Dear Charlie,

Labels: artform, confession, freeform, participation, passages, please feel secure, requests

Labels: alarming truthness, artform, confession, graphic journal, poetry, Primessa

Labels: confession, confinement, jargon, poésie

Dark ages
Dark spots
Under nails
Something beneath
Thick ice
Something fleeting
Another war

Dark earth
Deep dig
Below steps
Something waits still
Dirt kept
Something legend
Another past

Dark smoke
Sweet hell
Metal teeth
Something escaped
Light lost
Something burning
Another blast

Dark side
Hidden face
Over lines
Nothing troubled
Sleep sound
Nothing written
Another life

Labels: alarming truthness, artform, confession, poetry, Primessa, To a person who never returned to the world, winter passing

Depuis quelques semaines, les plans n'existent plus. Rien, on dirait.

On les a remplacés par des tasses d'espoirs. On se donne des missions dans les potagers dans la cour des haies hantées. Des êtres étranges se glissent entre nos doigts. Rien, on dirait. Nos pieds et des mains dans les sentiers ouroboros de notre salon, déambulants à travers les coussins mous de notre royaume.

Nous sommes seuls, chacun chez soi, autour d'une pandémie, à plonger, à ignorer, à se révolter contre nos monstres. Rien, on dirait. Je ne sais pas par où me traîner pour ne pas mettre le pied sur une de ces mines qui me fera faire un tour à la Oz.

Qui sera l’auteur du prochain revirement? Le chien? L’épouvantail? Le miroir ou l’écran d’argent? Nous sommes au centre de l’action. Nous sommes le héro. Nous choisissons notre propre aventure, qui, en réalité, semble être un peu trop minimaliste. Rien, on dirait. Une danse sans voiles, stroboscopes, verres fumés et refrains.

Ce silence, fécondé par cette lenteur, nous ramène sur nous-mêmes, par des mouvements que nous avons peut-être oubliés.

Mais il y a le vent qui passe par les branches, les fenêtres et sous la porte. Comme un Casper. Nos liens se révèlent comme des bouées. Ou des lignes jaunes réfléchissantes, si vous avez peur de l’eau…Quelle mission! C’est tout.

Lumière, mon cher.

Pendant cette sentence dans le parking de la chimère sociale, cherchons les petites joies cachées dans les boîtes de céréales. Ou dans les pistes de vieilles cassettes.

Labels: confession, confinement, covid19, jargon, magic

Labels: arcenciel, artform, çavabienaller, confession, covid19, covidpoème, jargon, montréal, pensée du jour, poésie, santé

HOMEWORK
APRIL 21-27

Though sometimes it’s impossible to do the right thing, doing the half-right thing may be a viable option. Give an example from your own life:

Here lies my first time... taking on the positive outlook of a Rob Brezsny assignment. I find it quite fitting that it orbits around the mighty right. Being right has nothing to do with the torment or bliss shaped by the actions taken on the virtuous path. Righteousness, on the other hand, is a distinction that is acquired through a rainbow of morally high standards in action. Deeds that can break your sense of self in various fragile pressure points and leave your ego in pieces, in a mess of human remains that will loom over you at every crossroad. Doing the right thing is a never-ending effort to be true to and for others, even if that endeavour stabs you in the heart or mind. This said, doing the right thing can take a minute or a year and can involve the dissolution of self into the essence of a generation, a time and place.

Zeitgeist

When it comes to right and wrong, good and evil, the V2.4 combinations are endless. What can look fine to me might look wicked to someone else, making it difficult to find the juste milieu for anyone who has their heart in the right place.

A few months ago a puzzling email radiated my computer screen. It was from a dear friend who was experiencing a rough ride in her end of the world. What troubled me is that she never explained what the source of her pain was. My first reaction of course was to reply to the missive with questions and words of support, but she specifically asked me not to. She added to that request her concern for my safety, which fuelled her calculation.

