fromthemouthofmoi

If You Knew Ellen Bass What if you knew you’d be the last to touch someone? If you were taking tickets, for example, at the theater, tearing them, giving back the ragged stubs, you might take care to touch that palm, brush your fingertips along the life line’s crease. When a man pulls his wheeled suitcase too slowly through the airport, when the car in front of me doesn’t signal, when the clerk at the pharmacy won’t say Thank you, I don’t remember they’re going to die. A friend told me she’d been with her aunt. They’d just had lunch and the waiter, a young gay man with plum black eyes, joked as he served the coffee, kissed her aunt’s powdered cheek when they left. Then they walked half a block and her aunt dropped dead on the sidewalk. How close does the dragon’s spume have to come? How wide does the crack in heaven have to split? What would people look like if we could see them as they are, soaked in honey, stung and swollen, reckless, pinned agai

I feel a level of panic. None of this feels psychotic but what I am going to write may sound psychotic. I just feel shaken, but I feel safe. The panic I think, just hear me out, is that I am dying. That I am preparing to go. Stay with me on this... Back in the late 70's I met a man in New York City whom I shall refer to here as, C. He was visiting from Denmark. We met on a subway platform headed downtown. He approached me to ask for directions and it just so happened that where he wanted to go, I was going too. I was on my way to a party on the Lower East Side but I did not tell him this as I didn't want him to think I was inviting him. I took him to Phoebe’s, a restaurant/bar around the corner from the party to talk with him further. During the conversation, he drew a picture of me and we continued to enjoy one another just spending time talking. At one point I excused myself from the table and went to call the hosts of the party, The McKenna’s, to ask if I might invite

I have made many quilts in my life. I learned to quilt in Westchester, when I lived in Crompond, New York, just outside of Poughkeepsie. I quilt when I love. In 1997 I made my first quilt for Ericle. That quilt, when I still had a beautiful oak quilting frame, took me over a year to complete. Piecing fabric is actually the easy part. It is the quilting, the hand sewn designs that bind three layers together, which takes the most time. I will not tell you that I am a great quilter at all, but that quilt was asked to be exhibited in the local library for an exhibition of local quilters. The public enjoyed it before Ericle did.  The pattern I used was, Jacob's Ladder Crisscross. Quilts are constructed of squares for the most part and Jacob's Ladder Crisscross constantly fooled my eye, (as well as everyone else), because it is very difficult to see where the square is for that pattern. In the photograph below, I've highlighted the square which gets repeated, because otherwise

Years before my dad died I asked him what kind of funeral did he wish to have. He said he wanted to be buried in a pine box. When he died, we got a pine box and had it delivered to the funeral home. It was the kind you had to assemble yourself, and we, all of his children, assembled it together. I noticed that the funeral director looked horrified and upset. He looked so distraught that I pulled him aside and asked him if this was normal in his eyes. He emphatically said: No.  I asked him what other people did -- this being my first funeral where details were on me, -- and asked him to show me what was normally done. He took me to a room filled with caskets that startled me. I felt like I was suddenly in a car showroom being told to step inside the Bentley I hadn't come to buy. None of the caskets were designed for the person expected to go into them. There was no casket for the life spent singing or dancing, painting or reading. Not one casket seemed suitable for those that h

The last time I saw Jimmy he was a non-functioning human being. I stood in the doorway to his room after knocking, and opened the door a crack to relay some piece of insignificant information to him. In the 20 seconds the door remained cracked open I could see him in a fetal position on his bed, fully clothed on sheets that looked so dirty that I wondered how white sheets could be so black. I also saw that he had three TV trays lined up, with clean white towels spread across them, and an array of peyote buttons lined up on top, drying according to size. That was back in the 80's. Jimmy was gorgeous. You never saw a more handsome man. He had pale white skin, jet black shoulder-length hair, and the bluest eyes you ever saw. If he had a bit of facial stubble one might even say he sort of resembled Colin Farrell. He walked with a shuffle however claiming he had arthritis in his knees which I don't doubt he did. His teeth were yellow, -the colour of mustard- but they were as strai

To those of you that read this blog I just wanted you to know that I am busy with other projects just now. This blog is not defunct, it's just laying low.

Then I was much younger than you I still had not learned to manage my hands Fingers were shoved into pockets Endlessly picking away at things My feet were both left My lust got caught in the headlights

When everyone points, protest When most people laugh, declare When people become silent, reiterate When someone denies, claim When trash is heaped high, assert If backs get turned, vow If all you find are deaf ears, repeat If the stance becomes threatening, maintain If they sit on a fence, stress If you find yourself frustrated, swear

I am driving down The Palisades Parkway and suddenly I am overwhelmed with the feeling of missing Simon terribly. I pull off at exit three and turn into Oak Tree Road. It is dusk when I arrive. I enter the house, but I am in Cushman and Alice's  old home. The house is filled with others that miss Simon too. Everyone is in corduroy, chambray and well worn leather shoes. I feel like I am home. Different people come to me to show me things they have, that remind them of Simon. One woman shows me a puzzle she has made and on it she has painted various animals in various scenes reminiscent of Christmas scene folk art. Another young man has a worn photo of Simon he shares with me. Everyone is drinking whisky from short wide glasses. I notice Tony and he comes over to me, and he is so warm. His body is toasty. He stands behind me embracing me. We then go sit in a huge chair like this: He behind me and me cradled in between his legs. He feels so warm. He rocks me, we talk about Simon. I

