Report from a fusion Canadian-American thanksgiving: high-fived by security guard for dancing strip-the-willow in a far too narrow corridor because it’s also St Andrew’s Day (luckily there were other scots because I can’t dance for any money)
I am practicing reading for the open studio on Wednesday. Seems all I can manage is a slightly sardonic tone. Ach.
Anyway, this is ~6 minutes of sexual tension told dry.
Rules For Dating My Daughter: A T-Shirt top-ten-rules These rules are asinine. I have rewritten the top 10 rules for dating my daughter below. They supersede the previous rules.
- Daughters cannot be created, nor destroyed.
- No outside food or drinks. They must be purchased from my daughter.
- An illegal attempt to deceive my daughter will be considered a balk.
- If my daughter lands on a triple word score, multiply her by three.
- A daughter in motion will tend to stay in motion.
- No one may place their hands on my daughter, except for the goalie.
- My daughter is anonymous. She is legion. She never forgives.
- You must raise your hand to talk to my daughter.
- The pressure exerted by my daughter is inversely proportional to her volume, if her temperature remains constant.
- If this is your first night, you must be my daughter.
This is the absolute best.
(A daughter in motion tends to stay in motion)
no - i feel like i searched for that kind of thing at that age and learned a lot that i wouldn’t otherwise from reading.
Thank you. The boy’s mother will be there. I might say something to her beforehand. I read a lot of mind-opening stuff when young, but it was all private reading. Not spoken aloud, so -
I also feel I already have a reputation here as weird, having heard it a number of times from different people. I’m trying to make art to the best of my abilities without getting run down by this kind of response. But it will temper me in public, I think.
I’m going to be giving a reading on this residency quite shortly and have discovered something already:
my writing is not so suitable for kids (there will be one 11 year old there).
No, I mean. I didn’t realise. My second ms. There is a lot of sexual tension and sensuality and a fuck (word or otherwise) on every page and lots of blood and desperation.
The third ms I’m working on now is a bit less so. But I’m not ready to share that. So. Plans? I don’t know. Would a bit of adult level writing be that bad for a kid?
Cabin in the woods [x]
Still in recovery from this place (my heart, my wood-chopping hands)
- by Mary Oliver
Needing one, I invented her -
the great-great-aunt dark as hickory
called Shining-Leaf, or Drifting-Cloud
Dear aunt, I’d call into the leaves,
and she’d rise up, like an old log in a pool,
and whisper in a language only the two of us knew
the word that meant follow,
and we’d travel
cheerful as birds
out of the dusty town and into the trees
where she would change us both into something quicker -
two foxes with black feet,
two snakes green as ribbons,
two shimmering fish - and all day we’d travel.
At day’s end she’d leave me back at my own door
with the rest of my family,
who were kind, but solid as wood
and rarely wandered. While she,
old twist of feathers and birch bark,
would walk in circles wide as rain and then
scattering the rags of twilight
on fluttering moth wings;
or she’d slouch from the barn like a gray opossum;
or she’d hang in the milky moonlight
burning like a medallion,
this bone dream, this friend I had to have,
this old woman made out of leaves.
‘Aunt Leaf' by Mary Oliverportermoto)
There is nothing peaceful about the landscape here. The magnitude, the blue-as-blue frozen waterfalls in protruding spikes and flows. Even the snow has a kind of deadly voluptuousness. Someone told me that the rock under the Banff Centre is rose quartz, and that this causes strange dreams and openness. I don’t believe in crystals. But I believe in landscape. And I feel like I should burst into flames at any moment here.