monstrosities

Today I went to the vernissage of an art show, Monstrosities; fibre work from Concordia undergraduates. My friend Taters McBeastly was there.  He was sitting on a little stool, next to a shredded paper cast of a doorframe and a wall full of decorated children’s boots. Across the room from him was Colleen, his knitted soulmate monster.  He seemed just fine there, but the room was white and windowless and filled mostly with people who didn’t know me and a few who did but didn’t come over to talk to me. There’s only so many times you can circulate a room of a dozen art works, pretending to be deeply contemplating their concept and construction. 

schlump

(a poem)


watching some twin peaks
in my bed full of crumbs
no
i will not answer the door
(don't you know i am writing real-time poetry so i can post something on my blog?)
watched some more twin peaks
worried about what to do what to do
when i run out of episodes
scratchy throat gross nose
didnt do anything i was supposed to do this evening
cant call my girfriend
(my parents have my phone)
not really sick
just schlump

to the lighthouse

... "And that's the end," she said, and she saw in his eyes, as the interest in the story died away in them, something else take its place; something wondering, pale, like a reflection of light, which at once made him gaze and marvel. Turning, she looked across the bay, and and there, sure enough, coming regularly across the waves first two quick strokes and then one long steady stroke, was the light of the Lighthouse. It had been lit. In a moment he would ask her, "Are we going to the Lighthouse?" And she would have to say "No: not tomorrow; your father says not." Happily, Mildred came in to fetch them,and the bustle distracted them. But he kept looking back over his shoulder as Mildred carried him out, and she was certain that he was thinking, we are not going to the Lighthouse tomorrow; and she thought, he will remember that all his life. ...


Woolf

membrane

edition 1 / 6 

japanese paper, mylar, tissue, old leather, gel medium, latex,

watercolour, acrylic, paint markers, etc.

thaaanks, farr ♥

Sylvia Plath get out of my heart

"August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time."

Sylvia Plath

50 poems, no. 12

(will you teach a

wretch to live

straighter than a needle)

ask

    her

         ask

              when

                   (ask and

                    ask

                    and ask

again and)ask a 

brittle little

person fiddling

in

the

rain

(did you kiss

a girl with nipples

like pink thimbles)

ask

     him

          ask

               who

                   (ask and

                   ask

                   and ask

ago and)ask a

simple

crazy

thing

singing

in the snow

- e e cummings