Standing barefoot in my kitchen, tiptoed...for the floor is so cold. There is a pale fur stole draped across my shoulders, for no reason in particular. One hand occupied with a simmering stovetop--eggs for my roommate and I (breakfast at 1:30 pm), the other leafing through a frayed book of old Cohen poetry. Here is the best one so far--
"Beneath My Hands"
Beneath my hands
your small breasts
are the upturned bellies
of breathing fallen sparrows.
Wherever you move
I hear the sounds of closing wings
of falling wings.
I am speechless
because you have fallen beside me
because your eyelashes
are the spines of tiny fragile animals.
I dread the time
when your mouth
begins to call me a hunter.
When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want to summon
the eyes and hidden mouths
of stone and light and water
to testify against you.
I want them
to surrender before you
the trembling rhyme of your face
from their deep caskets.
When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want my body and my hands
to be pools
for your looking and laughing.
(Cohen, Leonard)
---
Disarray; how come there is clothing stranded everywhere it doesn't belong, water in rivulets all over the floor, stale coffee standing frigid in cups and why is there this pain behind my eyes? I think that is it nothing, really. Just another Saturday, another day skimmed off the calendar like a tree shedding its leaves. My limbs crave warmth, yet I can't see it happening. Candles ignited in the daylight feel startlingly nice. I always thought that fire was a thing of the night, but in the pearly afternoon sky they are very lovely.
In my mind, I wander the streets of a different city...beat a separate heart...feel a breath altogether not my own. It is part imagination, part game. Part real. My lips speak a language I've never known, and everything is the opposite of parallel. It's funny, and indecipherably sad at the same time. Stepping, stepping. I don't know these feet but it seems they recognize me as their own.
Here is the new black: Stop thinking and start feeling.
I can't think of words any more fitting to part with.
With love,
RB.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Based in simplicity.
Between the hiss of the radiators, I ponder why/why not. Either way would be the clearest, but in different ways. Personal philosophy, snaking out the window--in the edgy cool; in the night? You know what's good for you. If I had a flat piece of copper for every time...
Limbs eyes heart head. I'm starting to think that there's no real way of ever knowing. Every once in a stretch of time, a chance licks at your (my) skin like trickling water and it's so easy, almost effortless, to brush it away like a feathery wind or a loose strand of hair. Such a careless, ingrained reaction. Like breath or like eyelashes fluttering tiredness, or a key in the door, shoes tossed off of feet after the longest of days.
The truth here is hardly profound, it is rather just that I want to stop thinking and start feeling. I am reaching blindly in the darkness when it comes to tomorrow and the day(s) after that, but the sensations of this evening, the dying day--that's what is real. Imperfect, but real. And to that, I say yes and yes again.
In parting, here is a bit of an Emily Haines tribute. Her stems kill me (jealous), as does her voice. She is cool and she should know it.
(likes nature)
(perfectly disheveled mane)
(slays)
(exquisite taste in company)
(babe. end of story.)
Practically asleep,
RB.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
I'll take the pictures if you stay in bed...
And I'll take the pictures
If you stay in bed
I'll run down the park
If you put up your head
Don't put up your borderline
Four or five years ago
I wouldn't believe it
I wouldn't receive it
And I'll take the stitches
You put in my head
I'll run down the ark
If you put up your head
Don't put up your borderline
Don't put up your borderline
(genius cred--Sufjan Stevens)
I would nearly venture to say that this is the song of my life. It haunts me and seduces me, smooths me out and stirs me.
It transports me back to Italy...and warmth...and train rides...and a heart on the mend, shard by shard.
*
The first time I realized that you would let me down was cold January, four years ago. I lay feverish and alone in my basement apartment, and I needed you--your fingers like cooling ice on my cheekbones and your scent in the air. You weren't there and I knew in the oblique spaces of my innards that you wouldn't come. That bit like a bonfire through my veins.
