Author: leaving traces

Your hands are so beautiful. I want to hold your hands. I was trying to reach out to all my beautiful friends here to feel your hands. I’ve been so angry – so impatient with myself. Why the fuck am I still crying? Don’t I know there is already too much water out there.

Pause. Breathe. Sigh. Breathe. Pause. Fuck.

It’s a Beaver Moon today – a Full Beaver Moon. Hmmm… the beaver. The beaver thrives in water. The beaver knows how to dwell in water – in flooded areas. The beaver builds in slow moving or even fast moving water. How interesting… there were large floods here recently and it is also a FULL BEAVER MOON. Look at these clues being shared with us – I wonder if Lynn’s sturgeons were speaking to those along the shore of the Fraser River, trying to warn them?

Maybe it would send a mixed message as they get stirred up before or during full moons.

These signs of the Universe, of Mother Nature, are yelling at us.

There he goes again – down the street – it’s raining. He’s wearing his cut-off denim shorts and a mesh crop top. He’s definitely mid-late 40’s. Sheesh – I wonder what his 60 year old self would think.

As I grab fresh cut flowers from the local corner market – I always see him across the street at a very frou-frou café. It seems as though he thinks he’s Italian. Oh, I forgot to mention – he always wears a light ‘fashion-scarf’ to complete his look. He holds his head quite high and manages to look down his nose at people as he sits on the café patio as people walk by.

I can swear he yells things like “frou frou fa la tee dah”, and “petit peppie la peieu” and other nonsense like that. He does this mid sip as he pretends to read his paper, but instead laughs and yells “frou frou free la la!” – as if he has just told the best joke his commuting audience has ever heard.

When I get home, I put my fresh flowers in water, turn on some uplifting music, close the blinds, pretend I’m a ballerina and prance around my room singing “fa la la, free free and frou frou!”, laughing so hard to myself that I crumple to the floor in a pulsing heap of silly child-like nonsense, thanking Mr. Frou Frou for the inspiration to be silly and not give a fuck who sees me.

This made me laugh. Personifying a crow’s self-psychoanalysis as it feasts, or rests, or just ‘crows’ by the ocean. In Haida legend the Raven is a trickster, the one who stole the Sun, the one who found people in a clamshell. This is fitting then that the Raven would be a trickster to itself. The ambiguity of the visuals and the pale use of colours intrigued me. There was a lot of repetition of form – the rocks had wing-like shapes, the reflection was rounded and crackled like pebbles on the shore. This could be at the edge of the ocean at low-tide or along the banks of a river. It could be where the two meet – brackish water – where salt and freshwater mix. My dad used to always say he couldn’t move from the coast because “saltwater runs through our veins”. What a poetic dude. So foreign from his husky, jock persona and physique. This raven is so curious. This raven has existential crisis. This raven will bring you gifts if you do the same. If you leave out fine foods such as caviar and filet mignon, this Raven will bring you jewels. If you laid out dinner scraps and compost-filler, you might receive a crumpled piece of aluminum foil.

Spine fluid. A bowl of my sacrum. Chakras. Singing and bathing in sound. The viscosity in my brass bowl was more viscous than honey – thinner, yet still warm. Almost saline, as if there was a lightness – an ability to float. Not to be weighed down by fascia – by trigger points. This bowl is brass with concentric striations adding texture to its surface. There was also a grinding or knob-like object – my spine in this case. I’m seeing a mortar and pestle or a meditation bowl with a wand/spoon to make the sounds. The image of my spine in a bowl up to my shoulders – fill my bowl with epsom salts and lavender essential oils. Or better yet a wooden barrel hot tub in the snow – steam rising off my head and shoulders – the slight touch of snowflakes dancing on my bare skin. There is a calm stillness in the air – there are white-tipped trees in front of me – wooden slats of a cabin – maybe a fire on inside. Someone is cooking – I think it’s my mom. Wearing her mukluks and her well-loved burgundy robe. She is cooking a warm meal for her family – me, my sister and my father. My dad is likely reading the paper in bed with his ‘cay’ – his nickname for coffee – or he is watching sports on TV. It’s hard to tell if it is the morning or around supper time. But in this moment my mom is content. She is cooking. At a cabin they own. With her family close-by. The images come to me like polaroid vignettes painted in an Edward Hopper style. There is a veil though – or fog in the images, as these are parcelled memories from childhood. I guess the sacrum bowl and spine ladle were like a hot tub time machine for me – using my body’s movement and warm liquids to transport me to my childhood.

