in the fifth grade, we were given the task of choosing
a poem to memorize and recite before the class.
my father suggested this one to me,
and i remember at the time, even as a child,
recognizing its relevance, and being quite struck with it.
it is no less so, now..
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
-The Second Coming, W.B. Yeats
-LIVING IN THE 13TH CENTURY-
all wars are one war.
this is one no different-
it may seem like ours,
but it isn’t, really.
it seems that way because it’s televised, sensationalized
it’s occuring in our lifetime, and unlike any other war
that’s happened in our timeframe, this one makes us feel threatened.
in this country, the battlefields are older and smaller,
covered with grass and bare whispers of the fallen-
you can’t smell the blood in your nose,
and no one in your family has had their legs blown off.
“From early morn unto eve
And from eve unto dawn
Tempered arrows fly…”
“…On dawn of the sixth day the pagan warriors began to storm the city, some with firebrands, some with battering rams, and others with countless scaling ladders for ascending the walls of the city. And they took the city of Riazan on the 21st day of December…And the Tartars cut down many people, including women and children…And they killed without exception all monks and priests. And churches of God were destroyed, and much blood was spilled on the holy altars. And not one man remained alive in the city. All were dead. All had drunk the same bitter cup to the dregs…” -Zenkovsky, p. 179.
this is a musing on the cyclical nature of time, and the apparently constant memes twining throughout the history of our life on this planet, our civilisation.
honestly, i don’t see the point in this, or any of the wars- though i’m sure they could be pointed out- whether it would matter or not is debatable, since i’m not a believer of utopia, at least not a utopia on any kind of grand, global scale..

the air was blue
and golden-
the wind was blowing through the open doors,
birds follow the currents and get trapped,
caught in the web of music, batting against the high ceilings..
but today it’s only the paper cut-outs, making sounds
like the moths do when they can’t find their way to a light.
the springtime has undeniably arrived,
bearing witness to its own burgeoning effulgence
in the snow-white and heady purple japanese magnolias
which are so magnificent this time of year..
light blossoms on bare black branches.
the sugar scent in the air, wet with ozone..
rain dripping steadily from boughs of mountain laurel,
and all around me burning green, green…
life has come again, and change in its turnings
ever-present, the first tendrils extend into an unknown future-
new patterns resolve themselves, the delicate ration of nature
each transformation in sequence; a set, a system, a spiral.
re-train every fibre of self into a new form-
this can be done by sheer force of will,
and in it, there is room for grace.
“dualities perhaps would fascinate her, glimpsed reflections, coincidences of course.”

in which life becomes a fantastical blur
of bodies in motion and at rest
(though rest for me is so fleeting of late)
as i am seem to be always moving on my feet
between working two quite kickass jobs
and smoothing out the kinks in various projects,
drawing, writing, reading, singing..
sleep? who needs it? i can do that when i am dead.
until then, and in the meantime-
my days are filled up with everyday antics,
though the parades have ended,
and the streets are so blissfully empty now-
wet with the aftermath of spring storms
and i, with ears ringing from the mad bombast
of gogol bordello, those crazy ukranians
that induced us to dance mad gypsy-ska tarantellas for hours
and get soaked to the bone, for the second time today-
though not in a sudden thunderstorm, the music made
the sweat pours off me in currents and rivulets
because i could not stop moving my feet, my hips and hands
shaking to the pounding of huge drums and violin-
i’m riding my bicycle alone and singing loud and careless of who hears
and all around it is so very very quiet!
“KOGOA VZDIDJET ZVEZDA HULIGANJETTA
not through shortcuts through the woods
not through undertable goods
but through its very golden gates
all i ever ask don’t let them change you!
..and the relatives from abroad..
mama papa djadja tjotja .. vzjali!
listen..blood speaks to you..
listen..you know it’s true..
listen..when i was little kid..
listen..of course i did..
NO VZOSHLA ZVEZDA HULIGANJETTA”
i’m such a sucker for eastern europeans.
i spent all the money i had in my boot
on their album- MULTI KONTRA CULTI VS. IRONY
catch them when they come to your town or you’re a damned fool.

