The Mimosa Effect 2

Waking up this morning was a bit of a surreal experience.  The cats were initially responsible for pulling us out of sleep into groggy wakefulness, then the bright morning sun peeking in through the gaps between blinds and curtains kept us from falling back to sleep again.  Just as we were about to rise, the alarm kicked in – to a bouncy pop-rock song in full swing.  Which was a bit unexpected, considering our little clock radio on our dresser is tuned to a classical station (much more pleasant to wake up to Mozart or Chopin, than a cheesy schlock-jock morning host or the death-and-destruction news of the moment or some painful new-country crooning).

We sometimes get a bit of radio weirdness during unusual weather; mostly it involves one of the two palatable stations our radio is capable of getting degenerating to a kind of fuzzy inter-dimensional static with several radio stations all playing at once.  But this was a calm sunny day, and the sound coming through was distinctly free of fuzziness.

Then the call sign for the radio came on – Power 97, Winnipeg’s most popular rock station.  Now, for those of you who might not know, we reside in a little corner of south-eastern Ontario, which is a looong way away from Winnipeg; especially for a cheap-ass clock radio that can barely bring in the local stations.  So as we sleepily padded our way towards the preparations for breakfast, we tuned the downstairs radio to the same channel.

Lo and behold, there was the Winnipeg station, clear as day.  We thought we might have wandered unknowingly into the Twilight Zone, but it turns out it was not just our house – the chipper morning host took a moment out of her predictable patter to mention she’d been receiving e-mail from other people experiencing the same phenomenon (which gave her an opening to remind us that classical music was for old people, and now was the time to rock; which led to the usual eye-rolling at the idea of somehow not being able to enjoy more than one type of music – and the distinctly ignorant lack of any understanding of the genre; if ever there was a rock star, Mozart was it; and they seem to have forgotten that every bit of melodrama in every popular movie on the planet is underscored by that very same classical music in its soundtrack; but anyway.)

We listened to the Winnipeg station all through breakfast, despite the general dearth of interesting music (although there were a few worthy tunes tossed in, some classic Chili Peppers, a new one by the Hip, a bit o’ the old Zeppelin & Floyd) – mostly just because we were reveling in this weird space-time rift – before the novelty wore off.   Guess we’ll know tomorrow morning if things have returned to normal.

Even though we didn’t see it, turns out last night was indeed a full moon.  Which might go some way to explaining things.

All photos by Mark A. Harrison, used with permission. Mark also does very cool original digital paintings, some of which you can see below (and in the “pics” category above). You can find more nifty photos and fine art on his website, www.magpiedesign.net

Links to other Thursday Thirteens!

Alas, after today Thursday Thirteen is no more. It was cool while it lasted. You can visit everyone else’s final T13’s here.

(For Poetry Thursday) I find this very hard to write about; not because of how it affects me emotionally, but because of how words always fail me every time I try to describe it. For some reason the first thing that came into my head (after a few failed attempts at opening lines) was the little childlike rhyming bit at the beginning. The rest is not quite a poem yet; more like something struggling to find a shape; a figure trying to work its way out of the stone. I don’t know if I’ll ever get it right. Maybe next time I should try a haiku.

———

a visitor is in my house
this house of bone and skin
unwelcome as it is familiar
I can never quite remember
when it was that I first let it in

————-

There are some things
one shouldn’t have to grow used to

It always starts small
a tiny ache behind the eyes
a stiffness in the neck
a twinge in the shoulder
a distracted frown, a sigh
eyes closed, I roll my shoulders
shift my hips
sinews snapping
a sound like grinding teeth
stones rolled together
in the palm of my hand
sometimes a loud thunk
like someone put a chair down
too hard against a wooden floor

It always starts small
I was far too young
lugging backpacks books and groceries
up steep drumlins, down hard city blocks
sitting in too-short chairs
squinting at amber letters on a black screen
in a cramped small room
back then, I could still fall asleep
on the floor, with nothing but a sleeping bag
and a rolled up sweater for a pillow;
I could stay up past the turning of the day
through morning into dark night into morning again
wandering in that surreal haze of the sleepless
toasting life with friends in the first light of dawn