Cut/ resist, retain, revive--spring's first streaks of gray, and a faded wooden shack of a cabin. Clear Lake. You and I and the neighbour's dog, walking for coffee in the newborn sunlight down deserted gravel roads. Layers of musty clothing (your grandfather's? your sister's from faded years ago?). We look homeless and we could care less. There is nobody around except for us, as if this humble village of cabins is our own private universe. Back at (our makeshift) home, we brew honey-flavoured tea and shoot it with whiskey. You make dinner, green curry, while I dig myself into a corner of the ragged couch, afghan-clad and book in hands. I break to sift through the tattered collection of records your parents still keep strewn away here--Cohen, Mitchell, Dylan, Young etc. We agree on an old Serge/Jane compilation, and their voices twine around us; twining us together, buttery-smooth. The lazy/sexy sounds melt us into themselves. You lock in with my eyes across the room, this twiggy space between us, and smiles radiate; softness. It is an undeniable exchange, and the heat is like liquid static forming rivulets from me to you and back again.
Once we have devoured our meal of heat and spice, we lay--curry-laden bellies-down--on the chipping slats of the verandah floor. A Scrabble board stretches in the middle of us, filling the gap between our bodies. At first it is serious but then I start inventing words (salinla--a rare type of Balinese worm) and you draw your pipe out from some pocket, somewhere. The sweetened smell of tobacco smoke drifts around us, hanging like a spidery curtain in the dark air...and we have forgotten about our game.
Later, we run down towards the beach, so still and void of sound or movement, you trailing after me. We align ourselves there, in the chilled sand against the water, and then we stop talking. You are in your own thoughts and I in mine. But we are irrevocably joined there, alone in the last dying moments of winter. For the next trailing period of time that we sit there, breathing in the sharp beauty of it all, you only open your lips to say these words--"We should probably never leave here."
"I know," I reply, and lean against the warmth that is the righthand side of your body. It's cold now, and I feel it.
If you stay in bed
I'll run down the park
If you put up your head
Don't put up your borderline
Four or five years ago
I wouldn't believe it
I wouldn't receive it
And I'll take the stitches
You put in my head
I'll run down the ark
If you put up your head
Don't put up your borderline
Don't put up your borderline
(genius cred--Sufjan Stevens)
I would nearly venture to say that this is the song of my life. It haunts me and seduces me, smooths me out and stirs me.
It transports me back to Italy...and warmth...and train rides...and a heart on the mend, shard by shard.
*
The first time I realized that you would let me down was cold January, four years ago. I lay feverish and alone in my basement apartment, and I needed you--your fingers like cooling ice on my cheekbones and your scent in the air. You weren't there and I knew in the oblique spaces of my innards that you wouldn't come. That bit like a bonfire through my veins.
Cut/ resist, retain, revive--spring's first streaks of gray, and a faded wooden shack of a cabin. Clear Lake. You and I and the neighbour's dog, walking for coffee in the newborn sunlight down deserted gravel roads. Layers of musty clothing (your grandfather's? your sister's from faded years ago?). We look homeless and we could care less. There is nobody around except for us, as if this humble village of cabins is our own private universe. Back at (our makeshift) home, we brew honey-flavoured tea and shoot it with whiskey. You make dinner, green curry, while I dig myself into a corner of the ragged couch, afghan-clad and book in hands. I break to sift through the tattered collection of records your parents still keep strewn away here--Cohen, Mitchell, Dylan, Young etc. We agree on an old Serge/Jane compilation, and their voices twine around us; twining us together, buttery-smooth. The lazy/sexy sounds melt us into themselves. You lock in with my eyes across the room, this twiggy space between us, and smiles radiate; softness. It is an undeniable exchange, and the heat is like liquid static forming rivulets from me to you and back again.
Once we have devoured our meal of heat and spice, we lay--curry-laden bellies-down--on the chipping slats of the verandah floor. A Scrabble board stretches in the middle of us, filling the gap between our bodies. At first it is serious but then I start inventing words (salinla--a rare type of Balinese worm) and you draw your pipe out from some pocket, somewhere. The sweetened smell of tobacco smoke drifts around us, hanging like a spidery curtain in the dark air...and we have forgotten about our game.
