Finally, she had that dream where her teeth fall out. Standing in a courtyard, a square block of sun burning white bricks whiter. She was waiting for something to arrive, staring past the courtyard to the drive. And to the sound of fountain water falling, her hands shook and her teeth wobbled out, their fall and tick on the bricks drowned out by the endless patter of drops in the pool.
Her face fell off. And what she was waiting for arrived then, a dark car with black windows. The sun slick on its paint and drooling over its doors as they closed behind a pair of shoes. Her clothed knees burned against the brick as she tried to peck her teeth, and her fingernails scraped and nicked in the cracks. But there were too many for her to hold.
When she woke, the soft of her jaw against the bed held clenched and hard. She loosed it for her daylight. Though, "I had that dream again," she said after the next. Teeth falling out and hanging loose. Her face fell off, and she wanted to know, did she feel it anymore?
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Floral offerings like competing sacrifices.
Crates and boxes tumbled out my closets. I have carried them with me to all the houses I lived in, through every move. Thinking that I need them, though before now they were never looked at until the next time they needed to be picked up with a grunt and carried into a moving van towards the next place they would be stored.
I was going to be moving again soon, and wanted to clean these old boxes out. I opened one of them and found it full of things that have been given to me: letters and notes and poems and stories, some of them at least ten years old. And others more recent, all sharing a space, cramping, boxed into corners. They were the last, folded signs of old kinds of relationships with people I no longer knew. But among them were a few of my own sealed envelopes. Some things I wrote for my prom date. No one cares, or at least no one should care, about their prom when years have passed beyond it. Still, I remember running into an old high school friend some while ago and swallowing my astonishment as the topic arose. But now it was right here. For my date, for my teenage illusions, I had written a dozen poems and sealed them into separate envelopes.
A few months before prom, my Oma died, and I needed a suit for her funeral. I never had one before, and it made more sense, with the little money my family had, to purchase a suit that I could wear to both her funeral and then to my prom. It was grey, and was ill-fitting and untailored. When I put the suit on for the second time before the dance, and put the envelopes into my jacket pocket, there was still the pamphlet for my Oma's funeral service.
Now the remaining envelopes were here, in this open box on my couch. There were three left. The last three, and I knew because I had written the numbers in small, on the corners so that I would have been able to remind myself which order I should offer them to my date. The envelopes were still sealed. The old glue was a difficult lock. I wanted them in order now, too.
Ten:
"One rose,
...
...
..."
I turned the little card over, and on the back of the note was a stamp to advertise the florist counter at the grocery store where I worked. I remembered now the hasty thought of that romance, where in the produce section I felt a need for some great gesture, but lacked. So I took the stack of cards from the florist when the clerk went on his smoke break.
Eleven:
"One rose,
...
...
..."
This one also had the stamp. And my crooked penmanship, with fast, tilting letters.
Twelve, and I could hardly bear the reflection of myself that burst from the envelopes as I opened them:
"One rose,
...
...
..."
What dreamy youth. I remember giving the first three. One when I knocked at her door, the second after dinner, and the third when we arrived at the dance. My date lived in another city, she went to a different school. At her house, she opened the door in a bright pink dress that she made. Her hands were dry. We went to dinner, where she told me she had already eaten, and she had a cup of tea while I ate alone. At the dance, in the gym of my small town high school, she looked around quietly, squinting.
After she read each card, she said thank you and tucked them into her purse without looking at me.
The next six envelopes were thrown out of my car window when my date fell asleep after she asked to leave early. I remember my slow anger. Despite the cobbled effort, plucking cards from the florist at the grocery store where I worked and shoplifting a dozen roses, I aspired towards valiance. The great failure was to try so hard, though feebly--or to think that I was--and for an empty cup. But another was to to dream all this into expectancy.
Things end early. After, I threw the flowers out the window, except one to take home with me. Before that, I sat at a bonfire in my friend's backyard in my suit, the one which served for both a funeral and a prom, and I blew the flame off some marshmallows. Friends laughed about their night over sugary vodka drinks, and I stewed against valiance, as if I would never do it all over again, until I did, elsewhere, but for others. Now, finally and with recall, I laid those last three cards into my fireplace.