All these years later Your eyes have returned To cast upon me a gaze I am older now And from whence I began I do not start I start with wounded knees And graying hair And a pocket full of irony I am told I must find my child And swaddle her with gold A precious thing, both her and me

I've returned to Blanche's house on South Street. The door is open as it always was, and I enter. I go up the short flight of stairs to the living area but the room is dark, cluttered, dusty and hung with Christmas ornaments. All the curtains have been drawn. I feel happy to be there and the condition of the house has not sunk in yet. I continue to wander around, going to the kitchen thinking I will make her a cup of coffee for when she returns. It is then that I notice the kitchen cupboards are blue and metal, half ajar, and no longer lovely wood. I also notice that all of the Christmas garlands are strung so low that I have to bend down to pass under. On a table, piled high, are various electronic music systems and I frantically search for the stereo that once belonged to her. I find it and wonder why it has been packed away in such a careless manner and why so much dust has accumulated upon it. I go into her office room where once a piano stood and instead there is a couc

Photo courtesy of Dr. Brian Glatt When I was younger and had the chance to walk around half undressed as only the young can do, strangers would often come up to me, with face screwed in a knot of fright, point and ask: What's wrong with your armpits? I stare at other women's breasts, constantly on the lookout, seeing where mine stand in this self inflicted imaginary lineup of perfection. I used to notice cleavages a lot because I didn't seem to have one. I have one now because I figured out: It's all in the bra, baby. I also notice women who have no need for a bra, and if I tell you the truth here, right now, I harbour great big green, smoldering stinking envy for these women. I hate them.  I've been shackled in a bra since the age of 6 months and women who can traipse around braless just get on my nerves. I inherited my grandmothers breasts, and if you ask me on what side that grandmother was, I will say: It doesn't matter because on both sides each

Someone recently commented to me that I failed to use punctuation. When they said this I thought to myself: Thank God for small miracles. What they might have said was: You use punctuation differently than I do. If they had thought about it a bit more, they might have said: Your use of punctuation differs from the norm. All true, but then, I don't think this entire blog is about, norm. If you heard me read aloud what I write, you would be able to follow along and accept my punctuation. If you knew me at all you would understand that my use of punctuation is absolutely correct and that your use of punctuation is for you, not me. Sometimes I fail to correctly write things, and will re-read something later and see a glaring mistake, but my punctuation is mine. That said, I have absolutely no memory of learning or being taught punctuation. I know what a noun is and I can identify one left and right, but anything else requires me to use a dictionary. What is punctuation? A bunch o

I was recently asked to read Jack London's, A Call of the Wild. The book was suggested to me because it had greatly influenced this acquaintance and they wanted me to read it as a way of understanding who they were and what had influenced their world outlook. Word to the wise: Do not ask people to read books who have literary backgrounds. I had never read this book, knew nothing about its plot nor much about the author. I downloaded the audio version as well as the kindle book, snuggled up in bed and began what I thought was going to be a story about hairy men wandering around in the woods: A Sasquatch hootenanny. Great literature withstands time because it can be re-read through the ages and analyzed over time taking into account new information about the author, the time it was written, and what it posits when analyzed by different ethnic studies, gender studies, historical studies, etc. Toni Morrison's, Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination, st

People used to whistle. In old black and white films from the 30's and 40's people were seen whistling. I am trying to remember how it was used in film back then and I seem to recall it was an activity given to delinquents on corners, as a precursor to flirting; a way of being noticed, and when danger was imminent. But there was a time when everyday people whistled and hummed while they worked. I am incapable of whistling and I attribute this to having had braces as a child. I can purse my lips and blow out air but what comes out sounds like a pathetic wheeze as though my whistle is permanently dry. To wet your whistle. Up until this moment I thought the phrase meant to lubricate the mouth by licking ones lips to prepare for whistling. In fact it means to have a drink which I guess means to wet the part of your body where a whistle emanates from. When you watch whistlers whistle they are often seen licking their lips to re-lubricate for the next sound to emerge from their m

I was recently contacted by ARTSY. NET   and asked if I might wish to put a link to their site on my blog. A staff member there had read my three piece series about the work of Björk . Specifically I was asked if I would link to their profile on Matthew Barney, Björk's ex husband. My original assumption was that the entire website was devoted to Barney, whom I explained, I was not a big fan of, but this is not the case. They are devoted to a plethora of art from sculpture to paintings, from photography to glassworks.  Their goal is to bring art to the anyone with an internet connection.  As well, they have live auctions where one can buy art pieces online. On principle I like and encourage people to expose themselves to art in any way possible. Look at it. Struggle to understand what is being conveyed. What is art? A statement without words? Something frivolous? Decoration? Or a visual mapping of history? When I entered the website I was reminded of something important that w