I thought it would be temporary
unwelcome house guests usually are
but it is still here, all these years later

People look at you funny when you speak
of an invisible friend that only you can see;
when you hear voices in your head;
women in particular have a special word men use
when we complain of things they cannot see:
   hysteria   (it’s all in your head, dear)

Pain is like that

I have grown far too used to its presence
so that I often ignore its initial cries for attention
like a cat wanting dinner too early
or a tired child who just needs to sleep;
but I have learned it doesn’t like
to be ignored

It always starts small
a tension that builds through sinew, tendon,
muscles, bone, travelling
from foot to hip to back to shoulder
it is darkness, heat, and silent screaming
like something out of a story
where someone is slowly being turned
to stone, ice, molten metal – all at once
and yet
it is none of these things

it is a long-standing annoyance for me
as a writer, as a teacher, this
inability to find the right metaphor
  even poetry fails me

Sometimes I wish I could
grab hold of some random stranger, look into their eyes,
and will them to feel what I feel
just so someone, just one person, on this earth
will understand

Until then, I set my teeth, take deep breaths,
practice smiling through it
practice pretending nothing is wrong
after all – if they can’t find it, map it, label it, fix it
it must just be
   all in my head.

Always hard to choose which of M.’s pics to put up, they’re all so cool, and yet so different.  I don’t know how many phases he’s gone through, but he has probably close to a dozen different “styles” when it comes to these semi-abstract digital paintings (plus he’s ridiculously prolific for a while).  This one sort of straddles two categories: light, and place.  To me it feels like you’re under a dock or pier at sunset, looking out over the water; while at the same time you’re in some kind of in-between place, where you can see more than just our standard three dimensions.  These dark, yet light-infused pieces are tricky to print properly; we’re thinking if we ever did a show of M.’s pieces, we might want to try printing them on transparencies that are lit up from behind.

(used with permission; more at www.magpiedesign.net)

Since I’ve been caught up in novel writing lately, I thought this would be a good time to showcase some more of M.’s very cool original artwork. This is one from a few years back that we’ve taken to calling “dragon in a swimming pool”. You can click on it to get a slightly larger version which shows a bit more of the detail. More stuff by M. can be found on his website at www.magpiedesign.net (all pictures used with permission).

I have developed this bad habit the last three nights of trying to cram my 1k/day bit of writing into the hour or so just before midnight.  Don’t ask, it’s a silly WriYe challenge thing.  Add to that the legitimate effort to get off my a** and get some stuff done (at least I got out into the sunshine today, tramped around in the deep fluffy snow), and I haven’t had much left for thinking of interesting things to put up here.  So in the meantime, I’d suggest heading over to Magpie’s Bjournal, where he’s put up another cool little photo essay thingie, with neat pictures and whatnot. 

‘Night all.  Off to find bed-like thing to fall into.

Prose-poems for Poetry Thursday. I find it odd to think that there are purists out there who believe that poems and prose should be kept separate from each other. As human animals we categorize as a survival mechanism (friend/foe, food/poison), and labels have their uses when you want to generalize, for the sake of simplicity or clarity. But when we become too strict with our categories I think we do ourselves a disservice. Some of the most mind-blowing creative efforts I’ve come across have been a result of a fusion of different styles, different media – whether it be in art, music, or literature. To me, one easy way to gauge the “poem-ness” of a piece of writing is to read it out loud. If it sounds/tastes/feels like poetry, then it’s poetry. M.’s better at writing short prosetry than I am, so I put two of his first. If you feel like lingering, I also put one of mine afterwards; it’s long for a prose-poem (861 words), but I like it.

Interlude at Destruction – by Mark Harrison (used with permission)

In London, three Japanese women in eggshell white make-up discuss the latest Easter Blade recording. Two of them like it, the other isn’t sure.

A quartet of middle aged African Dutch adamantly discuss civil-war antiques in a Brisbane shop. They seem to prefer relics from the South to the Northern pieces offered in the store’s display. The shopkeeper does not seem pleased. He tries to steer them in the direction of some reproduction gramophones. Thinking them to be real, the Afrikaners end up buying two.