I was going to be moving again soon, and wanted to clean these old boxes out. I opened one of them and found it full of things that have been given to me: letters and notes and poems and stories, some of them at least ten years old. And others more recent, all sharing a space, cramping, boxed into corners. They were the last, folded signs of old kinds of relationships with people I no longer knew. But among them were a few of my own sealed envelopes. Some things I wrote for my prom date. No one cares, or at least no one should care, about their prom when years have passed beyond it. Still, I remember running into an old high school friend some while ago and swallowing my astonishment as the topic arose. But now it was right here. For my date, for my teenage illusions, I had written a dozen poems and sealed them into separate envelopes.
A few months before prom, my Oma died, and I needed a suit for her funeral. I never had one before, and it made more sense, with the little money my family had, to purchase a suit that I could wear to both her funeral and then to my prom. It was grey, and was ill-fitting and untailored. When I put the suit on for the second time before the dance, and put the envelopes into my jacket pocket, there was still the pamphlet for my Oma's funeral service.
Now the remaining envelopes were here, in this open box on my couch. There were three left. The last three, and I knew because I had written the numbers in small, on the corners so that I would have been able to remind myself which order I should offer them to my date. The envelopes were still sealed. The old glue was a difficult lock. I wanted them in order now, too.
Ten:
"One rose,
...
...
..."
I turned the little card over, and on the back of the note was a stamp to advertise the florist counter at the grocery store where I worked. I remembered now the hasty thought of that romance, where in the produce section I felt a need for some great gesture, but lacked. So I took the stack of cards from the florist when the clerk went on his smoke break.
Eleven:
"One rose,
...
...
..."
This one also had the stamp. And my crooked penmanship, with fast, tilting letters.
Twelve, and I could hardly bear the reflection of myself that burst from the envelopes as I opened them:
"One rose,
...
...
..."
What dreamy youth. I remember giving the first three. One when I knocked at her door, the second after dinner, and the third when we arrived at the dance. My date lived in another city, she went to a different school. At her house, she opened the door in a bright pink dress that she made. Her hands were dry. We went to dinner, where she told me she had already eaten, and she had a cup of tea while I ate alone. At the dance, in the gym of my small town high school, she looked around quietly, squinting.
After she read each card, she said thank you and tucked them into her purse without looking at me.
The next six envelopes were thrown out of my car window when my date fell asleep after she asked to leave early. I remember my slow anger. Despite the cobbled effort, plucking cards from the florist at the grocery store where I worked and shoplifting a dozen roses, I aspired towards valiance. The great failure was to try so hard, though feebly--or to think that I was--and for an empty cup. But another was to to dream all this into expectancy.
Things end early. After, I threw the flowers out the window, except one to take home with me. Before that, I sat at a bonfire in my friend's backyard in my suit, the one which served for both a funeral and a prom, and I blew the flame off some marshmallows. Friends laughed about their night over sugary vodka drinks, and I stewed against valiance, as if I would never do it all over again, until I did, elsewhere, but for others. Now, finally and with recall, I laid those last three cards into my fireplace.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Things without the matter.
"You two guys better watch out."
Barb and her friend approached as we entered the room. The museum exhibition was held in a long hall upstairs, and a band was performing at the opposite end while everyone listened or mingled or stood quietly near a window with a glass in their hand. There were tables of wine, and others with platters of cheese and grapes and vegetables. Barb had on a series of gold jewelry and was dressed in dark red, and she balanced her wine while pinning her clutch under her arm. She stepped towards me and took my hand.
"You two," Barb said to me, "but you, you just better watch it. You're the best looking ones in the room. Look at you, my goodness." And she laughed, a way that seemed as though she was laughing at herself. "You're so tall and sharp. I'm here, and I just needed to tell you. My friend and I, we saw you come in and we wanted you to know, you just watch." Barb was standing close now and put her hand on my coat. Her friend was aside, waiting with two glasses of wine. Barb took another sip of hers and tapped one of her gold rings against the rim of her glass. She laughed again.
"It's okay," she said, retaking my hand and and gently shaking it. "I've been married for thirty-seven years, it's okay, so, you know. My husband is sitting right over there. We're out here. I want you to have a great night. Yes, it's nice to meet you too." And as she left, Barb laughed. "My goodness."
Barb and her friend approached as we entered the room. The museum exhibition was held in a long hall upstairs, and a band was performing at the opposite end while everyone listened or mingled or stood quietly near a window with a glass in their hand. There were tables of wine, and others with platters of cheese and grapes and vegetables. Barb had on a series of gold jewelry and was dressed in dark red, and she balanced her wine while pinning her clutch under her arm. She stepped towards me and took my hand.