Later, we run down towards the beach, so still and void of sound or movement, you trailing after me. We align ourselves there, in the chilled sand against the water, and then we stop talking. You are in your own thoughts and I in mine. But we are irrevocably joined there, alone in the last dying moments of winter. For the next trailing period of time that we sit there, breathing in the sharp beauty of it all, you only open your lips to say these words--"We should probably never leave here."
"I know," I reply, and lean against the warmth that is the righthand side of your body. It's cold now, and I feel it.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Purple and black in the day, in the night.
If I could scrape your thoughts naked and siphon them back into our mutual jar of light, would I? I am undecided. Today, right now, draped black from tip to toe--I would say no, without hesitation no. It is, rather, when scent or body language or frail-light touch catch me unaware, that I reconsider. I ask my self why/why not, and all that undefinable space that lingers in between. I hardly even remember the tones of your voice anymore, the shape of your breath--the lifting and the falling of both. For this, I am worshipfully relieved. I would rather stow those months and years and millimeters that make up days in some concealed (yet far from forgotten) cache within the layers of myself--a tiny vial, slender and embroidered with a protective web of skin and blood and tissue. There, I can handle it. I can travel back to it when I feel loose enough, or ready. If details blur; the length of a feathery eyelash or the way that you would go through the motions slowly, ever slowly, then I can peer back into that pristine yet shielded oval hollow of memory, and realize--oh yes, those were the words you used to say goodnight, or that was the way you held your fork. Or I could choose not to, which is drizzling into stronger likelihood with each passing day.
The almond tea laced between my fingers burns the white of my skin, but in a way it feels nice. Like heat with a little searing edge of pain. It energizes, almost. The socks pooled at my feet, now bare, are older than I can even trace back...were they my father's or maybe my brother's or a boyfriend's now long melted away? I can't recall, and I don't even care beyond the point of curiosity. The patchwork of everything--not just the material against my body; all of it from then until now--presses in on my silhouette, sometimes sadness shot through with an injection of light...but usually spirited like a wind that cools.
Back and forth; forth, back...forth and back and over again. A bird winging itself northwards, exhaustion setting in amidst the darts of rain lashing down. Rhythm seduces, and something tells me that it always will. No matter the angle, challenge is almost alluring as it is off-putting. Didn't we always know it would be this way?
Saturday, November 29, 2008
where softness meets urgency...
I am gradually becoming very ready for the land of heat. My current days lace by like river water; mainly uneventful, even, and significant only to myself. There are fitful injections of high/low that keep me in my skin, and aware of unpredictability. This is a good thing, I think. I never want to reach the point where I find myself too comfortable; too ingrained in my routine.
I lay in the dark cave of my living room late the other night in the absence of light, save for a scattering of my roommate's hazelnut candles (delicious) and the glow flung from my fireplace. The heat glazed itself over my body like a salve, calming me after an evening filled with voices layered and music waxing loud and bodies cutting around one another behind a starry-lit bar. And as I lay there, post-activity, post-crowd; the heat snatched me and pulled me into itself. I found myself wondering, is this what it might feel like to live in the throes of a more fiery climate for a little sliver of winter? I hope so. I want to feel that startling sense of calm in the limbs of my body and the beat of my heart. I want to eat fresh fish with my fingers for lunch, and dinner in the dark, and even for breakfast...and I want to do yoga on a quiet stretch of beach and I want to notice my ghostly skin grow a shade bronzer and I want to read poetry and foreign Vogue unabashedly and I want to write until my fingers ache.
The other day, during a session of ripping through my bedroom for god-knows-what, I came across the two journals I filled during my season spent last year in Europe. I dropped to the floor cross-legged, and read through lengthy bits of each. It was like being drawn into an alternate world; I came out of (what became) a sort of retrospective trance with a smile on my lips. I am eager to revive that edge of myself again come February; to again lapse into that inevitable challenge and lightness and joy of being apart and away. I am ready for discovery of an altogether different slice of the globe, and also of myself. I find that being away from home in that semi-permanent fashion allows the luxury of space for unique perspective. Even the prospect of it refreshes me. The nice thing about now, though, is that I have days like this one--sleeping in followed by the slowest of wake-ups, coffee at my fingertips and a walk to the Village in the biting cold sunlight. A lazy visit with the Paramix girls topped off with a steaming bowl of tofu veg peanut soup at Spicy Noodle House, book propped alongside.
