Excerpt from Diana’s monologue
He pulled me out of the depths of the netherworld. He called me out like a rat with his euphonious speeches. And never once did he look back. If he had I would have slipped back into the darkness. Now I give him gifts: the suede bracelet and the goatskin jacket intending them to be artifacts of my presence that will fossilize overtime in his attendance. I hope he will one day look at them and see them as husks of my skin and pain for me as I pain for him as the woman left waiting. And I am always waiting. This of course is my fatal identity as the one that loves more. I wait for him in coffee shops and I wait for the touch of his skin against mine so patiently that I turn to stone. Like the eunuch priests of the goddess Cybele I too practice a divine and tortuous ritual. I see his sleeping face and parted lips and I watch indulgently because I know no end to desiring him…
My friend Sheilah writes beautiful songs on her guitar, so I thought I might write her some lyrics to play around with. I cannot wait to hear what she does with them.
I am a woman unfolded
In the tiny world of lover’s arms
I know that neither of us is new
I had another
But he never made me bleed
Royal blue the way you did
That night so sweetly
The touch of you
Still throbs through me now
If ever so lightly
I thought I saw your soul
In the cleft of your confession
On the hotel bed
Have others known your devil
Or your demons?
(Shut their faces
Away from me)
I am a woman unfolded
In the tiny world lover’s arms
I know that neither of us is new
Even in the morning light
How should I open my mouth to say
I love you anyway
Like a river turned back on itself
nikevevo said: Hi! I was wondering who to see about getting/purchasing a zine. Thanks for your time.
You can get a zine two ways through me! If you live in Ottawa you can either show up to the Holy Cobras show on Friday (which will be a really good time) and pick up a free copy there. Or I can mail one to you for a small fee.
E-mail me at: firstname.lastname@example.org
Each of the girls was asked to write a haiku for every person they have slept with in order of when they slept with them. In the end however this collection did not exclusively include experiences with full on sex. Some of the girls wrote about fooling around and/or kissing.
becja said: Dee, tell me about Zines. I don't know anything about them and I am afraid of the unknown.
Zines are in the simplest terms self-published texts and images that can be put together by any lovely person who has the ambition to do so. Most booklets are made using a computer and a photocopier though some are put together by hand and are handwritten.
The beauty of Zines is that the topics that can be covered in Zines are virtually endless. I have seen Zines on fanfiction, recipe books, gardening, comics, poetry, music reviews, politics, and personal journals. In short, you can put together a Zine about anything your heart desires.
Zines are usually distributed in small circles and rarely make enough money to match the energy and money you put into putting one together but, I am in the opinion that the satisfaction that comes from putting together a Zine is well worth the money you spend.
Zines are fantastic.
I hope that answered your question. If you would ever like to get together and chitty chat about it in more detail in person. I am always down.
Cheers with love,
wordperfect said: how can i get copies of yr zines? hell i don't even like poetry really, but yours is nice
That’s a good question. Normally I either deliver the zines in person or I post them. I will be setting up a paypal button soon once I figure it out, this will make transactions much easier.
If you would like to purchase any of my zines for now the best way for now is to contact me through e-mail: email@example.com and I will send you an invoice.
Also thank you for the lovely compliment.
At night he would take
My nipple into his mouth
And through his small lips
I made him call me
Excerpt from Missed Connections (work in progress)
Ballard was taken with the fixed windows that belonged to the Castlefrank Cafe. The windows started at knee level and rose to the ceiling so that no matter where you sat in the coffee shop you could see the ongoing activities of Hurlburt Street. This voyeuristic quality appealed to Ballard and others like Ballard who live with the belief that they live on the rim of society, believing that they can both walk across the skin and be digested in the belly of the everyday lives of everyone else without a dent in their serene judgement. These people, like Ballard, are both naive and burning.