"You two," Barb said to me, "but you, you just better watch it. You're the best looking ones in the room. Look at you, my goodness." And she laughed, a way that seemed as though she was laughing at herself. "You're so tall and sharp. I'm here, and I just needed to tell you. My friend and I, we saw you come in and we wanted you to know, you just watch." Barb was standing close now and put her hand on my coat. Her friend was aside, waiting with two glasses of wine. Barb took another sip of hers and tapped one of her gold rings against the rim of her glass. She laughed again.
"It's okay," she said, retaking my hand and and gently shaking it. "I've been married for thirty-seven years, it's okay, so, you know. My husband is sitting right over there. We're out here. I want you to have a great night. Yes, it's nice to meet you too." And as she left, Barb laughed. "My goodness."
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Anything that had also fallen.
Once off the phone, he took a slow stand and then took his coat from the rack. He crossed the street. There was an empty lot now where there had once been a long building, one with a purpose that stood for decades, perhaps a hundred years. The lot was marked by the crumbled rocks of ruin. And bits of garbage blown through the sagging fence, to where he had placed a chair in its middle. The chair was stiff and dark, its feet rigid in the broken stones. It was a free arena for thought, though not zoned by the city. When he would walk past though, he would never see anyone else using the lot the way he did, and was likely the only person ever to sit there now. He sat down and looked at the toes of his shoes, dusted by steps through what were once lit halls and tall rooms.
He remembered someone he knows telling him that anger is a thing, maybe the only feeling, which does not go away on its own. A real work is required, some deep dialectic, else it stays. When it stays, it is a mass of untidy burrs that snag all corners. It will catch on skin, and then on all that is touched.
And he held some old anger. When he sat there, it seethed against the ruins. The stones glazed and froze in their place. The scrape of his boots churned the dust to glass. He didn't know it, his want in this coming to repair into ruins. He imagined chariots of camels and horsemen. Sitting quiet in the midst, this ancient thing cast a hot blanket over the tumbled old bricks. Anger looks like a shout, but it feels silent, white. The chair creaked as he rose. He crossed back over the street and hung his coat.
He remembered someone he knows telling him that anger is a thing, maybe the only feeling, which does not go away on its own. A real work is required, some deep dialectic, else it stays. When it stays, it is a mass of untidy burrs that snag all corners. It will catch on skin, and then on all that is touched.
And he held some old anger. When he sat there, it seethed against the ruins. The stones glazed and froze in their place. The scrape of his boots churned the dust to glass. He didn't know it, his want in this coming to repair into ruins. He imagined chariots of camels and horsemen. Sitting quiet in the midst, this ancient thing cast a hot blanket over the tumbled old bricks. Anger looks like a shout, but it feels silent, white. The chair creaked as he rose. He crossed back over the street and hung his coat.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Festal time.
So many year's end lists are evaluative of things produced, ordered into bests and almost bests. I don't think I can do that (aside from saying that Andrew Bird's Break It Yourself is the best album), so I want to use some space here to point towards people I know who are doing amazing things. I find myself so often sitting in my home with a glass in my hand, marveling at the people I know and the creations they offer. I would like for so many more people to know who they are as well.
Musicians:
Lifestory:Monologue retired their band after many successful years, and following the release of their great album Drag Your White Fur, Make It Grey. I miss them already.
Nick Ferrio is an old friend who has played in a million great bands (including The Burning Hell), and he released his full-length country album this year. The man knows how to make a song, I'll say.
Drew Nelles and Derek Lappano have a new band called Debt. But before it, they had a band called Wind-Up People that I hardly found out about before it was over, and I wish I could have seen. Since I met them years ago, I have loved the music these two make.
Ryan Turner, one of my oldest friends, has been playing jazz around Guelph. When you get the chance, go have a look. He is an amazing musician, and I've been lucky to play in a band with him again this past year.
Spencer Burton's band Grey Kingdom released Light, I'll Call Your Name Out "Darkness" this year, and the album is great, particularly the bookend tracks. He's great.
Olenka & The Autumn Lovers are from London, and released their new album, Hard Times. I love the lyrics, and the music always feels good and warm. Like autumn lovers.