Current complaints: none, really.
Days off are sometimes all it takes to feel yourself again.
Peace, etc.
RB
I lay in the dark cave of my living room late the other night in the absence of light, save for a scattering of my roommate's hazelnut candles (delicious) and the glow flung from my fireplace. The heat glazed itself over my body like a salve, calming me after an evening filled with voices layered and music waxing loud and bodies cutting around one another behind a starry-lit bar. And as I lay there, post-activity, post-crowd; the heat snatched me and pulled me into itself. I found myself wondering, is this what it might feel like to live in the throes of a more fiery climate for a little sliver of winter? I hope so. I want to feel that startling sense of calm in the limbs of my body and the beat of my heart. I want to eat fresh fish with my fingers for lunch, and dinner in the dark, and even for breakfast...and I want to do yoga on a quiet stretch of beach and I want to notice my ghostly skin grow a shade bronzer and I want to read poetry and foreign Vogue unabashedly and I want to write until my fingers ache.
The other day, during a session of ripping through my bedroom for god-knows-what, I came across the two journals I filled during my season spent last year in Europe. I dropped to the floor cross-legged, and read through lengthy bits of each. It was like being drawn into an alternate world; I came out of (what became) a sort of retrospective trance with a smile on my lips. I am eager to revive that edge of myself again come February; to again lapse into that inevitable challenge and lightness and joy of being apart and away. I am ready for discovery of an altogether different slice of the globe, and also of myself. I find that being away from home in that semi-permanent fashion allows the luxury of space for unique perspective. Even the prospect of it refreshes me. The nice thing about now, though, is that I have days like this one--sleeping in followed by the slowest of wake-ups, coffee at my fingertips and a walk to the Village in the biting cold sunlight. A lazy visit with the Paramix girls topped off with a steaming bowl of tofu veg peanut soup at Spicy Noodle House, book propped alongside.
Current complaints: none, really.
Days off are sometimes all it takes to feel yourself again.
Peace, etc.
RB
Friday, November 21, 2008
A long long way from home, stop wherever you find yourself.
Self-Interview--
space: my livingoom
time: as the sun dips and night slides over everything
sounds: simon&garfunkel
eats: dark mint chocolate
liquids: licorice tea, ice water
DESCRIBE YOUR CHILDHOOD IN A SINGLE WORD:
Warmth.
WHAT WERE YOU LIKE AS A LITTLE GIRL?
Inquisitive. I asked a lot of questions, or so I am told. Shy. Playful. Wild imagination. Heavily into books. Wide-eyed and hopeful. Free; I remember feeling very free most of the time.
DID YOU HAVE A FAVOURITE BOOK OR FAIRYTALE?
I read my copy of "Anne of Green Gables" until it was in tatters. "Harriet the Spy" was an obsession for a few years straight. Anything by Roald Dahl. "Charlotte's Web." And when I was tiny, "The Growing Tree" (still one of my favourites), "Red is Best", "Rebecca's New Blue Shoes", "Where the Wild Things Are", "Fish is Fish", any and all of Russell Hoban's "Frances" series. I could go on...I was a fierce reader.
AND HOW HAS THIS CHILDHOOD AFFECTED YOU AS A GROWN-UP?
These elements all meshed together to form the organic foundation of who I am. They are the little things, the subtleties, but they are everything.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE ITEM OF CLOTHING?
Tony Chestnut fitted black stretch dress with the sleeves that go on forever--that piece carried me all over Europe. Black leather jacket from Paris. Paper-thin exboyfriend T-shirts. Plaid stolen from my brother. Hobo-esque gray cardigan with the sleeves now worn through.
DOES CREATIVITY COME EASILY TO YOU?