Apomagdelic. Greek and Roman raw dough napkins. Of course something that we used to wipe our grubby fingers on has become a delicious staple at dinner tables across the globe. What happens if the dough-ball resembled a spoon, or a fork or knife – would this give birth to the first drinking game? Who’s it going to be this time? Who’s going to accidentally eat the communal pre-napkin as they scoop a bite of their mashed potatoes? I guess we still eat delicious items/morsels that come from shit… mushrooms come to mind. I might have a harder time devouring a mushroom if I had personally plucked it from a cow patty. I wonder if my absolute love of sourdough came from this dirty pre-napkins origins. The mother dough eats itself it is so good. Mushrooms, sourdough and goat cheese crostini – I am now craving this delicious treat for supper tonight.

On a side note – was this also the birthplace of feeding our dogs scraps at the dinner table? Does my dog sneak soiled napkins out of our garbage because he has a Greco-Roman prehistory to do so? Must I be kinder to my dog as he does this as he cannot help his genetic predisposition?

Back to the image of these romanesque feasts – back to these paintings of historical moments… the last supper – was Jesus wearing an apomegdalic (sp?) pre-napkin on the cross? I’m going to curtail these strings of thoughts as not to offend anyone.

I see more chalices, heads tilted back, goblets cheersing friends around the feasting table. Skinny dogs with lips furled waiting for their dirty pre-napkin treat.

A gunshot butterfly. Bullet through the thorax.. abdomen. The fissures formed the wings as if pressed together with paint from a kindergarten art project.

What is our human fascination with dark holes? We have a need to find out what is in there. What is hidden in the shadows? From a young age we stick our fingers into unknown black holes – electrical outlets, our noses, et cetera. That et cetera was a heavy et cetera for dramatic affect – I don’t have to spell it out but your imagination likely filled in the blanks. Touché.

Ok pause. Slowly flow writing – back to the series of images… if I get closer to it… if I look at it from this angle, if I repel into it, if I take scientific geologic hell hole samples, if I mythologize about it, if I finger it… then I will know, then I will discover, my name will have a wonderful scientific reputation – after all – isn’t that what we are all here to do? Leave a legacy of fingering stuff out, more so than the last generation? If I finger it just a little more or a little differently – with potions and techniques never tried before – it will be me, my glorious name that will have figured it out.

This hole is remote. This hole would rather be left alone. This hole contains poisonous water. Have we learned nothing from nature? Don’t pick up that cute, bright red frog in the jungle, it’s no good for you.

Keep your prodding and poking to yourself – and to those who can offer mutual consent in the poking and prodding.

Rugged, remote, poisonous – nature-speak for “Leave me Alone!”

Other perspective – Venus fly-trap perspective – knowing the curiosity of humans – let me bring them here to gather samples from their shins as they scrape themselves on my sharp edges.

Breathy. Moist. Damp. The intro to my first romance novel. Lol. Kings and Queens incestuously breathing all over each other. A big breathy orgy. Only one rule is you must breathe on each other. Only other rule is no touching – no skin-to-skin – just breath as a tool for wild, frivolous pleasure. I picture fur blankets with the heads still attached – curtains and drapery of deep reds, burgundies, violets, aubergines – all velvety to the touch. Large stained-glass windows. No judgement. Chalices filled with moonshine and hand-stomped…foot-crushed wines. Rosy cheeks. Laughter. Nay – cacophonies of laughter. Kings and Queens whose lands’ are in disarray because their priorities are on pleasure, sexual experimentation and indulgence. Reds, golds – stained glass. There is a lion looking on – or involved in the mix. Imagine an art history class where we analyze the symbolism of renaissance portraiture – where the paintings were re-painted to soften the vulgar expression of sexual displays of affection – the grapes held just so – the cloths draped performatively – twine, and braided chords of gold – fraying edges – each stroke, each position, each colour – the relationship of items – the arrangement of items in the display – all purposefully portrayed – hung in meaning. Captured in time.

