June 30, 2005

Other Stories, Other Windows............

A Poem

Tell me, if I caught you one day
and kissed the sole of your foot,
wouldn't you limp a little then,
afraid to crush my kiss?...

~Nichita Stanescu

June 29, 2005

Other Stories, Other Windows............

Nobody feels any pain
Tonight as I stand inside the rain
Ev’rybody knows
That baby’s got new clothes
But lately I see her ribbons and her bows
Have fallen from her curls.
She takes just like a woman, yes, she does
She makes love just like a woman, yes, she does
And she aches just like a woman
But she breaks just like a little girl.

~Bob Dylan

June 27, 2005

The Littlest Birds Sing the Sweetest Songs...

My Cultus


Tonight my heart is weary. A worn out old shoe. Empty. Derelict on the front porch.

It’s a good evening for tears.

How much time do I give this? How much time do I give you? (Or him, or this whim… or or or…)

Have you ever held a ripe mango in your palm… pressed your thumb into the thick flesh, knowing that any more pressure will bring that golden juice, drip it down your palm… to wrist? I think my life is like that.

Almost. Ready. To. Drip.

I despise how easily bruised I am. How over ripe. Yet, I know that there is something in this that makes up part of who I am. It’s part of why I am beautiful. The mango tastes just as sweet lapped off your fingers as it did on the peel.

Now, in this darkness blooming…. Let us talk about secrets.

My secret heart. My secret dream. My secret garden that I planted in the moonlight of your leaving…. Now to tangle and spear at the moon. Is that me calling up to the stars? Or was that the wolf that prowled the edges of my intellect. Where did the sun go? The lush green of potential? When did spring put away her soft pastel dress and let Summer whore her way into my landscape? Over ripe. Almost. Ready. To. Drip.

Summer made me do it. All this recklessness. It's her influence. Primal as the ripe moon and the warm seduction of nights spent under the sky. My heart is empty. My body untouched. And this is the time of lovers.

I miss you. But who is you? Or is it I miss the something I can't quite name? The one I have not met. The one that I don't believe in, except when lost in the safe dark of my overblown garden. Why do I feel like I am about to blow away, lost in my own good intentions and longing?

Kiss me quick.

Darkness is nothing to the bright WHITE of introspection.


June 18, 2005

In The Eye Of the Beholder...

Other Stories, Other Windows............

Her Explanation
(for m.)

I am the daughter of original sin.
Eve, she bit the apple
and the details of truth were lost.

What the books do not tell you,
what the men do not wish you to know, is
we enjoy our knowledge.
The exile from Man’s Paradise
opened our minds to the world.

The apple was sweet, and tart, and crisp
warmed by the sun.
And when Eve held it in her palm
the feel of it’s perfection delighted her.

The hum of bees and birds were her dinner music.

I am the daughter of her sin, eater of apples,
the orchard nipper
who steals into your garden at night
to pick only the best, most red, the
most tender fleshed delights.
I eat of this fruit and with it
comes freedom from those ideals
you try to trap me in.

I know you will not sleep tonight
knowing this truth, you in your
practical Catholic ways.

You being the woman who refuses knowledge
and lost her apples to me.

June 09, 2005

The Littlest Birds Sing the Sweetest Songs...



I have been sitting here trying to write... typing, then deleting.... then drifting to some place I can't quite name... typing... deleting. It's infuriating. I need a break. I need to excise you from my thoughts.

I don't keep a journal now… although in some ways I should save things to write, for later; to stretch and weave into some other fiction. I have always processed my ideas with some form of writing. I kept these little Chinese diaries, with satin covers when I was eleven. Silly, little girl thoughts. Anais Nin kept journals from a young age. Unlike hers, mine are filled with nonsense. Childhood insight neglected those pages.

I waste too much time on mad ramblings, not enough on the bones. Good bones. Bad bones. Anything is better than wishful thinking.

Do you know what it's like to feel the words slip out, know that they are solid and true? Feel the energy sing from fingers to keys, the words falling as quietly as snow... creating that same magic as the first white morning in winter? I have. It's witchcraft. Gorgeously rich and beautiful. Like playing God.

There is this endless dance for the creator. Spinning. Making the vision, willing it into other's imagined reality. Providing the escape.

Do you come here to escape something, or am I enough? Are any of us. I do not want to find the TRUE escape I seek. Or the words will fade... the spells cast by adjectives will be muddied in sunshine and primroses.

Never run fast enough to escape the fire of your passion.


June 08, 2005

Something Blue..........


