Image

An Amatory Moment...

Dear Reader,

Amatory intoxication bursts all our stories. When we fall in love, we are not only in a state of lyricism, metaphor, joy, but we forgo narration, allegory, moral messages. Forgotten are the sermons we carry around with us of our lives and instead we sing the song of love, complicated, exhilarating, prey to a states of divine madness. It's not that we lose boundaries, but that we lose composure, surety, safety; we forgo the stories, the novel of our lives, for the poetry of the moment. Possession of the loved one cannot exist in the motion of love's excitement. The 'I' collapses into the 'Thou.' A state of enlightenment, surely, surely, this incantation of love.

How to be there, remain there, without owning, holding?

In the unknowingness.

Forever yours,

Brenda

ps Inspired by what I read today, it all suddenly coalesqued as I poured through Kristeva's analysis of the lyricism and grace of the songs of courtly love, their idealism and joi, in the 14th c. and the movement into a verse of allegory and satire, of seduction, aggressiveness and realism in a chapter on "The Troubadours" in Tales of Love (Columbia, 1987) over a thick, rich cappuccino drizzled with honey and sprinkled with gratings of dark chocolate.


--
If there's no destination, you can't get lost.
Thyoar
Comments

If only, before...

On a bridge, as if on the Great Wall of China, before a wide green valley and drop into a canyon of rock, the Siberian shaman standing beside me, sharp blue eyes, neck thick with middle-age, threw out the line with the sinker on the end, small metallic piece like a tiny boomerang, and caught floating flocks of ghostly men in black. They are like children's Halloween puppets, black cloth pulled over a head of cotton batten and tied, empty bodies. A group of them appear, drifting in the air. I am alone, the line and sinker in my hand. While I'd watched him throw it out and the way it looped around and back corralling the ghosts in black cloth, causing them to fall into the deep rocky canyon below, I hadn't been shown how. As I looked at the sinker in my hand, the ghosts caught a woman and took her out over the precipitous drop, hovering about her as if she were a doll, and cut her long blue-black hair and sliced the back of her white neck, a thin line of blood, and I couldn't throw the hook and line without catching her and causing her to fall into the pit with the flock in black. I woke with guilt, shame. I'm not used to warfare but I should have flung the line out, at least tried, when I had a chance. Before, before they got her...
Comments

ravishment of light

Ravishment of Light - listen to a recording

Or go to the Internet Archive page for this recording and listen there.

When I have more pieces I'll upload this tiny recording to my poetry reading website, Aural Pleasure, in the meantime I copied this over from a gmail email I'd sent to a friend. It's small -800k- and short -1:21min- for your enjoyment... xo

__

just playing... but I do want to see the movie,
Sunshine, not for the plot, which hasn't received great reviews, but for the images of the sun... and then, oh, perhaps this little piece will expand with light ::twinkle::
Comments

At 28 years of age...

I now go on a 'treasure hunts' in the packed storage unit in the basement that will be a small studio whenever I can get help clearing it out... and find, oh, things that give me pause. Like these photo-booth photos at 28 years old, the only ones from that era, found in an old journal. This one in particular haunted me for about a weekend. I'm not sure who I was, or who I thought I'd be, or what I've become, but the fire is still there, though, ::grinning:: a little wrinkled now.


 BC 28 yrs - 700px


A couple more... the last one looks rather 'Pre-Raphaelite'- something I heard a fair bit in those days. Oh, it makes me laugh to remember!


BC  28 yrs - 1 - Four

(click on photos for larger versions)
Comments (3)

Lacemaker

In a moment words will appear from which everything unravels.

Or begin with an explosion of lace.

Lace that is white, or whitened with the sun's steaming. Looped, twisted, braided threads, sewn with sharp needles, shaped like a cutwork of leaf veins in the sky. Finely-woven stitches, not broken or lost. Florals in white; sun-rises in white; waves in white. Spider webs of lace floating, an organic garden of cotton and linen and silk.

How many fine stitches I see everywhere.

Seams of perfect clothing, backs, shoulders, arms, waists, hips, the tight stitching of form-fitting shoes, the interlapping folds of purses. Fabric. Like skin. Woven tightly or loosely. Draped, tucked, formed, fitted. The soft velvet of the armchair in the cafe in which I sit, rounded, plush.

Colours in swathes, patterned. Different attire for different scenarios. Layers of warmth or mere covering if it's cold or hot. Whether a garment can open or close or covers in one swoop. Pieces of cloth fitted to hold the shape of the wearer. Clothes that adhere, drape, flow for sitting, walking, sleeping, dancing.

Looms and sewing machines and bobbins. Billions of miles of thread around the world. Stitching, this way of composing, holding together, covering ourselves, these metaphors, textual narratives.

What if I don't want to take a stance? What if I don't want to weave a garment out of these threads? A story out of all the stories filling my mind? If "Narratives, or more precisely plots, synthesize reality," (Snaevarr) can I exist without telling a tale of myself to you, or even to myself?

The flow of language like clothing, fashions that encase shaping how we present ourselves. Can we be naked without the speaking that stitches the world together, seam by seam, reams of bolts of cloth, patternings?

What was lost in the scrap lace pile, discarded, worn-out, old, the remnants, unraveled in the tears and rips, bleached out by wear?

How do I hem these words so they don't fray?

Shawls of Shetland lace are knitted first in the middle and then out to the edges and is so fine it can be pulled through a wedding ring. Can we marry ourselves to words that knit us to ourselves, each other, the world?

Social customs inform the attire of any given era and shape the body, but does the weave of worsted wool or soft cotton follow the curves and hollows of the skin and shape the wearer?

