Simple truths are best

June 24, 2018

creeping up on us

June 17, 2018

Leo Putz - Behind the Scenes

Something has happened. But how? Was it overnight, or has it been creeping up on us and we’ve only just noticed? It’s the girls, the young and pretty girls. They used to sing like sirens, like mermaids, all sweet and liquid, breezy melodies, wavy melodies, but now they’re shorn of melody, though their mouths open and close as before. Have their tongues been cut out? This is true as well of the cries of babies, the wailing at funerals, the screams that used to arise, especially at night, from the mad, from the tortured. It’s the same thing with the birds: flying as before, spreading out their feathers as before, heads thrown back, beaks gaping, but they’re mute. Mute, or muted? Who has been at work, with a great carpet of invisible snow that blots out sound? Listen: the leaves no longer rustle, the wind no longer sighs, our hearts no longer beat. They’ve fallen silent. Fallen, as if into the earth. Or is it we who have fallen? Perhaps it’s not the world that is soundless but we who are deaf. What membrane seals us off, from the music we used to dance to? Why can’t we hear?

Margaret Atwood
Something Has Happened – from The Tent

My first love

June 5, 2018

My first love was silence.
I built myself from scratch
and no one listened.
This was the best time of my life.
I used to carry the clothes
to the laundry room
and pray for all the fog
in the world to surround me.
I’d let my thoughts
catch rides
with passing airplanes.
All that womanhood
caught in the roof
of my mouth
was like honey.
I knew it would never
go bad
so I never said a word
about it.

Joshua Jennifer Espinoza

Silence

May 27, 2018

sitting in the flood

Those who know me in my life beyond the page are likely amused to read me expounding with such reverence on the subject of silence, since I avoid it strenuously. Or is it as Kafka wrote to his lover Felice in 1916: does “silence avoid me, as water on the beach avoids stranded fish”? There is something involuntary in my speaking, the flapping and flailing of my desperate tongue. Silence is generally associated with passivity and expression with action, but for me silence requires the greater effort. My mind turns again to drowning: the poet Seamus Heaney spent his childhood on a small farm in Ireland where each spring his family forced the overflow of newborn puppies below the surface of a barrel of water. Their sputter, their squirm, then their stillness: this is how it feels to hold words back. “The strain,” Kafka writes elsewhere, “of keeping down living forces.” Silence is the water that fish breathe, but for puppies it’s what kills them. What kind of creature am I?

Carina del Valle Schorske
On the Perilous Potential of Feminist Silence

Baubo2

Once the goddess Demeter learned that her daughter Persephone had been abducted by Hades with Zeus’s permission, the pain of her loss was even sharper. She left Olympus and withdrew from the company of the gods, and wandered on earth, hiding her divine beauty disguised as a woman beyond childbearing. One day she appeared in Eleusis and sat by the well where the daughters of Celeus, the ruler of Eleusis, came to draw water. Curious about the stranger in their midst, they talked with her and found that she sought employment as a nursemaid. They led her home to meet their mother Metanira who had given birth to a baby boy. When the goddess put her foot on the threshold and touched her head on the ceiling, momentarily the doorway filled with divine light. Awed, Metanira, who had been seated with her infant son in her lap, immediately offered Demeter her own splendid couch and finest wine, which the goddess declined. The sight of a mother and child must have stirred memories and longing for her missing daughter because Demeter became mute and stood with her eyes downcast, until the servant Baubo brought her a simple chair. She then sat in grief-stricken silence from which no one could draw her out, until Baubo cheered the goddess with her bawdy humour. Her jests brought a smile, and then, when she lifted her skirt and exposed herself, Demeter laughed and was restored. Then she accepted a simple drink of barley water and mint, and agreed to become the baby’s nursemaid (a temporary solace in the mid-portion of the myth).

Winifred Milius Lubell
The Metamorphosis of Baubo: Myths of Woman’s Sexual Energy

Using silence as a punishment is like letting fly doves that carry freedom on their wings. That’s how you are. A dove open to my wishes, my desires – pleasing me, and in my pleasure finding yours …

Understanding each other without speaking. Wonderful.

Four or five pints on a Friday night in the company of good friends is eminently satisfying –

I love moments of silent submission –

Her apple breasts 
Beneath her vest
Will taste the best

He’s sure…

The natural flow of wetness
He hopes to taste once more…

I love doughnuts –

And pizza –

Oh! and chocolate – food of the Gods! Ambrosia! Conferring immortality! Carried to us by clouds of doves –

I love bringing people together –

My love of Merlot is almost legendary. The amount I consume puts Dionysus to shame. It is the elixir of life –

Go bring to me a pint o wine,
And fill it in a silver tassie;
That I may drink, before I go,
A service to my bonie lassie…

Robbie Burns loved a drink too, eh?

Coffee, too, is essential for continued wellbeing.

I love people who daydream and talk to themselves; I love them because they are here, and yet elsewhere –

the sea licks the thighs of the earth
and the earth surrenders
in utter pleasure…

This says it all…

January 12, 2018

You want me to perform this?

September 30, 2017

Delightfully Sticky Chaos

August 3, 2017

3rd August

Mood today: ash-grey.

I seek for something beyond the shadow of a translucent tear. Obscurity, perhaps? Or extinction forever? Why don’t you chose?

We should be silent if silence makes us happy. Our love should not be spoken of because words are lies. Speech is a betrayal of self. It should be enough just to look at each other and hold each other’s gaze –

Your eyes seen in a dream like this one, seem huge to me. Haunted by night and its many ambiguities. In these eyes, your secret eyes, only the unreal exists. They contemplate invisible beauties and not me –

We must love. Must feel. We are here to be engulfed, to taste danger, risk hurt. And when we’re betrayed, abandoned, wounded or left broken, then we should sit and listen to the apples falling from the tree in the night. Count them if you will. Those apples falling in heaps around you, their sweetness rotting into the ground – that is the true meaning of life!

Yes, yes, it’s true. I’m a collector of beautiful moments. Remember walking naked into the sea at midnight? All those wonderful stars overhead and the sound of the waves breaking over the beach. And our laughter, the four of us, when the policeman flashed his torchlight at us from the pier. Magical that moment.