Thursday, February 24, 2011

A topic I’ll be sure to revisit

At ends and made utterly inarticulate due to a little silence.

Sunday by Paul Signac


There is a sort of eloquence to a shared silence that’s not easily explained comparatively, I suppose one could liken it to another shared intimacy. Let’s say the sweet rumble of words whispered in the dark, but then it is so much more, for the communication in silence is no less than telepathic and thus by nature felt deeper when recounted so a kiss. Surely there is no greater icon for that bit of magic that lays between two and still one could argue that even there in that most hallowed of moments over bated breathes there is a sort of require accord made in silence. Now this line of reasoning does lead one to ask, is sheared silence a greater mark of intimacy than a kiss? This I don’t know and now I can’t help but feel I’ve somehow gone off topic but my mind she echoes now as a pond with ripples from a tiny pebble. The answer is in there I feel, somewhere between the delight of finding another of your kind in a strange land and conspirators bonded by an awful crime.
My love my care,

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

I adore Nelson Shanks' work

for somethings as artist we are technician, colourist and pure fancy. He seems to get that.

33 Tite Street by Nelson Shanks

I miss you. I keep telling myself it is only because you are not here but then something in me knows I’d miss you no matter what. You are not mine. Our time is fleeting and whatever time you spend with me is borrowed. I wish I could be strong and live in the moment, here where you belong to no one but me. You don’t even know yet that you will not settle here or that my eyes so hungry for you to walk through those doors already see our end.
All my love,

Monday, February 7, 2011

‘A sexually aggressive woman is a sexually offensive woman’

This bit for madness came to me via my sister’s reading and imparted to me in conversation. I can’t like it. To be honest I can’t bear it but I see the truth in it. Sex was once a woman’s appetite, Lilith grinding Adam into the ground blissfully taking her pleasure then she was made to burn and suffer banishment. Now, I wonder if all is lost with the exception of the dominatrix who is arguable there more for her clienteles pleasure than her own.

Sophia, An Anthology by Nelson Shanks

Sex is a woman’s idea cleverly given to a man Eve, Adam and the apple. What I don’t understand is how it became religious and political when it was meant to propagate the species. How much of it was done at our consent, making us property, whore, Jezebel, Madonna, wife, mistress?
There is sadness in it for me for I had always thought it was meant to be as air, nourishment and education but then even in those the advantage is not allowed to all. Truly grim, yes I see that but I wondered and putting it down is cathartic.
My love my care,

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

New Years day at the restaurant just before closing

I hope she is doing well.

Het Afscheid by Erik Suidman

She had been eager, near desperate to make contact and though I knew her tale was sure to be heartbreaking I allowed her my ear. Her words coming at first in little burst of anxious too light chit-chat, ‘I eat here all the time and still I swear this is best the food has ever tasted. It could be that I’m starving but then the food is always good here. I’m so glad to find you open and that it is you with your kind smile instead of one of the other curt girls...’

All the while she eat in quick tidy bites her sad eyes darting around seeking mind as I cleaned the counter and nodded politely.

There was mention of the weather and some talk of Chinese restaurant that were traditionally open over Christmas holidays but could no longer be counted on but the cinema had been open all day. Even if the kids were rude and foreign, texting on iphones while she offered polite smile.

Hers in the end had been a typical enough story, full of her love for a man who eventually disappointed her. He by moving on to a younger woman and starting the family she never believed they had enough money to begin. ‘I found out he adopted her child and brought it from China. I was sick about it. I kept thinking how he could afford it when she was no more than a nail girl at one of those awful salons on the Danforth.’

There was also a bit of madness about her mother, a frail dying imperfect who still held her approval from our poor now lonely dear. Calling her on Boxing Day to rave about her brother’s efforts to make Christmas nice, ‘But Mom, it was me who cooked the too spicy mashed potatoes and it was me who cleaned up while he ran off to his girlfriend’s so if there is any thanks to be handed out it should be for me.’

This she bellowed while I rushed back and forth from kitchen to dining room setting up for the next day. The irritated chef hissing at me his displeasure, ‘You are too nice. We have been closed forty-five minutes already. Tell her she must leave we have our own sad stories.’

By now she had without encouragement moved on to laments of pass talents and ambitions. ‘I use to write these great songs that everybody wanted to sing but I didn’t want to part with them for I wanted to sing them myself but I have arthritis which made playing the guitar near impossible and now I’m desperate to sell them no one wants them.’

I said sometime affirming and cliché like, ‘You have been made stronger for having survived it.’ Total bullshit but it seemed to have done the trick for she smiled though her tears seem to be just beneath the surface she braved it as if to reward me for allowing her to bleed without judgement. It instantly made me feel rotten for not sitting and allowing her my full attention. She left shortly after this and I hugged her wishing her every happiness.
My love my care,