Hinindar belongs to my friends Steve Sloane and Jeff Woods, and they released their album Absalom this year. It's been the music I drive to late at night.
Steph Yates, who had previously played in Hinindar, now has a band called Esther Grey. She combines that grit of the garage with some really virtuosic songwriting.
Pchan is a musician and DJ (Wolfh34rt) in Toronto, and I can not believe I have yet to see him perform. When I can, I will.
Mike Contasti-Isaac's project The English Premiership is some studio wizardry. He writes for mood at atmosphere, and accomplishes these things very nicely.
My friends in Teenage Kicks are doing amazing things. They started a Singles Club to release music every month and they released a live album, all in addition to their album Be On My Side.
Writers:
Iris Hodgson writes Bossy Femme, a personal blog about all things good. She also includes important reflections on broader topics that interest her, like styling life, knitting, and a great dog.
Andrew T does everything, and very well. He creates a zine for his writing called Give Up, which you can go and get right away, and he pairs it with a monthly podcast.
Drew Nelles is the Editor-in-Chief of Maisonneuve, a quarterly magazine based in Montreal that you probably already read. The publication is always a great collection of articles on culture and politics. I have always known Drew to be someone who works very hard, and I am always so pleased to see his name on the masthead
I met Cameron Anstee at a conference in Ottawa, and have been excitedly and enviously following his press, Apt. 9, which publishes works of poetry.
My graduate program has created Song, and Sin where a collection of my classmates write about all kinds of things. The primary contributor right now is the eternal Dru Farro, and every day that passes is one that I regret not writing for it. To the new year.
Though I have only met her a few times so far, Misha Bower easily shows herself to be a wonderful person. And she published Music For Uninvited Guests, an excellent collection of short stories that includes a mixtape with songs by your favourite artists.
Photographers:
Cristina Naccarato is a good friend who has been photographing for years, though I have only known her for a little over one of them. She takes a lot of live performance photos, and she also works with Broken City Lab, an important creative collective in Windsor.
Jacklyn Barber takes photos of places and people and the things that furnish them, and there is always something wistful about them. In addition to her Flickr account, you can find her on the Gram.
Nicolette Hoang uses her photos in a really nice way, as a documentation of her surroundings and those she spends her time with. Her blog is a great thing to explore, and she is also on the Gram.
Derek O'Donnell is a good, old friend of mine who largely does portraiture. His manner of composition is great, for me at least, as someone who likes to learn through people's faces.
More:
My friend Jeremy Klaver, in addition to his move into artist management, is an integral part of London's music performance community. He organizes and promotes concerts for both local and touring musicians (and even helped me get my first start in the city, too).
Sara Froese owns All Sorts Press, a custom letterpress studio. The products she makes are versatile and all look lovely, including CD packaging, business cards, and posters.
Kelly Hardcastle-Jones has two radio shows: Pioneer Radio, which explores a new theme per episode, and Books For Breakfast, which, I think, describes itself in a better way than I could. She also had a sweet little baby this year.
The studio that has welcomed a couple of the musicians I mentioned above, both for shows and for recording, is the Sugar Shack, and it is run by Simon Larochette. With any luck, I will be working with him soon as well.
There are so many more that I know, and who I know I must be missing but whose importance is worth a spotlight, and I apologize for my slanting memory. So many more musicians, as well as painters and academics and more photographers and store owners, and people whose careers are to save lives or build homes. Shine on, you crazy diamonds.
--
To the new year.
Musicians:
Lifestory:Monologue retired their band after many successful years, and following the release of their great album Drag Your White Fur, Make It Grey. I miss them already.
Nick Ferrio is an old friend who has played in a million great bands (including The Burning Hell), and he released his full-length country album this year. The man knows how to make a song, I'll say.
Drew Nelles and Derek Lappano have a new band called Debt. But before it, they had a band called Wind-Up People that I hardly found out about before it was over, and I wish I could have seen. Since I met them years ago, I have loved the music these two make.
Ryan Turner, one of my oldest friends, has been playing jazz around Guelph. When you get the chance, go have a look. He is an amazing musician, and I've been lucky to play in a band with him again this past year.
Spencer Burton's band Grey Kingdom released Light, I'll Call Your Name Out "Darkness" this year, and the album is great, particularly the bookend tracks. He's great.
Olenka & The Autumn Lovers are from London, and released their new album, Hard Times. I love the lyrics, and the music always feels good and warm. Like autumn lovers.
