November 2020 Recap

Over the month my TOpoet.ca blog following grew to 410! The December WP map show my hits have come from around the world. That the USA tops the list is a sign of election fatigue :-). Bangladesh (একটি উষ্ণ স্বাগত) & Italy (Un caldo benvenuto) are now in the top 10! My Tumblr is at 294. Twitter is at 229 followers.

Picture Perfect: 43 sections, about 66,000 words posted so far with 120,000 approx remaining to be edited then posted. I got a little tripped up in sequence & had to double back, as it were, to get the flow back in order. My rough drafts aren’t all done in chronological sequence so when I started this draft I put the individual drafts in order but messed up a bit. Such is life.

everyone’s a critic

TV viewing: Brave New World & War of the Worlds both came to an end. Brave certainly had the look with, for the men, smart costume design – I could believe those futurist business suits & overcoats; but the women suffered from standard illogical, uncomfortable, super-tight dreck. The plot was a bit of a mess & it’s too bad they based it so loosely on its source material. Final episode was clearly open for a season two (which isn’t going to happen.)

At least the Brave wasn’t saddled with the trite backstory family-turmoil that War of the Worlds drowned in. Again very loosely based on the source material but I am enjoying the diversity of the cast, the diversity of locations. Apparently it has been renewed for a second season which I’ll probably keep an eye out for, despite the disappointing reveal in the last minutes. 

Watched an amazing movie: Madeinusa – Spanish, set in Peru. A stranger is stranded in a small mountain village in the midst of one of their religious festivals. The festival reflects the Latino mash up of their ancient beliefs & Catholicism & is stunning. The ritual cutting of the neckties took my breath away. Exceptional & worth searching out.

November was relatively uneventful. Lockdown reduced my outside social distancing even more. The only ripple was an unexpected flare of psoriases – of which I have no previous experience. One morning a trip to emerg to get a rash looked at- they told me what it wasn’t but did know what it was. Referral to dermatology clinic that I went to the next day. The Dr. there took one look & knew what it was. Whew, I guess. It appears as spots not flakes. Anyone want to rub lotion on my back?

Nothing

nothing tastes as good as 

being thin feels

the first glance of anticipation

the sweetest kisses

all lose flavour

in favour of the cling tight snuggle 

skin shrink-wrapped around 

cheeks hipbones

smooth taut as drum

counting ribs more fun

than pulling the petals off a flower

he loves me   thin

<>

the skinny love 

slips between the sheets

cool and light  sheer as linen

that carves the shape of me

pale in the heavy thick night

I waver 

a glimpse of smoke

reach out to stroke

the breathing body beside me

corpulent sighs of pleasure’s resignation

the ghost of a glance come to roost 

for a few chancing movements

not heavy enough to dent the bed

perfection

<>

the weight of sunlight

makes it hard to walk

even buoyed by the adoring glances

of those who envy 

the soundless touch of these feet

on the mass of the earth

my blessed opportunity

to dust dance on mother earth

to float shadowless under father sky 

leave no carbon footprint

<>

my clothes weigh more than I do

wearing next to nothing

next to nothing

who could ask for more

boniness is next to adoration

now to get rid of these bones

become shapeless formless

<>

oh to be free of the body

the encumbrance of personality 

that is invested in this skin

deep in bone density

to lose the self

become the nothing

that tastes better than thin

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sweet, eh? paypal.me/TOpoet

Paul Gauguin

Not all my inspirations were writers. Some were painters, some musicians and some imaginary. At one time I was ‘infatuated’ with Paul Gauguin. I have reproductions of several of his paintings; including the Oriana Maria, The White Horse. I read the 1971 biography ‘Gauguin’s Paradise Lost” by Wayne Anderson repeatedly before lending to someone who never returned it 😦 I’ve read his collected letters.

Looking back I suspect it was his suffering as much as his painterly eye that fascinated me. Like his compatriot Van Gogh, he was derided by his contemporaries. I felt he was a true artist, one not enslaved by marketing, by the need to produce work that would sell. Though he was disappointed that his work didn’t sell, his sense of vision didn’t change.

I envied his travels in Peru, Denmark, Martinique, Tahiti, the Marquesas, & his life in France. I used to dream about my own Tahiti escape, though I’d be more inclined to let the local native men colonize me. It seemed like a time of greater innocence & of a deeper respect for the artist. He also had a gift for titles: “Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?” 🙂 His influence goes on in the art world.

As an inspiration his persistence in following his vision is a passion that I emulate. Sure, I’d love to be a best-seller but writing for marketability isn’t driving me creatively. It never really did. I knew a writer once who was putting down commercial press while trying to come up with a concept that would get her a writing grant. The market she picked was driving her creativity.

There are studies looking at the roots of genius – Van Gogh & poisonous paint (& other mental issues). Gauguin and untreated social disease. There are discussions of their problematic relationships with women filtered though the sensibility of 2019 values. Does it matter? 

Why Why Why

I’ve never figured out why

I prefer hairy to smooth

why what I want rarely wants me

and when it does

I wonder what the hell is going on

I can’t  deal with this

it can’t last

I’m better at longing than getting

there must be some mistake

like those lottery numbers

that I never really believe will line up for me 

if they did would I believe my tired eyes

well I guess I would but

I’m not holding my breath

 

I don’t understand how 

one day he’s all smiles

and the next is at death’s door

how a slap can mean true love

why rescue is the only way to be compassionate

how money can’t buy me

but you can make an offer I might not refuse

I never really figured what he sees in her

what she sees in him

why does the moon shine

when there is no one to make love under it

I don’t get why

the subway is always full 

when I need to sit down

why that cd skips on my favorite song

why I never got past the credits on Friends

I don’t comprehend 

a media so fascinated with 

droopy-eyed doped up babes

that it takes an assassination of a world leader

to get those haggard pop stars

off the front page for a few days

a very few days

 

when did news turn into entertainment

when did hockey become a free-for-all

blood on the ice

more interesting than goals

I don’t understand weather

why one day there is ice

the next day swarms of cuddly nuzzling winds

 

what happened to the good old days 

which actually never existed

for people like me

who just don’t understand

who find it hard enough to decide 

which designer knock-off to wear

without feeling like I’m exploiting someone

why does the world keep on turning

when there is nothing 

but diseased air to turn in

I don’t understand 

but luckily I don’t have to 

in order to be blissful

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http://www.queerslam.com

every Tuesday 2019


June  – Capturing Fire 2019 – Washington D.C.  capfireslam.org 

August 2-13: getting back to my roots in Cape Breton 

Hey! Now you can give me $$$ to defray blog fees & buy coffee in Washington at 2019’s capfireslam.org – sweet,eh? paypal.me/TOpoet

Like my pictures? I post lots on Tumblr

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