Monday, October 30, 2006


The window is wide open letting in a transmogrification of my bright orange and yellow landscape that still runs and reruns in my head. The music is loud, too loud like the bright white light that bathes my dark skin crumbling from lack of moisture and care. I can feel my wrists twisting and twirling (so are my hands, my legs and my hips each one in a circle of motion quite its own), hitting and banging unidentified objects. The bloody maroon furniture and the dark blue walls are transformed from the white hot light I emanate. (I know, I know, I know it’s me). I bounce off the not-so-bouncy bed and hurt my shoulders, my blades, my wings, my fingers, my spine, my neck, my talons, my halo, my horns, my, my, my….I cant stop. The water mixes with more water and all my pores contribute-no more tears, just love, pure, white, hot love that cures and blesses and burns holes into the evil that surrounded and compounded for so long.

There is music, words and so much poetry brimming in my mind; it’s all a haze of ugly conditioning.

I fall, get up and jump around again.

The walls and the floors underneath resonate, joining in the celebration (Hey bring in my drinks, champagne, vodka, rum, those colourful bottles of fermented, rotting veggies carefully stacked in the liquor cabin, whatdyagot!). We all thud against each other as Fergie’s voice muffled under mine, muffled by the voice of my skull banging against the wooden closet thuds against walls and unabashedly oozes into the homes of neighbours and parents. Of the children and the blind who are too young to understand and too old to change.

My ankles hurt so bad now. I scream and fall on to a misplaced pillow and sink into it. The music drips in the last few beats and stops. The ensuing silence is clear and empty. New and Anonymous.

The doors are wide open now and nothing is screaming and there isn’t any blood and there isn’t any pain. My anger is white, my limbo silver and my peace…colourless.


Monday, October 16, 2006

Quoting and Unquoting.

He wouldn’t ask me what I thought of it but I wanted to say it to him like a novice, like a crazed-up misplaced, messed up hippie chick that the photographs of the leaves and the green that enveloped the frame reminded me of headaches-turbulent on the inside but so tranquil and unperturbed, outside. That the piano music was all wrong-the right wall should have Jon Brion’s theme song for Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and the left should have Profokiev’s Romeo and Juliet. But he wouldn’t look up or even see me move around all alone, waltzing with his psychedelic flowers pictures.

Artists disappoint me, especially the ones who do amazing work. They make my head spin.

So I lay down on the cool of the glass top when they played Happy Birthday for a well-passed middle aged woman in a restaurant full of Saturday night out-ties and closing my eyes I felt everything melt and loose levity.

The days are bright and filled with pain; enclose me in your gentle rain…’

I look at her in her pink shirt and dark pants, a blood red shade of lipstick encircling her plump lips and think of September and Art Tatum

“Then one day you look into the mirror and realize something’s missing...

your future.”

How he makes me laugh.

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Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Lies of a Day

If I could take every word you ever said and put them in a vial I would swallow it and let it slip and drift through my entrails and fall deep down into little closets of my mind that I still hold chaste. The only repose after days of being and days of drifting are these words that you pair and form poetry and art and magic with. I can’t help falling in love with glimpses of you in a Doors song or in lines of self-destruction scribbled along books. Words aren’t important otherwise, they pass lips-big, black, bruised, pink and full, all of them-and hide little crevices that open in solace. But with you, there are a life-line, from me to you and then back again. Passed to and fro like breath and food for the dying.