Hinindar belongs to my friends Steve Sloane and Jeff Woods, and they released their album Absalom this year. It's been the music I drive to late at night.
Steph Yates, who had previously played in Hinindar, now has a band called Esther Grey. She combines that grit of the garage with some really virtuosic songwriting.
Pchan is a musician and DJ (Wolfh34rt) in Toronto, and I can not believe I have yet to see him perform. When I can, I will.
Mike Contasti-Isaac's project The English Premiership is some studio wizardry. He writes for mood at atmosphere, and accomplishes these things very nicely.
My friends in Teenage Kicks are doing amazing things. They started a Singles Club to release music every month and they released a live album, all in addition to their album Be On My Side.
Writers:
Iris Hodgson writes Bossy Femme, a personal blog about all things good. She also includes important reflections on broader topics that interest her, like styling life, knitting, and a great dog.
Andrew T does everything, and very well. He creates a zine for his writing called Give Up, which you can go and get right away, and he pairs it with a monthly podcast.
Drew Nelles is the Editor-in-Chief of Maisonneuve, a quarterly magazine based in Montreal that you probably already read. The publication is always a great collection of articles on culture and politics. I have always known Drew to be someone who works very hard, and I am always so pleased to see his name on the masthead
I met Cameron Anstee at a conference in Ottawa, and have been excitedly and enviously following his press, Apt. 9, which publishes works of poetry.
My graduate program has created Song, and Sin where a collection of my classmates write about all kinds of things. The primary contributor right now is the eternal Dru Farro, and every day that passes is one that I regret not writing for it. To the new year.
Though I have only met her a few times so far, Misha Bower easily shows herself to be a wonderful person. And she published Music For Uninvited Guests, an excellent collection of short stories that includes a mixtape with songs by your favourite artists.
Photographers:
Cristina Naccarato is a good friend who has been photographing for years, though I have only known her for a little over one of them. She takes a lot of live performance photos, and she also works with Broken City Lab, an important creative collective in Windsor.
Jacklyn Barber takes photos of places and people and the things that furnish them, and there is always something wistful about them. In addition to her Flickr account, you can find her on the Gram.
Nicolette Hoang uses her photos in a really nice way, as a documentation of her surroundings and those she spends her time with. Her blog is a great thing to explore, and she is also on the Gram.
Derek O'Donnell is a good, old friend of mine who largely does portraiture. His manner of composition is great, for me at least, as someone who likes to learn through people's faces.
More:
My friend Jeremy Klaver, in addition to his move into artist management, is an integral part of London's music performance community. He organizes and promotes concerts for both local and touring musicians (and even helped me get my first start in the city, too).
Sara Froese owns All Sorts Press, a custom letterpress studio. The products she makes are versatile and all look lovely, including CD packaging, business cards, and posters.
Kelly Hardcastle-Jones has two radio shows: Pioneer Radio, which explores a new theme per episode, and Books For Breakfast, which, I think, describes itself in a better way than I could. She also had a sweet little baby this year.
The studio that has welcomed a couple of the musicians I mentioned above, both for shows and for recording, is the Sugar Shack, and it is run by Simon Larochette. With any luck, I will be working with him soon as well.
There are so many more that I know, and who I know I must be missing but whose importance is worth a spotlight, and I apologize for my slanting memory. So many more musicians, as well as painters and academics and more photographers and store owners, and people whose careers are to save lives or build homes. Shine on, you crazy diamonds.
--
To the new year.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Clarity in those moments.
At the museum, where the two were looking at paintings. They were passing through rooms, well-lit galleries where you can never actually see the source, the fixtures. The one, trying hard, stood in front of a painting, feet steady but leaning forth and then tilting, even though a few rooms back the other said, "That's not how you should look at paintings. You stand here, then you move here, and then here." The one stood before this painting, leaning and tilting in place, and passed over the figures and the colours. The shy flecks of white and pink coming bright when close to the canvas, and laying hidden when distant. This painting was filled with folds that bloomed as shard and sum together. The one saw how the painting sent along line and mood, to where particulars vanished for the whole. It was dazzling. It reached out from its frame, the mounted texture of painted face and brow, and looked upon a room where the two now circled back to each other in its corner. To the next painting, where the other said, "I don't like the colours." And the one said, "Neither do I."
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