Sitting here facing a blank page, the white of the paper, the white of the screen, feel cold like the first snow fall in Montreal.
Like the pristine walls of a newly moved-into apartment, it demands personalization...it demands a nail, a hole, a puncture, a scratch, a sign of occupation, ownership, imprints of a sticky hand or dirty fingers. The white of the paper, the white of the screen feel wrong and passive, submissive, expressionless, neutral, afraid, full, pregnant, hiding something, male, female, impotent. Like the empty pristine walls of a renovated apartment, it demands a degree of imperfection, of pollution, of damage to claim a history, an existence beyond a few hours, beyond a few days...it demands traces of what ever nature to claim roots and glory, a sense of having been there before you came upon it, before you entered, before you noticed, before you even cared, before you mattered this much, this enormously much, before I crowned you king.. to say that it has been ten years, it has been longer than ten years, thirty three years and counting, that these whites, and these walls, have been here, have had occupants, have been touched, scratched, punctured, have felt passive, submissive, afraid, impotent, have remained, will remain, will go on
Saturday, October 08, 2016
There is a beautiful wine glass and scent of aged wine in the spacious cold loft shaped studio of an old actor, there is a portrait of sohrab or the actor's youth on an altar shaped out of work radiator.. there is a night bus to Paris and it is 2 am and im buried under my fall coat with a thick shawl wrapped like a snake around my neck.. im writing to you in desire, im speaking to you in pain, i am waiting in my sleep and there is a night bus to Paris and it is 2:30 am and the dim lights, no the cold, no the thrill of reading you wakes me up in minutely intervals.. the tip of my nose you would once so lovingly write about feels like an ice cube and the road to Paris stretches under us in despair with the end of the road an infinite black sucking us in and the darkness swallows, there is a night bus to Paris and it is some minutes past three am and i am half dreaming half wishing i would dream but i'm writing to you in desire and you are asking me to sleep and there is a beautiful wine glass on the table of the cold loft shaped studio of an old actor who is reciting hossein panahi and the night bus to Paris keeps us in its shadows like a belly of a whale. We grow old in the belly of this whale and I keep waking up to read you
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Thursday, July 21, 2016
The cinammon sprinkle is hugging the surface of my espresso right now.. And when i wrap my fingers around the waist of the white china cup it holds on tight to me , when i bend over to kiss your sunburnt knee the smooth hair on your legs caress my lips and the skin im touching becomes mine momentarily then i think of how my cheek wakes to the roughness of your beard purring like a cat layed out in the sun and what they say about touch on an atomic level or the non-touch..an extreme closeness instead, a repulsion of molecules or a chemical reaction inversely ...
The particles we are made of, our matter.. How much of us is water, metal, fiber, air ...how
Much dead skin is ressucitated against how much dead skin when you touch me ...and if two deaths cancel each other out