All Weather/Swoon Letter

Danse dans la neige, 1948
photographs by Maurice Perron, gelatin silver prints
Musée national des beaux-arts du Québec
http://www.canadacouncil.ca/

Yesterday my boss told me that Francoise Sullivan, dancer, painter, sculptor, muse, fascinating figure, will be in town on Monday afternoon to celebrate the restoration of a sculpture for display and a fim screening, to which I cried No! because I had no idea and had scheduled a meeting at 1:30. I did not actually cry out, I made a disappointed face and sadly said "Oh I have a meeting at 1:30" resigned to my fate.


Yesterday I also ran into the one I like best. I have resigned myself to the fact (notion) that anything I interpret as interest is basic human decency, or simply the fact that he is interested in al things and people, just not me romantically.

So there's that disappointment as well. Oh well. It's missing out on making out, not an appearance by an iconic Canadian arts legend.

Hello Sore Throat My Old Friend

And you also make the case that catching a cold is not always bad news.

It gives us a chance to get off the merry-go-round for a few days. Because it causes malaise and it makes it so hard to concentrate, it's a way for the body to tell you to slow down for a few days. It's a chance for uninterrupted reading, which few of us get to indulge in the way we used to. The other possible silver lining -- and these are based on very tentative, preliminary epidemiological evidence that I offer with caution -- there were some results that came out of the studies on swine flu that suggest having a cold may actually keep flu at bay. This is controversial, but it is a possibility and scientists are looking at this now.

http://www.salon.com/books/feature/2010/09/19/jennifer_ackerman_common_cold_interview/index.html

Or, if you have some variation of a cold or flu every two months, you look unprofessional as you hack & slouch your way through work or weak & lazy because you stay home and your head is too muddled to read so you watch an endless amount of bad movies on YouTube.

Incoherent Upsets All Over

September 16: Miss Moody, watch your words.

I am not a poet. I won't claim to have any of the drive the dedication required, nor any modicum of talent (I ramble too much, I rhyme all the time, I rhapsodize romance). Therefore I hate when I judge a poem as not good or not great or simply boring or I could do better. Because I could not do better. That is a boldfaced lie. I do not have a need to write poetry. However my need to read poetry is another matter altogether.

Consider: hierarchy of needs: food & water, shelter & sleep... hierarchy of desires: books and men, poetry and shoulders. Airy spaces, the quality of light, the surface of things, the right weight of fabrics. Coffee & tea, music, sculpture, installations, theatre, wine & vermouth.

There is nothing so upsetting than _______, _________ poems packaged in a slick that bothers my fingers-- I'm talking to you revamp of __________, I don't like change and the only poems I think I like in this issue are the __________'s. I think I like them, I'm not stamping my feet in the magazine shop clutching the issue to my chest until I get home, I'm not rolling any one line round and round my brain and tongue, I actually rolled the entire MAGAZINE, not newspaper, into my bag and forgot about it until just now.

Maybe I simply hate everything about this issue because I am (simply) in a foul mood today? This is not a blog, this just a journal because I have realized that I can no longer fully truly write on paper anymore and I do not know how to fix this (boldfaced). What I mean to say is, tell me about this grey sulk, this slow sick feeling like weak tea or wet socks, yet hot like jealousy, like a sweater unraveling faster and faster as I pull at what started as (simply) one small loose thread:

I went to the library where I coudn't find anything rien du tout and where usually the gallery has just consistently great shows except our city has been taken over by art commissioned to celebrate the sports team centennial so I just didn't bother to go in.

After a day where work made me inexplicably grumpy for no damn reason, events and events and a knot of stress over tomorrow night's.

And running into the one I like best after the library and mall made me a bit upset, maybe because I don't like unexpected things even though it was expected if I could only remember what day of the week it is or even just thought back to something he said earlier in the day.

Or because I had just braved the mall to try to find thin gloves or mittens but all I found was nothing but disappoinment. Like in the romance department. Make outs and fall mittens without sequins, too much to ask for? Possibly, that's what poetry is for. Also, it seems as if the romance department is a section of The Bay, but even if it was I bet it would be "Sometimes I look at this pair of mittens and I think they are just as intrigued by me as I am by them" but face it I am hallucinating. Mittens will never return your affection. Mittens are just too damn interesting and intelligent for someone who compares people to winter accessories and mixes her metaphors and meanings like the worlds worst bartender.

And the cat just knocked over a dish of hairpins all over the bathroom floor. The other night she broke a small mug I adored.

So while I am sometimes most of the time unbearably positive and esctatic and nervous with delight, I am now sulking like a brat beacuse I can't find a single new poem that makes me lose my mind and I just had to throw the __________ down because the texture is making my skin crawl. Also what I really wanted was the new issue of the __________ but it isn't in yet. It too apparenty has a redesigned cover but it looks nice and as long as it doesn't get a petroleum slick finish, we will be okay. Everything will be okay. Maybe you should just get some sleep, you cranky petulant pouting child?

Two Men, Two Bicycles

The other night, I cut through the park on my way home in the early evening, an older man biked past me, then turned round. "Can I ride beside you?" He inquired. "It's not a good idea to walk alone." No, but thank you, I'm fine, I smiled curtly and continued walking, trying to keep brusque from my voice and brisk from my pace. " He continued on his way at a slower pace looking back every now and then, waited at the exit to ensure that I made it through alive. As he rode off, leaving my safety to the cars along the street, I felt bad for my horrified first thought of "So that's how I die."

This morning, I bundle breezed through the park, grey water and grey tights, past the buildings and green spaces the City Beautiful as referenced at Friday's panel. And then the one I like best, on his bicycle, with mittens and scarf and a hair cut. He used old fashioned expressions ("Good gracious, is that this week?") and continues to steal my heart to the point where I am walking about my blood and lungs powered not by biology but blue green grey eyes. So that's how I die.

The new Paris Review will have Lydia Davis & Frederick Seidel, so there's also that. Look, it's Fred Seidel on a motorcycle! The internet will always have what I need!

Last night I went to a panel talk/opening reception. The Toril Johannessen peice above has nothing to do with the show (natural Forms, reflections on representations, the artifice of nature). However, last night involved logical acts being disrupted by thoughts of "love" as I ran into the one I find intriguing and he left the conversation & room he was in to talk, saying that he had wanted to mention the show to me earlier in the day but here I was of my own accord while I blathered on about how much I loved this one peice and too many sweaters and then I just abruptly said "Well, I'm going to head in" and took a seat in silence for five minutes before the talk started while he went back to mingling with people. Smooth moves! Especially leaving before the reception party which he was dj/vj'ing started! Good times! Wouldn't it be nice if social anxiety automaticaly meant asexuality and aromanticism?