Fun With Therapy – Heather Bell

The problem with poets is we like
to sound more interesting than we
are.  The poet goes to therapy and says
she has been skinning herself

alive. How interesting!  How probable and
dark!  The poet writes long letters

to the therapist in which she says

her skills are in high demand, such as

tilting men, finger to head, toppling
them over.  Poets like to take it too
far,

disease themselves. No one is ever truly

that lonely, the therapist tells
her.  The poet

writes a list of possibilities:  tomb
herself into

the house like a pharoah, disappear.  The
moon

is a supermarket, she says.  The cat
refuses to come
home.  How beautiful and weird!  How
humble of

her to acknowledge she has gone off the
deep end,

so early in the game.  Here she sees a
sky of clouds in the blot.  There she
sees knuckles and a wad of flesh.  The
therapist evaluates

the situation like it is a police report:
woman’s face is a tight shiny surface of
worry.  Woman’s hands keep moving over
the disappointment.  Woman

says she hasn’t told the truth for years
and we have to believe her.
______________________________________________________
I found my Heather Bell book.    I love this woman.

How humble of 

her to acknowledge she has gone off the
deep end,

so early in the game.  

Nocturne in E Flat Major

Forget, forget, and let us live now
only this, how the stars pierce through
cleared nocturnal sky; how the moon’s whole disk
surmounts the gardens.  We’ve sensed so long already
how the darkness breeds many mirrors: how a gleam
takes shape, a white shadow in the radiance
of night.  But now let us cross over
and invest this world where
everything is lunar-

-Rainer Maria Rilke

(translated from German)
_______________________________________
Chopin, music for dreaming

I blog too much I work too much. Too. Much.

I am such a freaking miser. I work instead of live. I want to travel so bad. It’s an ache in the back of my head, always. Next summer. I. am. going. somewhere. I balance on the edge of living, but I never actually do anything. I get on these riffs where I do nothing but google plane tickets.
I’ve been putting off life for so long
and you, well. you. You tell me of a girl who meant to leave and didn’t so
I swear I swear I swear up and down sideways through the gate and out the window that I’m getting out.

in which I attend some laptop cinema

I am about to watch a movie.  Here is the synopsis.  Naked Lunch: After developing an addiction to the substance he uses to kill bugs, an exterminator accidentally murders his wife and becomes involved in a secret government plot being orchestrated by giant bugs in an Islamic port town in Africa.

ooh! exciting.

These are a few

In no particular order

Parenthesis
Billy Talent
Rain
Dancing
Music
Pens that write exceedingly well
Banksy
Books
The movie Troll 2
Chess
Poetry
Augusten Burroughs
Singing
Elderly People
Honesty
Towelie
Stars
Traveling
Ferris Wheels
PopCo (and Scarlett Thomas)
Natalie Portman
Writing
Picnics


At the beginning of things, it is absolutely inconceivable that there could be a terrible ending to it all.  Perhaps there won’t be!

Protozoa in E Minor

 

when I could finally bring myself
to look in the mirror
I was more fascinated than shocked
 
wouldn’t the wolf be surprised to awaken one day
a hare, instead?
 
while I was sleeping
or perhaps while I was looking in the fridge
a bit of classical music, a slice of leftover
ruthless detachment
 
the cage turned inside out and
swallowed me up,
deranged-amoeba style
 
(although it is possible
I had been caught in your snare
all along,
 
too witless to know the difference)
 
______________________________
 
This is not representative of my life, so don’t get any ideas.  Have you ever seen a “ranged” amoeba?  Mostly I just write all the time in the hopes that I will get better at it.  Also I’m reading the book Nightmares & Dreamscapes by one of the few authors I can stomach these days, master of horror, Stephen King.  I had this song in my head while writing this. 
This is that fresh, that fresh feeling.
 
 
(in all honesty I write because I have to.  Oxygen, baby.)