Yes. No. I find it elusive, inspiration that is. I am also often guilty of reaching for a magazine, phone, computer, snack, book and so forth before hunkering down with pen and paper. In the vein of honesty, I really believe that creativity is raw and shouldn't be forced, but I think that there is also definitely something to be said for making it a conscious choice. Unpredictable yet intentional, that's it. Or something.
WHAT DID YOU LAST DREAM ABOUT?
Parasitic worms infesting my bed. It wasn't a happy dream.
WHERE DO YOU CONSIDER HOME?
These days, my apartment would be the first answer off my lips--its messy, humble and lovely. I am thankful for it and in love with it every single day. Home is still also my parents' roost in the country, and a little sliver of my heart continues to linger in St. Boniface in that old red brick house.
WHAT DO YOU HOPE FOR?
A settled mind and a heart that is alive. Joyous days and smooth nights. Simplicity. Satisfaction. Love that doesn't disappoint. A cat winding at my feet. Coffee in the morning, tea through the afternoon and red wine at night. Laughter that comes effortlessly. Inspiration like water streaming rain-like over my body. Continual growth. Copious amounts of silence but also the sound of voices.
WHAT DID YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GREW UP?
A ballet teacher, HA. I think also a nurse for a while. And a writer, always a writer.
WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO LIVE?
By the ocean or on a rooftop in Paris.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SONG TO GO TO SLEEP TO?
I usually fall asleep to the sound of nothing more than my own breath, but if I would have to pick...then I would probably choose something by Iron & Wine or Sufjan Stevens..."Borderline" maybe? Mmmmm yes that one. Or anything Leonard Cohen.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SONG TO WAKE UP TO?
I think that I would choose something happy and energy-giving. Still something with an edge of softness, though. Charlotte Gainsbourg or Beirut. Page France could be nice in the morning too.
TELL US A SECRET:
I spent $80 that I don't have to spend on perfume today. Eeeek. Its gorgeous though. Totally worth it.
WHAT WAS YOUR BEST, SCARIEST HALLOWEEN COSTUME EVER?
I don't know about scariest, but my best was probably Holly Golightly, Audrey Hepburn's charater in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" a couple of years ago. It took the cake. As a kid I remember falling back more than once on the princess-wearing-purple silk-gown-with-shoddy-homemade-crown look. Predictable but classy.
BAM, YOU HAVE FIVE CHILDREN. NAME THEM.
Magnolia Jade (christened after the sweetest slash wildest cat ever)
Audrey
Annick
Isaac
SImon
On that whimsical note, goodnight and goodbye.
XOXO and all that jazz,
R.Louise B.
space: my livingoom
time: as the sun dips and night slides over everything
sounds: simon&garfunkel
eats: dark mint chocolate
liquids: licorice tea, ice water
DESCRIBE YOUR CHILDHOOD IN A SINGLE WORD:
Warmth.
WHAT WERE YOU LIKE AS A LITTLE GIRL?
Inquisitive. I asked a lot of questions, or so I am told. Shy. Playful. Wild imagination. Heavily into books. Wide-eyed and hopeful. Free; I remember feeling very free most of the time.
DID YOU HAVE A FAVOURITE BOOK OR FAIRYTALE?
I read my copy of "Anne of Green Gables" until it was in tatters. "Harriet the Spy" was an obsession for a few years straight. Anything by Roald Dahl. "Charlotte's Web." And when I was tiny, "The Growing Tree" (still one of my favourites), "Red is Best", "Rebecca's New Blue Shoes", "Where the Wild Things Are", "Fish is Fish", any and all of Russell Hoban's "Frances" series. I could go on...I was a fierce reader.
AND HOW HAS THIS CHILDHOOD AFFECTED YOU AS A GROWN-UP?
These elements all meshed together to form the organic foundation of who I am. They are the little things, the subtleties, but they are everything.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE ITEM OF CLOTHING?
Tony Chestnut fitted black stretch dress with the sleeves that go on forever--that piece carried me all over Europe. Black leather jacket from Paris. Paper-thin exboyfriend T-shirts. Plaid stolen from my brother. Hobo-esque gray cardigan with the sleeves now worn through.