My muscles and body are chirping in now – my right thumb muscle, my right forearm – my right neck, slight twinges of pain – now my wrist – all attempts to keep writing. Keep flow writing. Did I mention the grapes? Were they so prevalent in regal societies because they can be turned into wine?

He seems nice. Embroidering a party on to a white cloth. How neat would this be if it was a story of his life – a large circus-like feast with friends and family to then be used as a table cloth for the same feasts which they depict. I love the freaks depicted on this tapestry – where did all of the freaks go? What happened to “let your freak flag fly”? This tapestry reminded me of a Tom Robbins book – “Even Cowgirls Get the Blues” where there are magical accounts of traveling and random stranger acquaintances – the colourful stories quilted together are so wild and whimsical – embossing our childlike wonder between the pages – or in this case on a white cloth.

I do believe his art is an act of joy and love – however the process for the characters birthing ceremony seems (pun intended) like a painful one… Imagine being stitched to life one peach thread at a time – then your hair is woven through your scalp – pulled tight and presumably left taught forever. Until it frays I guess. Would the beginning of the fraying be welcome because there is a sense of release – a slack jaw, a loosened ponytail. When the fraying continues though – would fear set in – one side of your face unrecognizable – the pupil removed.

Wolves. The moon. The womb. Motherhood. Oh the glory of it all. I’m pretty sure my kid doesn’t love the smell of me when I get home – what smell can a shoulder even have? The inverted shoulder usually stinks – that’s probably how my scent is remembered. At least I won’t get breast cancer.

Wow. This is sassy. I guess as soon as motherhood and siblings are brought up my inner defensive child comes out with sass and sarcasm to keep the real feels at bay. I do feel like my raw sadness and confusion is held under a thin viscous layer of… something. Like how the meniscus holds a stretching bond on the top of water to a glass or a raindrop – puncture it and it will come flooding out.

Of course the moon and the wolves have led me to water – did you read that amazing story of how wolves were reintroduced to a “barren” landscape and eventually through their instinct and wisdom brought the rivers back. This is how we need to think. We need to understand that all we are are supporting guides and tools for the natural environment to reshape itself. The whiskers on the wolves tickled my ears – the playful nature of pups – the omniscience of mom. Maybe that is what the pup smelled in mom, safety and love.

Black, cave, dirt. Night. Howling at the moon – if those are questions to the moon – I wonder what the answers are? Maybe the rivers are the answers.

Call me Atlas. I held the moon today. What a wonderful experience. I’m not really sure how to describe it – my back muscles were doing some work. I picture those muscles in the shapes of fleshy boomerangs. When I wiggled my fingers on the top of the moon I thought I might be stirring up dust, or moon creatures, or astronauts. The moon I held was glowing – maybe due to the dim light of my lamp.

Is it narcissistic to think we can hold the moon? Is the moon held by the oceans and tides, or is it the other way around? What comments would the moon have on earthly climate change – I’m guessing the moon has all of the answers. Do us commoners think about our impacts on the moon as we do on Earth? I heard something from NASA about sea level rise and the moons wabble – then our axis, orbit, etc. Obviously I didn’t pay close attention as I scrolled to the next cat video on my phone. What an existence – the moon might wabble in my lifetime and my span of attention lasts less than an internet video.

There is something so romantic about the moon. Goodnight Moon was one of my favourite children’s books. I’m tired – I’m the moon. Floating or grabbing – free or burning – invisible energies take time to feel, but they are there.

Today is a not-sure-what-to-say day.