and then unraveling them into a golden-thread cat's cradle

dear sir, please distrACT

'twas a long, nice-change-of-pace-if-academically-unproductive day of drama classes/workshops /rehearsals. yes, kind of odd. the five minutes before my eight-thirty drama class weren't wasted. entirely. well....

the thrift of tuesday theatre
– barely out of danger of monday,
words are spoken quietly.
set's only half painted
and the crisis is
more of a hasty denouement.
we thirst for tangible fictions,
but so much is reserved for friday.

Still a Tad Dizzy

... excerpts of New Year's Eve

The red pillowcase that Bill tied

over his lamp to make a rave-light

and the easy eloquence in Brandon's eyes

as he finally got comfortable with "the Corner Brook girls."

Energy: the crack of balls, incognizant union with physics

flowing through a pool queue, 

flowing through skilled human hands,

flowing through veins embittered, rich with wine.

Slowly-nibbled 

partridgeberry-studded

chocolate-kissed

banana bread. 

The cool salty 

chew of ham.

The last broad sips of red wine:

a holy-sounding sin,

Villa Maria. 

One fiery rectangle of wall

where drunken friendship scribbles   

are invited and will long remain.

Already the New Year has 

whacked us with poetry; 

I just don't know

how to 

say it

yet

Musing

I know that writing about truth is pretentious at best. But this is heartfelt pretension, so I am compelled to share it.

There is no truth until you put it in a story
- when your life winds up
and you're wondering about the failed yo-yo (didn't
someone tangle it, behind your back?) -

There is no truth
that you didn't first encounter in your alphabet soup,
that you didn't feel in the rough brush
of closeness to your dad's face,
and hear through the dawning light of his whispers
into your baby-shell ears.

There is no truth bubbling
in the pit of your stomach
when the sun alights
on a stage, walks
before your eyes,
dazzles all the infinite humanity of your senses
and there is no truth, none
in dying for any thing.
We die again and again,
for dusty words.

There is truth
just in the upper left-hand
window of your restlessness.

There is truth in the hunger
for the breaking-down of walls,
the erection of new cathedrals.
And most of all, in the warmth of blood
when you can understand all its deep flowing purpose.
There is truth, for whatever else it may bring,
in crimson flowers
melting the snow.

There is no truth
until you dance truth into existence.

Hm

It has no theme. It has no definitive or even symbolized subject matter. As I said - first-thought, first-written. Comment and go wild.


I and O


O - a self that needs no central study
and takes its solace in wholeness and 
emptiness simultaneously
- simultaneity is a funny concept -
As I think about this,
i wonder why ‘I’ is capitalized and not You
or even ‘We’ 
especially if We are mightier 
together than apart ...?
I is upstanding, pretentious, 
reaching out, in no direction
but up 
(also down, though it doesn’t 
want anyone to know that)
[ ... ]

A little reading

I can't resist sharing a bit from my favourite ... is it social networking?... website, www.goodreads.com. There is never, of course, enough time to read: perhaps the second-most-irrefutable fact of life. Having cute little book-cover tiles of some things I have read makes me feel (justifiably or not) somewhat less unhappy about this.

      From Amber's bookshelf: read
    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    
  

Amber Tucker's favorite books »






  

Dedication, or Expunging the schmaltzy crud from my system

... any of it that didn't already come out in the inscription poem, that is. 

This blog is for many people, whether you know it, or don't yet, or never will - whether I know you already or my life has yet to be graced by your presence.


Any thought and feeling may create a world; still (in my view), the best worlds are created in love. I cannot give a straight summary of the the continuous flow of inspirations I receive, urging me to shape my own tiny world with laughter and hope, with grounding reason and rare compassion. 

I do not know much to speak of, and I may not even know to whom I'm speaking it – to whom I am trying to prove anything, beyond myself. Whatever truth I do know springs from love, the unspeakable language, and all I post here will be various transpositions of that, into the words upon which everything hinges.  

Forgive me the sentimentality. You deserve great respect just for sticking with me this far. I promise, I will endeavour to honour you for it.  

And that, as Mr. Darcy would say, is the material point.

Inscription

Dear Reader 

Before the smoke 

has time to clear, i call out:

With love for the worlds of you i

have not met yet, 

for the kisses i feel others receive

in darkness, despite darkness,

from the honey and fire of your eyes

love for the places i go only 

through my fingers on the map

and with love, in the warm coals

of lyrics i try not to fall back on 

- but oh, don't they keep us 

from losing heart?

Vienna waits for you /

No, he doesn't look a thing like Jesus /

The times, they are a-changing...

combined bits of language 

surpass language itself 

and

finally, there is silence

and air and breath; it is here 

we waited all along,

wondering where we 

had walked ourselves to.

Yes, all those things

are not great; yet

they are for you, 

with love from the deepest 

 recesses of amber. 

Please accept them, 

please take my hand;

please let us breathe now, 

please let it be.