This stone that is
my body, heated with
the relentless lack
of shade,
seeks the moist
of rain

(I want you
like this)

when the monsoon
of you kiss
with primal gravity,
the voice of water
dry earth

(I want you
like this)

and this stone that is
my body,
hearing only
the rain

(I want you
like this)

June 06, 2005


I went to Clayburn today. Somewhere I have been planning to go since seeing Shaun’s “Secret Garden”. I had wanted to take him there, explore the old ruins of the brick kilns.

It’s all been fenced.


The world is worried about liability. Responsibility. Right and wrong. Ownership. Who has the pissing rights.

But still the trees grow; tall and cavernous… they spread their great and arrogant branches up and over all that fencing, claiming the sky as theirs. Roots cling to the old cement warrens of the firing kilns, breaking them down with moss and rotten leaves. I enjoy this juxtaposition. The chain fence. The lush green of evolution.

I love the scent of the blackberry bushes, the wet green smell of the moss… how the light fractures down through the canopy. It was as beautiful a cathedral as the church in Ottawa. Just not as sacrosanct. I only wish the fence could have faded away… I would have loved to photograph the arched openings… the fallen stones.

Wandering around the old store, the smell of old roses.

There was a moment, when I went to turn away from the fence, camera in hand, that I nearly ran into his chest. Invasion of personal space. I guess we all do it… Me with the store owner, my camera peeking into people's windows.

I have given up trying to see potential. For now, I will just see the way the light hits the leaves at two in the afternoon.

Galiano is calling me louder. I want to fall asleep listening to the frogs and waves… drink gritty coffee and watch the sun come up.

Do you have a sanctuary? A touch stone? Or have you given up on such foolishness… grown up. Put away the dreams.

“It’s easier than waiting around to die.”

Will you see the magic there? Coming down to the sudden surprise of the ocean… the green blue of the water… the wind song in the cedars….

Completely UNsanitized.


The Littlest Birds Sing the Sweetest Songs...

June 05, 2005


Something wonderful happened to me this weekend… but I have let something shitty overshadow it.

Why is it we do this?

Accomplishing our goals… defeating some fear that has taken root… striving and succeeding. And yet, when the simplest of threads starts to pull, we pick at it… prying out the ugliness until that is all we see.

Ok, that might be a bit dramatic. But you get my point.

I completed a four hour exam on Saturday. Finished it. (Barely) And felt DAMN good that I had done so… and one phone call can set me off. Don’t be bored. That is all I am going to tell you.

Silly woman.

But that is why you like me….

I feel free of myself tonight. Tired and worn out. But free to just drift about the house, listening to….

Well it's times like these

I feel so small and wild
Like the ramblin' footsteps of a wanderin' child
And I'm lonesome as a lonesome whippoorwill
Singin these blues with a warble and a trill
But I'm not too blue to fly
No I'm not too blue to fly cause

The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs...

Perhaps one of these days I will quit these rambling ways….


Other Stories, Other Windows............

Lyrics and Echoes - Thomas Carroll

What lyrics do trees consider
When the wind sighs cold rhythms
Through grass, tassle headed and dancing?
Does the echoes of tomorrow sing duet?
Or is the wind left playing
To the voices of bare limbed oaks
Swaying, singing solo
Beneath the cold rhythms
Of November’s wind…

June 02, 2005

The Road Behind, A Memory Best Forgotten....

(he says)

He says to me,
it is fucking beautiful,
this passion
this obsession;
my love for you.
(It’s a stone I threw
into the calm of his life
to ripple the water,
the waves stroking
to touch everything,
gently. )
He says
I am with you
in the moonlight,
in the bath, when you weep
so that no one can see,
in your car
seeing me in the fall leaves,
in the fragile moments
before you wake.
He says,
I love you
with my soul,
I adore the way
we are silly,
your curiosity for life.
He says,
I think about you
not a minute goes by
that I do not miss you.
He says,
Your body fits
with my own,
I remember
how your hair
rests on my arms
as you sleep.
He says, I ache
to have your heart
in my ears
in my mouth,
that pulse of blood
of true ownership.
He says,
He says all and everything
and I remember,
each moment
each inflection
of his southern ways
his eyes
on me,
his voice
in me.
(He says)

I weep in silence.

June 01, 2005


I am beginning to wonder if I made something out of nothing. I am crestfallen. It would seem that life is a shadow dance...

What a fool. I mean really.

Well. I must keep moving forward. Life is like that... no time to weep over the should haves, could haves, shit why did I do that?'s.

No one will ever accuse me of not living my life.