one.

“did you fall from the sun?” he asked me. triggered memories, images – william blake, my personal icarus narrative, blinding love. no, i didn’t fall from the sun, but i clothe myself in her. searched myself to find the love within. darkness. Darkness. bobbing up and down in it. fighting a new and intense paranoia. maybe it’s contagious. “knock on wood and all the other elements.” I didn’t mean to step on your head, love.

this is my becoming.

two.

I’ve been looking for different ways to take myself to the next level. I put the question out there, and the answer is always the same: you need to become silent. Confused, I kept on asking. I can’t deal with not being able to express. My personal histories have only taught me silence in response to violence.

I finally get it. I need to not speak. I need to take a vow of silence for a short period of time. And write myself through it. It’s going to be mentally intense, and I’m only beginning to prepare for it now. It will take me a while to become ready, but I know beyond the shadow of a doubt it’s something I need to do.

three.

synchronicity on a crazy level. in constructed worlds, real life, virtual interactions, dreams. a lot of the symbolism is astrological and incredibly apt: aquarius, scorpio, saturn, orion. there’s been a lot of blood too. the music of nirvana, lou reed, david bowie, and burt bacharach. violent rhetoric: daggers, armour, protection, war. sense of destruction, but an understanding that clearing needs to happen in a final way for the new, which will now be all the more brighter. this dagger’s got me feeling like a warrior. ink has a strange way of being.

four.

A couple of weeks ago, someone sent me photos taken of them. The photos were portrait shots, a beautiful, smiling woman celebrating her birthday, one summer afternoon in Toronto. But what struck me (and the reason I received the photos) was the couple in the background. Pure love, joy, and light. I could see it in the body postures, the gentle gestures, and the multicoloured auras my imagination filled in. Beauty is so fragile, fleeting.

**

The photos I was sent via email reminded me of a Duane Michals image that has resonated with me since the first time I came across it. And so I leave you with it: This Photograph Is My Proof (1967, 74)

This photograph is my proof. There was that afternoon when things were still good between us, and she embraced me. And we were so happy. It did happen. She did love me. Look, see for yourself!