The shape of my vision scores the concrete
with little blades of grass-
I am invisible.

little note to ms. del ray

i hate the offhand answers you give in interviews
“i wish i was dead already”
i think you just wish that you could let life fold back in around you as you break the surface
and drown in satin and emeralds, sunsoaked with the moon in your eyes-

i love the frenzy of your existence,
the little contradictions of your desires,
tell me, what is it
to be all else in owned limbs..

the sky was black last night.
as a single star poked through the flint ceiling
i thought of you
and hoped a pair of eyes would one day see you
from the clear air of a mountaintop
see every shining point in your celestial body
and see history
not a mix of spheres.


the word tickled the roof of my mouth
the air a pot of boiling water slashed
with lilac and ghostly esters.
in this stumbling skeleton
i am overcome by the assertions
of the wind and the trees
and even as my body falls away
the world around possesses
and impregnates me
-though my limbic system went to the store 10 years ago never to return-

the world has more right to this body than i do
i will go back to sleep this morning
and let the universal play fill the darkness.

Baudelaire- Hair

O fleece, billowing on her neck! O ecstasy!
O curls, O perfume rich with nonchalance, O rare!.
Tonight to fill the alcove’s warm obscurity,
To make that hair evoke each dormant memory,
I long to wave it like a kerchief in the air.
Africa smoldering and Asia languorous,
A whole far distant world, absent and almost spent,
Dwells in your forest depths, mystic and odorous!
As others lose themselves in the harmonious,
So, love, my heart floats lost upon your haunting scent.
I shall go where both man and tree, albeit strong,
Swoon deep beneath the rays of sunlight’s blazing fires.
Thick tresses, be the waves to bear my dreams along!
Ebony sea, your dazzling dream contains a throng
Of sails, of wafts, of oarsmen, and of masts like spires.
A noisy harbor where my thirsty soul may drain
Hues, sounds and fragrances, in draughts heavy and sweet,
Where vessels gliding down a moiré-and-gold sea lane
Open their vast arms wide to clutch at the domain
Of a pure sky ashimmer with eternal beat.
Deep shall I plunge my head, avid of drunkenness,
In this black sea wherein the other sea lies captured,
And my soul buoyant at its undulant caress
Shall find you once again, O fruitful idleness,
O long lullings of ease, soft, honeyed and enraptured.
O blue-black hair, pennon with sheen and shadow fraught,
You give me back the vast blue skies of dawn and dusk,
As on the downy edges of your tresses, caught
In your soft curls, I grow drunken and hot, distraught
By mingled scents of cocoanut and tar and musk.
Sapphires, rubies, pearls — my hand shall never tire
Of strewing these through your thick mane — how lavishly! —
Lest Life should ever turn you deaf to my desire!
You are the last oasis where I dream, afire,
The gourd whence deep I quaff the wine of memory.

— Jacques LeClercq, Flowers of Evil (Mt Vernon, NY: Peter Pauper Press, 1958)

i’m doing well. i miss you but i’m doing well.

i hope you’re doing well too.

i still love her so much. every time my screen lights up i’m hoping its her asking if we can talk. it never is.

not feeling much anymore the symbolic my-life-is-in-ruins but i am very much feeling the regret of losing someone who you could have worked towards something really great with. maybe we were kind of mismatched in some ways but she really worked to develop things with me, and i wish i had gotten the chance to do the same for her.








“the trope is an intentional structure directed toward an object”

Tolstoy says that realism is akin to provincialism in the sense that it focuses on the particular and transient at the expense of the universal.

There is a similar vein in Canadian writing, though I don’t know if the same terms are applied here. Novels are often very place-based. Bear. Five Legs. Surfacing. The Double-Hook. Badlands. As For Me and My House. A Season in the Life of Emmanuel. In each of these books the protagonists find their selves pitted against the landscape or the milieu they are in. In Bear the compressed Lou finds space to live in the vast calm of Muskoka. In Five Legs the two main characters grind up against the society that they have immersed themslves in, the academic circle, the Kingston ball. The Double-Hook blends the earth with the sky in prarie—- anyways I’m getting away from the point.

I don’t know if all these books could be called realism, it really depends on what you mean by “reality”. What is close to one person’s representation of reality may be quite far away from another’s. Five legs and The Double Hook don’t necessarily strive to be realistic in their representations of space- they are more impressionist, use the landscape as method of talking about humanity as well as cosmic reality. But at the same time, especially in Five Legs, there is a sense of realism that doesn’t come through in other books, a realism of experience. The choppy sentences, sometimes unfinished, the jumping from present to past, thought to observance, doesn’t feel “real” but really strives to be more representative of unconscious as well as conscious determinants of thought/action, which feels unreal because we are often not aware of the ways in which we process information.

The point, which I have not even looked at or dotted my paper with, was supposed to be about how provincialism doesn’t necessarily have to be suggestive of only particulars, that it can contain universal truths as well, if the outsider is willing to look for them.

“Blending in is a privilege only available to a few. Not being judged for your appearance is reserved for fewer yet. The “look of nothing” is never going to be available to those who are marked as “other” because the world has already placed identifiable markers on us. Controlling the way we look, even embracing the fact that we stand out, is a way of challenging this.”


Hm… not sure. Article written by a disabled person against “normcore”. I don’t know if I agree on this “essential other” idea- that the world necessarily places identifiable markers on someone. Is there a difference in terms of physical and psychological markers and response patterns? To what extent do we want ourselves, or does someone else want/not want themselves to be different, and in what capacity ARE we different. If I see a person in a wheelchair I do not immediately judge them on this fact, psychologically. BUT I do make certain physiological judgements, am more prone to hold doors open, offer assistance, move.

I am prone to agree with this argument, but there is something I see here that runs deeper and into more estuaries other than just disabled/race/gender rights, and I don’t know if I agree with that part. To what extent is forced individualism healthy? How much do we create ourselves and how much are we created? Is blending in a privilege or a blight?


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