What was left for me to do? Taking a plane was not part of the equation, unfortunately. I didn’t have the phone number of my pen pal so all I was left with was the choice to reply or not to the message. I felt I needed to reply, if not to inquire about the problem at least to let her know that I was now aware of her situation and that she was in my thoughts. But after much consideration I came to realise that sending those words to her meant comfort for me and for her, the possibility of a nightmare, or worse. Who could say?

Well the beauty here is, my dreamboat mentor, through this assignment flickers my intent to reach out to her without placing any risk on our communication. This is me, doing the half-right thing.


xox

Labels: confession, echo, Homework, secret

“I'd rather have roses on my table than diamonds on my neck.”
- Emma Goldman

Labels: art, confession, theory, underwear

I sometimes go through all these entries and change whatever feels fake. Or should I say, passé...

Except the one's that are cringy, they must remain.

Labels: confession

I would like to apologize to my family, friends and potential business partners for my f*book invitations from 2007.

I now realize the horror that is f*book (since I have been trying to close my account for 2 months) and would like to apologize for the awkwardness application that was added between us.

Labels: confession, microphone, notes, social

How much time have I spent writing since the new year? I couldn’t say. I have been enjoying myself. Days have gone by quite quickly with all these steps toward what is next.

When a woman has the means to keep her own room and her own window, she can choose to open and close the curtains when she wills it. The door can be locked all day and all night for weeks. At eleven, she can decide that she is going hunting at noon. She can decide to go hunting for a dark blue dress, at 1 pm on a monday, because she thinks that no crowd could form at that time. She can try one on and decide it is too long, this one too low and this one, just right. She can pick at some leftover carrot cake at 9:33 pm and she can read her new book curled over her knees until the stretch of her back below her neck feels like it will snap. She can hop out of bed to write a random letter to someone who has not arrived, just yet. Then she can smile and cheat the end.

“I hope you will write soon and tell me about yourself. I think one’s letters ought to be about oneself (I live up to this theory!) - what else is there to talk about? Letters should be indiscretions - otherwise they are simply official bulletins.

Always yours
Tom”

Labels: confession, Eliot

The truth is, I didn’t want to see you. Remember, silence? The key to the kingdom, isn’t it? It lets me go where I want to. It gives me the liberty to build my own city of nests. Meeting you was a chainsaw against a bark. Your cold metal against my mossback rings. Nobody was there, not you or I, to hear the pretty picture fall.

The camera in the face. How is it done, so mechanically and so quietly? Burned. That is what you smell, the ashes of a cage that I took care of burning when midnight fell upon our feet. Did you notice the sign language? The fingers I held up? (It was a white flag.) At that moment, you thought nothing of it, or maybe you thought of the awkwardness... But we maintained the play properly and stoically. Who wouldn’t be the one who gives up? This play, which started before we met, with actors who portray us all. Who act what they are afraid to live on their own. Who sing the words they could not say alone. Who wouldn’t be the one who gives up...

A lover once confessed to me that he believed that I was the muse in “this song” and asked me if I knew the one who wrote it. I don’t know if it was jealousy that pushed him to see me in that light but I answered him “I don’t know anything about this person.” and thought to myself “What a cruel thing to say.”

Labels: confession

Here are some of my quotes you may use to your advantage, put them in any context you want:


“Thanks but it’s getting late.”

“Wow. Really? I did not know that.”

“Ok well that is not a cell number so if you call leave me a message... I screen.”

“Oh yea? Your face is late.”

“lol again @ FAK YOO boaday”

“Everything is linked in some way.”

“He’s my little little. My sweetie, pookie wookie. My little guy. My kitten cakes.”

“Your face didn’t call you.”

“I don’t like the taste of fermentation.”

“Is that chocolate?”

“Above all, no harm. I heard that somewhere and it burned into me.”

“I like how he never discriminates.”

“I always skip the beginning now. Sometimes, I go straight to the end.”

“Monday weirdos.”

“Seriously, I don’t remember. I have no clue what you are talking about.”

“It’s like a reminder of what I cannot forget.”

“That is exactly what I needed to hear. Incredible. I wouldn’t have thought of it. Thank you.”

“I am in love with everybody.”

Labels: confession