The Northwest Territories of Canada disappear in the minds of a teenaged couple. They are making love. The bed is bare but the room is filled with the temperature of their shared energies. She feels that she is a bird, with great beating wings. He thinks that he is a long copper wire, drawn out to the edge of the Earth. In the end they feel as if they are a snowstorm.

Moments Passing – by Mark Harrison (used with permission)

Maybe this’ll warm me up. Heck, setting me on fire wouldn’t do that. It’s like being taken out to the shed and beaten with a rock. A shallow vale envelops you like a plastic skin. Places where you have been trace the contours of your eyes. Fine bone china beneath your façade. Cold fear fires in rapid reflex. You recoil, the whole length of you. Events proceed. No cure like abstinence, no curse like the truth. Reason is evicted in the fine thought of analysis, yet nothing remains the same. Like a river flowing uphill, the sense of it resides in its own existence.

For more creative endeavours by M. (including lots of very cool artwork) check out magpiedesign.net (writing stuff can be found on the bjournal).

Tongue-tied ecstasy – by Tanah Haney

For months he has circled her, wary as a cat, searching for secret openings, underground passages. He creeps in the dark, fumbling, wishing for the preternatural senses of foresight and wisdom, patience and empathy. He has none of these. Still raw, hot as molten rock newly flung upon the earth, his desire for her is endless.

She is the distant, cloud-shrouded moon, a pale, half-seen light that wakes him in cold terror of need, claws at his unguarded soul, great rending wounds.

Every day, each hour, each minute, she kills another small hope. But he breeds them, secretly, in a dark, quite place; waters them with sweat, tears, acid bile, the heat of envy as he watches her – here, smiling shyly, there, winking impishly, a subtle brush of gentle fingers on the wrist, the arm. She shakes her head and laughs; hair falls over her eyes, and they melt around her, become stupid and childish, showing off like barnyard cats – a ruffle of feathers, barbed ambition, naked wanting. But he pretends a casual air, the deceptive calmness of a still pool; the glass smooth surface coldly reflects the world above, revealing nothing of the depths below.

…MORE…

Nora, The Piano-Playing Cat

Best piano-playing cat video ever.

Skydiver Michael Holmes survives 12,000 / 2 mile freefall

Absolutely incredible.
Official story and full video at the Daily Mail

This is what I get for watching old X-Files episodes late at night: creepy freefall poetry. Just thought I’d share.

fog clicking nails biting scratching skittering chittering
chitinous carapace creaking
cracks form, gaps widen, pieces slide off
slipping thin shiny film sliding
catching heaving shuddering sliding again
they fall to the floor like giant
pieces of plastic carved from a garbage can like
giant thumbnail clippings falling into the porcelain sink like
hair cut off falls into the drain and down the pipes into the sewers
imaging those nails against skin, sliding, poking, prodding,
ever so lightly the tips touch like tiny needles tipped in fire, like
the tentative bite holding you ever so gently, not breaking the skin, not yet,
just holding and looking at you with those
yellow eyes, so calmly, so still, like
holding your breath the world holding its breath the universe frozen like
blood turned to ice, turned to solid cold metal turned to bone inside veins
and you can’t move, can’t turn, can only stare back into those
calm, still stone moss covered centuries in its eyes how long has it
been here? how long have I been here? how long
there is no time, only waiting, not breathing, those teeth against
skin against muscle against bone against the hard rough ground
you can feel roots, sprouting small thin white gleaming roots blindly
waving in the air until they find soil, water, reaching down, breaking
through down into the ground, pinning you down, drawing life up in out
you can feel the moss cover you, two stones, four stone eyes, forever open
staring at the sun following its predictable arc, shallower and shallower
its heat dying every day and at night stars, helplessly watching
the stars as they move as they trace out their origins follies births
deaths wishes echoes of dreams long forgotten until there are no longer
eyes, or claws, or fragments of shed exoskeleton
remnants only soft green pale stone mounds in the forest of the
earth in the earth of the forest in the back of the mind of the heedless
traveler as they pass by, unnoticing, their footsteps so near, so close,
you could almost…