it had been so long since i had traversed roads untrodden-
a liberating feeling, to break away from the daily pattern;
to and fro, hither and thither and yon..
by bus and bicycle for farther afield,
and how wonderful to be anonymous, and silent
as i knew no one.
i can feel the yen for travel itching in my throat.
i must wander soon and soon,
and as i am officially now a server of sushi
i pray the spot cash money will start rolling in
and restore the piteous state of my financial affairs so that i may..
i wouldn’t be eating anything but 80 cent thai noodle boxes
if it weren’t for my beloved grampapa, who likes to have dinner out..
tonight we dined on shrimp bisque and tchoupick caviar with creme fraiche, how decadent.
(and won’t someone please assist me in being diacritical on this machine?)
i wandered into a horrible petshop today where it stunk like warm death.
all the animals were terribly listless and glazed and the odour was nearly unbearable.
a cage packed to capacity with young iguanas, totally motionless,
until i snapped my fingers- startling them into a mad panic, and me as well..
the only nice thing, a dim-witted dove, a white one- though i prefer the grey ones,
with ringnecks, as they are slightly less dimwitted, or so they seem to me.
one day i shall have a large stained glass dovecote
and in the evening, from the verandah, we can sit and listen to them..
oh, and we received another wonderful parcel today!
the letter enclosed read:
“greetings from iceland
enjoy the little blue ones
love always
mr. shade”
and here is what he sent…

yes indeed, my little yickens, the madness has finally passed-
mardi gras is officially over, and now we can go back, thank heavens, to our
regularly scheduled program, with 90% less retarded, drunken tourons getting underfoot..
since i lost my tooth, i really have been the biggest ninny-granny, it is true-
i begged out of lundi gras festivities due to rain and somnolence,
and also in order to wake up at an ungodly early hour to don my finery
and catch the saint ann’s parade, which was as always, the highlight of my mardi gras..
all in all, we had a lovely one- though we did miss the indians and the zulu parade-
but you just can’t do it all, especially when you are in full late 18th century regalia,
corset, wig, copper-wire panniers and petticoats and all-
and pushing a wheelchair in which resides my beloved 89 year old grampapa,
-his first mardi gras- i think he loved it, found it marvelous..
many scantily-clad lasses bestowed him with kisses and beads,
which he enjoyed mightily, i’m sure..
it was wonderful to have him here for it, and to show him my world..
all the costumes were so amazing, and witty and clever-
my favorites were the hello kitty vibrator, the lollipop guild munchkins,
the peking opera actors, and hmm..the saint nino de atocha was quite fabulous,
as well as miss jackie’s yemaya, which sadly, i got no picture of..
all day, everyone was laughing and smiling- it made me truly happy to see it..
hahah, lent is great- i found myself spending my rent money at this fantastic belgian chocolatiers- eve white, with apricot cream! manon dark, with creme de banane!
oh mercy me!
repent, you fucking savages, repent!
today was all light, and half-light-
more pointless arguments, endless errands, letters notarized, emotions summarized..
our foreheads doused in ashes on this- wotan’s day,
the hazy feeling in my throat, the fog that never lifted-
it blocks out the skyscrapers, so that if you squint, it could be one hundred years ago.
out the window, the streetlight snakes amber through black branches,
the night outside- a jewelbox spilling topaz into the heavy clouds of mist..
here’s some fotographs for now-

hmm..
another grey day
in which
i ran errands diligently,
good girl that i am.
i think i may have a second job in the bag-
waitressing at wasabi, a sushi restaurant.
which will mean more money and less time-
likely a good thing for me, in my current
emminently distractable state..
i need money so that i can escape the
boiling cinder-pit this city becomes in summer
and i have at least 3 locales on my list:
possibly venturing to the meditteranean with
my eighty-nine year old grandfather,
going to upstate new york for the wedding of the pocketmouse princess,
and roving oregon with miss violet,
to gather herbs and sleep in neptune’s cave..
would that i had time and money to do them all!
also today, the review of the dollshow came out-
it is 2 or 3 pages long, with nice photographs,
but i’m very vexed and irritated that the art critic
pointedly ignored my request to leave any and all references
to some sort of gothic subculture leanings out of the article..
he began the damn thing with ridiculous references to anne rice
and eyeliner and fucking ozzy osbourne, for pete’s sakes-
none of which had anything to do with the show in the least.
oh well. if you miss the point, you miss the point-
i just wish he didn’t have to mislead the rest of new orleans
into missing it as well. alas, what utter drivel!
oh, and-
my tooth just fell out.
a temporary crown, actually- but still,
it’s such a disturbing, incredibly wrong sensation-
to have this hole in my mouth with a weird little peg-
and no tooth, or even semblance of tooth.
it’s all the way in the back, so i don’t resemble a carny,
but i can’t keep myself from tonguing it every now and then
and giving myself the heebie-jeebies.
the fairytale ball for the mystick krewe of pussycats is this evening,
and i really should attend, but i truly do not feel like dressing up and debauching..
i feel like making tea and finishing my book,
and then starting on another one.
though, that’s what i was up to last night
rather than going to the krewe de poux bumper-car extravaganza..
i’m such an old lady these days..where’s my knitting?
it doesn’t feel like mardi gras in the slightest to me, yet.