From his seat on a high stool at the bar Ballard watched over the coffee shop. He had put a Missed Connection ad in the Beacon newspaper praising a made up redheaded woman with blue glasses that he was interested in seeing outside of his own reality. He called her through the ink of the newspaper as if he were the Pied Piper of Hamelin calling out the German rats. When he played his magic pipe the rats of Ottawa came to meet him at the Castlefrank Cafe.
Calling people out from the unknown was a difficult vocation. The more elaborate the delineation the better. However there were idle straws to be pulled from the unknown that were not faithful or anticipated. This Ballard both dreaded and respected. There were times in the past when Ballard had in his weaker moments talked to his creations, but he had found that the men and women that he called out were as soulfully barren as his descriptions. It was more scientific to watch his rats drown in cages; starved and raving mad when they could not find him after following his careful directions to the coffee shop.
Ballard would abandon them. He would sit on his stool and watch strangers pass the windows. Ballard liked to believe that the inked words he used to call them out of the darkness were prayers they would mumble in their restless sleeps when they could not find him. He let his creations order one coffee after another to demonstrate their faith to the barista. As if to say that Ballard would one day come for them, just go ahead and pour another cup of coffee while we wait.
The coffee shop was rarely busy, having no more than five customers at a time sitting in wait in its glass belly. The customers themselves were seldom interesting solely in appearance. This was ascribable possibly to the lack of interest on the owner’s part on the importance of interior decorating. The ornamentations of the coffee shop were summed up by the assorted vases containing dusty flowers on each table and one painting of a woman walking on a beach done in acrylics hanging on the wall behind the bar. Ballard preferred to think that the owner did this because, like himself, he preferred the slow quiet atmosphere of the coffee shop in apposition to the street outside.
Ballard ordered his customary black tea and cheese on toast and watched the other customers while he waited for the redhead. There was a girl sitting on a wooden chair tapping away on the keypad of her cellphone and two businessmen discussing something with cross looks stuck on their faces.
When the redhead showed she was not as Ballard gestated in ink. Her glasses were not the deep blue he envisioned when he wrote her to life, instead they were lazuline and against her red hair and pale skin she appeared to be fading from existence. She was not new like Pandora, alive only with curiosity, she was spiritless and as cheap as tissue paper in a gift bag. She would be torn and recycled and presented as new for the next dupe sooner than Ballard could, if he wanted to, introduce himself to her.
Ballard pulled out his wallet from the back pocket of his slacks while his eyes followed the way she deliberately chose the chair that best confronted the entrance of the coffee shop. She ordered a glass of water from the barista and sipped it sparingly, adjusting the napkin she used as a coaster each time she lifted her glass. Ballard was not on the move to make himself known to her. At times like this Ballard hung his head as a false prophet in a school uniform. He left his bills on the counter and stepped down from his stool. As she was not the redheaded relic he thirsted for, he was not the man in a grey work suit who thought her smile was a piece of Christ.
Excerpt from Missed Connections (work in progress)
Ballard and Kevin Newlove, another boy in his year had stood at the bottom of the left wing stairwell pretending to be trading cards while really stealing looks up the skirts of their female classmates. This activity did not make Ballard especially happy, but it appealed to that dark spot that brewed in his stomach during the day that came to full flame when he was alone at night. He could not refuse the hushed suggestion of the act from Kevin between periods thinking that he would only be there for a moment before becoming bored. However he found he could imagine seeing the subtle seductive shape of the girls under coloured panties
“They look like slices of plum,” Ballard told Kevin looking down conspicuously.
Kevin shot him a look that twisted his nose out of shape, “Don’t be weird. They look like what they look like.”
They watched until the last of the students dawdled down the stairs arguing. Ballard was late for his date with the coffee shop. When he arrived at the Castlefrank Cafe she was already there and he knew her immediately by sight, like she were a favourite character from a book being portrayed for the first time in a film. He had thought there were limits to what he could bring from the unknown but there she was in a white oriental dress that was pulled up over her knees by the way she was sitting. She was not looking at him but into the cup of coffee in front of her. She was a howl of his printed spell.