DOES CREATIVITY COME EASILY TO YOU?
Yes. No. I find it elusive, inspiration that is. I am also often guilty of reaching for a magazine, phone, computer, snack, book and so forth before hunkering down with pen and paper. In the vein of honesty, I really believe that creativity is raw and shouldn't be forced, but I think that there is also definitely something to be said for making it a conscious choice. Unpredictable yet intentional, that's it. Or something.
WHAT DID YOU LAST DREAM ABOUT?
Parasitic worms infesting my bed. It wasn't a happy dream.
WHERE DO YOU CONSIDER HOME?
These days, my apartment would be the first answer off my lips--its messy, humble and lovely. I am thankful for it and in love with it every single day. Home is still also my parents' roost in the country, and a little sliver of my heart continues to linger in St. Boniface in that old red brick house.
WHAT DO YOU HOPE FOR?
A settled mind and a heart that is alive. Joyous days and smooth nights. Simplicity. Satisfaction. Love that doesn't disappoint. A cat winding at my feet. Coffee in the morning, tea through the afternoon and red wine at night. Laughter that comes effortlessly. Inspiration like water streaming rain-like over my body. Continual growth. Copious amounts of silence but also the sound of voices.
WHAT DID YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GREW UP?
A ballet teacher, HA. I think also a nurse for a while. And a writer, always a writer.
WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO LIVE?
By the ocean or on a rooftop in Paris.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SONG TO GO TO SLEEP TO?
I usually fall asleep to the sound of nothing more than my own breath, but if I would have to pick...then I would probably choose something by Iron & Wine or Sufjan Stevens..."Borderline" maybe? Mmmmm yes that one. Or anything Leonard Cohen.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SONG TO WAKE UP TO?
I think that I would choose something happy and energy-giving. Still something with an edge of softness, though. Charlotte Gainsbourg or Beirut. Page France could be nice in the morning too.
TELL US A SECRET:
I spent $80 that I don't have to spend on perfume today. Eeeek. Its gorgeous though. Totally worth it.
WHAT WAS YOUR BEST, SCARIEST HALLOWEEN COSTUME EVER?
I don't know about scariest, but my best was probably Holly Golightly, Audrey Hepburn's charater in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" a couple of years ago. It took the cake. As a kid I remember falling back more than once on the princess-wearing-purple silk-gown-with-shoddy-homemade-crown look. Predictable but classy.
BAM, YOU HAVE FIVE CHILDREN. NAME THEM.
Magnolia Jade (christened after the sweetest slash wildest cat ever)
Audrey
Annick
Isaac
SImon
On that whimsical note, goodnight and goodbye.
XOXO and all that jazz,
R.Louise B.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
matter/antimatter, tangled like vines...
On this rooftop where we're sitting
In the rays of the setting sun
Glasses of wine on a crate between us
Catch the light -- seem to glow from within
And there's a laugh
Hanging in the air
And there's no
Desperation anywhere
So many miles, so many doors
Some need patience, some need force
All fall open in their own due course
To allow us this time
And your limned
In light, golden and thin
Looks to me
Like you're lit up from within
And look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
To paint you
This way
And I picture us in this light
Friendship a fine silver web
Stretched across golden smoky haze
And this is simple
And this is grace
And this light
Is a guest from far away
Passing through
The last whisper of day
And look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
To paint you
This way
(Look How Far--Bruce C.)
In the rays of the setting sun
Glasses of wine on a crate between us
Catch the light -- seem to glow from within
And there's a laugh
Hanging in the air
And there's no
Desperation anywhere
So many miles, so many doors
Some need patience, some need force
All fall open in their own due course
To allow us this time
And your limned
In light, golden and thin
Looks to me
Like you're lit up from within
And look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
To paint you
This way
And I picture us in this light
Friendship a fine silver web
Stretched across golden smoky haze
And this is simple
And this is grace
And this light
Is a guest from far away
Passing through
The last whisper of day
And look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
To paint you
This way
(Look How Far--Bruce C.)
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