I ARRIVED IN THAT TOWN, EVERYONE GREETED ME AND I RECOGNIZED NO ONE. WHEN I WAS GOING TO READ MY VERSES, THE DEVIL, HIDDEN BEHIND A TREE, CALLED OUT TO ME SARCASTICALLY AND FILLED MY HANDS WITH NEWSPAPER CLIPPINGS
this is the title of a poem by J.V. Foix (1893-1987)
the poem doesn’t appeal to me, but the title fits perfectly..
CONFLICT:
RESOLUTION OF CONFLICT-
AVOIDANCE OF CONFLICT.
that is my little poem, and thinking about it exhausts me, utterly.
my instincts are to run, and to keep on running-
but with my dwindling resources, my responsibilites to my enclave
and my dusty museum of posession, possessions-
there is nowhere else to go..
i daydream about being alone, completely.
this is the other world; the escapist reverie
where i answer only to myself, and there is no one to piss off
except myself.
relinquish this repugnant victimhood-
it does you no good.

i woke this morning to the sound of wind and weeping,
the remnants of my dreams fled on satin tiptoes
as i buried myself in the sheets..
a day of internal silence, and external cacophony:
every irritating noise you could imagine
flooding in through the open french doors..
still, we crept about in our haze,
planting harlequin pansies, fiery cyclamen,
red roses and cobalt star-asters
birds of paradise, bee-balm and cypress vine..
i swept the dust from the mantle, i laid out the cards
one by one- but not for me as the sun set low behind the trees..
today, a day of stilted diplomacy, and liquid lingerings.
see this film:
-anchoress-
it takes place in the (calamitous) 14th century,
(ah, an age so dear to my heart!)
a young girl is walled up in a tiny cell,
in order to devote her life to the contemplation
of the mysteries of the virgin..
until her mother is denounced as a witch,
and she must dig her way out to save her..
it is beautifully photographed, stark and lush
all at once- the twisting plaits of the virgin,
the beetle on the sackcloth, the goat in the grass-
pornographic visions embroidered on velvet,
rendered in silver and gold thread-
the beating of wings, the dove in captivity:
the eternal sin of woman.

Adam lay ibounden,
Bounden in a bond.
Four thousand winter
Thoght he not too long.
And all was for an appil,
And appil that he tok,
As clerkes finden
Wreten in here book.
Ne hadde the appil take ben,
The appil taken ben,
Ne hadde never our lady
A ben hevene quene.
Blessed be the time
That appil take was,
Therefore we moun singen
Deo gracias.

it never ceases to amaze me how certain music can just
take the living heart right out of you
and throw it on the floor
and turn it into a dusty, bloody stew of longing-
with just some words and a tangled jumble of notes,
it can just come right out
and kill you.
in other news,
please do see jan svankemajer’s little otik,
about a baby made of roots that eats and eats and eats
everything in sight..
and have some green tea-ginger ice cream while you’re at it..
i have a wide expanse of clean floor before me,
i swept it while the cold air blew in-
dancing with the broom in the afternoon light..
can you see me spinning there?
i’m keeping my secrets to myself
i’ll take it dancing in sock feet on the slippery wood parquet
i’ll drink my tea in the rocking chair in the setting sun,
and think about my other life.

in another life i come home late,
it’s dark and i live alone
i sit on the edge of the bed and kick off my shoes
flick a switch and music floods the room though i leave
the lights off..
the street light pours in from the window
artificial moon..
there’s no one but me
no one to wake up with the music
no one to come home to
no one to answer to save myself
for the various messes,
the tasks, the toils-
all mine.
i can sit and contemplate it
in this other life,
are things less complicated?
i couldn’t tell you.
it’s not the life i have
anymore.