Unable to find my navy blue cotton pajamas in the chaos of boxes and piles of clothes, the loose ones, with the top of stars, I washed the silk ones I've had for seven years and never worn. Cream-coloured silk. Found wrinkled in the bottom of a large cardboard wardrobe box. The "Marilyn Monroe" set on sale at Simpsons in the Eaton Centre after working in a nearby office. The top is more like a shirt, and had a large red heart for its single button, which I removed and replaced with a pearl-coloured one. And then never wore. Silk seems too fragile and precious for constant wear. But this is thick, durable, and sleek and soft against my skin. I sit in the lake-blue Director's Chair with plant-green designs that I unholstered once, in front of the computer, typing, sipping coffee, wondering, should I go out and buy dancing clothes at Dancing Days?

Another sarong in golds and browns and oranges and a sheer top with small tangerine moons and shimmering lines like longtitudinal threads of stars to navigate by?

And when will I dance, and where, and with whom?

I pick a purple plum from the fruit basket; it has a slight tang in which its sweetness and succulence is contained.

tags: silk pajamas, dancing, fruit, creativity, writing.

Cut it, and cut it, until the meaning's almost lost.

Dreams remain,
hovering.

Pain runs up my left shoulder blade
through my neck into the left throbbing side of my head
and curves over my forehead like an iron claw
until I am nearly blinded.

Take away what you don't want.
Begin.

___
Textual note: I spliced a headache (which is now gone, thanks to Ibuprofen) with remarks on editing. Some of this was taken from a BBC interview with Italian director and screenwriter Emanuele Crialese on his "ethereal masterpiece," Respiro: “When we were editing the film we started from knowing what we didn’t want,” says Crialese. “Then we took away things until we were afraid that we’d almost lose the character. It’s like a piece of rock. You cut it and cut it and cut it...”

I saw the film last night, and loved it. A school of fish forms a central imagery, though none of the online reviews I read mentioned it...

She was stunning in the part of Grazia, too.


tags: editing, Respiro.

The wind
is a dancer;
her flowing silk shawls
rustling the trees.

~

The wind
is a dancer;
her silk veils and petticoats
rustling the trees.

~

The wind
is a dancer;
lyrically streaming
sweeping with dervish whirls
and fine silk sarongs
rustling the trees.

~

The wind
is a dancer;
bangles and bells
drumming racing gale force
from nowhere, to nowhere
singing in the trees.

~

The wind
is a dancer;
softer than kisses, a
Genie sprinkling rainbows
over the sky after the storms,
whispering in the trees.


technorati tags: wind, dancer, poetry.

It's a small raised red mound on my forearm. Because I've scratched it with my nails, nails that no longer break now that I drink fluoridated tap water, it hasn't healed. It's a tiny hot spot, like someone's running a faint electrical charge through it. I hold a bottle of essential oil over it and watch a drop of thick amber liquid seep over the redness. Clary Sage Oil, I swear it takes the itch of insect bites away and they heal. How often have I been good about not scratching only to give in in the morning in bed and vigorously rub one ankle with the other toe? And find I've drawn blood?

I read the bottle. Salvia sclarea eases mental fatigue, isn't that also good?

technorati tags: insect bites, sage oil, itchings & scratchings, mental fatigue, humor.

Eventually we leave. It takes a long time to dress ourselves. I iron a nectarine red rayon skirt with bouquets of yellow and orange flowers with green stems, then change to an Indian silk wrap around skirt. I worry that the heat of the steaming iron will melt the delicate fabric. The patchwork squares are an array of colours and designs; each one singular, from floral to geometric, vivid colours of flowers to earth tones. A cantaloupe orange camisole surprisingly matches. She spends an hour changing behind her closed door. When we leave, she is wearing black pedal pushers and a crunched cotton empire sun-top the colour of the tangerine moon. Afterwards, she said men looked at her on the streets.



technorati tags: women, outing, Indian silk skirt, mother and daughter.

The wind
is a dancer;
her flowing silk shawls
rustling the trees.


technorati tags: wind, dancer, silk shawls, poetry.

As far as I understand, profits from Ontario lotteries goes to fund programs in sports, recreation, culture, the arts, education, health care, the environment, charities, as well as gambling addiction programs. If I discover this not to be the case I would, of course, stop buying tickets when I occasionally do. When I've succumbed and bought a ticket, I've never felt that it was money wasted: half of it goes to winners, a tiny bit to administration, and almost half to the wide variety of programs I've mentioned, many of which would cease to exist without this funding.

Nah, I wasn't 'bargaining,' just usually I never buy a ticket when the prize is that big because I wouldn't want the responsibility of all that money, nor the publicity. Still, buying a $2. ticket, even with no odds at all, one needs to be prepared, just in case... Zimbabwe is my mother country, and the country is in tragic condition, that's why a foundation to Feed the Children of Zimbabwe rather than something in Canada, which is in much better shape.
_____

Noone understands the atomic bomb like the Japanese do. I bow in sorrow and remembrance.

_____

"In plant-based groups the focus is on the group; whereas, in hunting-based ones the focus is on the individual. Of the former, we find group-based religious rites; in the latter, there is a focus on unique vision. The shaman, usually an odd and feared person in a farming-based society, is central to hunting and gathering tribes."

I wrote that 21 years ago. I wonder if it's at all 'provable.' Interesting concepts...

_____

With my daughter mostly away, and not working outside the home at present, and crazy menopausal sleep cycles, and a ton of sorting to do, I've decided to "unstructure" myself. I hereby release myself from having to conform to any schedule at all. I'll sleep when I feel like it, get up when I feel like it, write when I want, meditate when I want, paint if I want, eat whenever I feel like it, take the dog out whenever, and try to sort out the mess in this over-crowded space as whim moves me. So far, it's working - I did all the dishes and cleaned without feeling guilty or forced. None of it is hard to do, I don't know why I tend to make it so.

_____

I saw Nalin Pan's film, Samsara, last night... and it continues to play in my consciousness. The landscapes and extraordinary architecture, the ritual objects, the clothing, the beauty of the people, the innocence of such simple decisions. I may try to write more later on this film...


tecnorati tags: lottery, anniversary of atomic bomb, shamans, unstructured time, samsara.