Ballard recollects this memory like it were a false memory that continually changes like steam over a pot or the smoke at the end of a butt. Opinions and senses changing at the commission of either his affection or his guilt. How he remembers it today as an unchangeable fate, a divine rendition from what he wrote. In memory today she looked like a prayer remembering her windswept hair and her goatskin jacket that he took the bus transfer from that he now rubs between two fingers sadly.
Uncertain of himself he took the seat across from her. She looked up, startled and told him she was waiting for someone, a date. She turned her cup of coffee and waited for him to leave but he stayed seated.
“Why can’t I be your date?”
“You’re a kid.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re wearing a school uniform.”
“So you like older men?”
She blushed with a nervous energy that reminded him of a Japanese peach, white and softer looking with a rosy colouring unlike any of the flesh of the girls on the stairs. Her eyes shifted to the door then to Ballard again who was looking at her with admiration. “Why do you want to be my date?”
On the face of it, like he was ignoring her question, he told her between his smile, “You’re very pretty.”
“You’re not lonely?” she asked.
“Lonely like what?”
She smiled too, “Like the frozen lake.”
She was no longer far from God’s love in the ninth circle of Hell, he had thought to himself, but he may have been feeling the faces of Helen and Paris in the terrible winds battling in his dark spot. Rather than answering he signalled the barista who knew him by face to bring him a cup of tea.
Resigned by his confidence she asked him about himself.
“I’m Ballard Beufort,” he told her,”I’m an enthusiastic devotee of windows and am the leader of the rats.” He knew enough how to sound interesting.
Shy, she continued to smile.
The barista put his cup of tea down in front of him and asked him if he wanted something to eat and he looked at the girl in question. She shrugged one shoulder. He asked for her to bring them both a cheese on toast.
The girl introduced herself as Diana, “I was supposed to be meeting a blind date here, but I guess he’s not going to show up. That seems pretty typical.”
After taking a testing sip of tea Ballard asked her what she knows about the man she was supposed to meet, but she shook her head still smiling like she were Mona Lisa.
When they had finished their drinks and Diana had given up nervously picking at her cheese on toast, Ballard payed for them both with the money he received as a weekly allowance from his parents and suggested they go walking together.
They walked through the market together stopping at vendors to talk to one another about the kind of gifts they do and do not like, stopping longer at the vendor with the leather goods of belts and bracelets because Diana liked the feeling of suede under her index finger.
Ballard was in awe of the delineation he recovered. He felt as if he had been the one to thread the designs into Diana’s dress and had been the wind that combed her hair instead of the faux turtle shell brush that was perched on Diana’s sink at home. He had produced her like he were a specialist rose grower blooming a Joseph’s coat on her knees that were pinking in the cold air. His insides were humming with joy.
He asked her what music she liked and she told him how her father would listen to Sinatra and Judy Garland, that raised more questions about his Pandora than he wanted, so he ignored them.
They continued walking, past the market and found themselves at a park where Ballard pulled himself into tree branches while Diana watched from below still smiling asking him questions about Cassidy and other people he mentioned in passing, while he looked on her hairline like he were a deity counting heads.
“Cassidy,” he started arranging his limbs so that he could sit down between the pinch of two large branches, “Is the best person I know. Him and I are going to make choices choices again. Instead of the safer alternatives to what you need. Make the world fire like it was before.”
Diana asked him to explain himself more clearly but he stayed quiet feeling frustrated with his words. Words had a tendency to ail him like a common cold, showing symptoms in the form of miscommunication that led to arguments and discontentment between him and his peers and raised voices brimming over the heads of his parents and teachers. The crucifixion each time he called the visions from the unknown with the printed words in the Beacon News until he had honed his words and meaning in clear balance, not confusing water and vodka anymore in light of Diana’s physical form. Still Diana may be no different, he reminded himself. Words were an endowment and a curse. How he longed for extrasensory empathy beseeming of small green men on other planets.