Or are the words we clothe ourselves with what we hide under?

Presentation and fashion. The way I compose myself every day; every piece of writing. Gathering myself in this historical time, a product of my age.

All the stitches of the world held in syntactical rhythms of meaning, social fabrics.

Is that why we want words to unfold in comfort from us? Wave-white words wedded. Words that aren't performative; that are dream-like, real.

Unraveling, I came to this, and I can't obscure it, truth, death, the words of the lover, and she who knits, knots, tapes, crochets, sews the world into being with her openwork, the lace maker.
Comments (5)

Little Dancer Sketch

BrendaClewsDancer-Sketch

14.5cm x 22.5cm or 5 3/4"x 9"; india ink sketch on archival paper coated in acyrlic matte medium

How long ago did I do this little sketch? It must be months. I taped it to a small board and it's still awaiting a fast wash of paint. Since it'll only take 5 minutes to paint, perhaps it's that I have to be in the right 'zen' frame of mind to finish it?

And when is that going to happen?
Comments (3)

Sep 2019 (5)
Aug 2019 (1)
Jul 2019 (6)
May 2019 (2)
Apr 2019 (1)
Feb 2019 (1)
Jan 2019 (1)
Nov 2018 (2)
Sep 2018 (1)
Aug 2018 (3)
Jul 2018 (1)
May 2018 (1)
Apr 2018 (12)
Mar 2018 (5)
Feb 2018 (3)
Jan 2018 (4)
Dec 2017 (3)
Nov 2017 (1)
Oct 2017 (10)
Sep 2017 (1)
Aug 2017 (3)
Jul 2017 (1)
Jun 2017 (3)
May 2017 (5)
Apr 2017 (2)
Mar 2017 (3)
Feb 2017 (1)
Jan 2017 (5)
Dec 2016 (8)
Nov 2016 (3)
Oct 2016 (3)
Sep 2016 (1)
Aug 2016 (8)
Jul 2016 (6)
Jun 2016 (3)
May 2016 (7)
Apr 2016 (10)
Mar 2016 (5)
Feb 2016 (5)
Jan 2016 (4)
Oct 2014 (13)
Sep 2014 (6)
Aug 2014 (11)
Jul 2014 (9)
Jun 2014 (9)
May 2014 (9)
Apr 2014 (17)
Mar 2014 (5)
Feb 2014 (8)
Jan 2014 (13)
Dec 2013 (11)
Nov 2013 (7)
Oct 2013 (13)
Sep 2013 (6)
Aug 2013 (8)
Jul 2013 (5)
Jan 2013 (12)
Dec 2012 (11)
Nov 2012 (16)
Oct 2012 (11)
Sep 2012 (20)
Aug 2012 (19)
Jul 2012 (17)
Jun 2012 (12)
May 2012 (14)
Apr 2012 (18)
Oct 2011 (17)
Sep 2011 (19)
Aug 2011 (23)
Jul 2011 (48)
Jun 2011 (18)
May 2011 (17)
Apr 2011 (8)
Jan 2011 (19)
Dec 2010 (20)
Nov 2010 (7)
Oct 2010 (10)
Sep 2010 (3)
Aug 2010 (6)
Jul 2010 (6)
Jun 2010 (15)
May 2010 (10)
Apr 2010 (12)
Mar 2010 (9)
Feb 2010 (12)
Jan 2010 (20)
Dec 2009 (1)
May 2009 (19)
Apr 2009 (17)
Mar 2009 (13)
Feb 2009 (22)
Jan 2009 (26)
Dec 2008 (19)
Nov 2008 (26)
Oct 2008 (8)
Jan 2008 (7)
Dec 2007 (13)
Nov 2007 (19)
Oct 2007 (19)
Sep 2007 (16)
Aug 2007 (11)
Jul 2007 (8)
Jun 2007 (5)
May 2007 (6)
Apr 2007 (8)
Mar 2007 (7)
Feb 2007 (10)
Jan 2007 (15)
Dec 2006 (6)
Aug 2006 (21)
Jul 2006 (21)
Jun 2006 (25)
May 2006 (18)
Apr 2006 (18)
Mar 2006 (23)
Feb 2006 (21)
Jan 2006 (3)
Jul 2005 (7)
Jun 2005 (16)
May 2005 (7)
Apr 2005 (16)
Mar 2005 (18)
Feb 2005 (7)
Jan 2005 (1)
Sep 2004 (1)
Jun 2004 (12)
May 2004 (1)
Oct 2003 (1)
RSS Feed 

Warning: array_multisort(): Array sizes are inconsistent in /home/brendacl/public_html/Blog/index.php on line 783

An Amatory Moment...

Dear Reader,

Amatory intoxication bursts all our stories. When we fall in love, we are not only in a state of lyricism, metaphor, joy, but we forgo narration, allegory, moral messages. Forgotten are the sermons we carry around with us of our lives and instead we sing the song of love, complicated, exhilarating, prey to a states of divine madness. It's not that we lose boundaries, but that we lose composure, surety, safety; we forgo the stories, the novel of our lives, for the poetry of the moment. Possession of the loved one cannot exist in the motion of love's excitement. The 'I' collapses into the 'Thou.' A state of enlightenment, surely, surely, this incantation of love.

How to be there, remain there, without owning, holding?

In the unknowingness.

Forever yours,

Brenda

ps Inspired by what I read today, it all suddenly coalesqued as I poured through Kristeva's analysis of the lyricism and grace of the songs of courtly love, their idealism and joi, in the 14th c. and the movement into a verse of allegory and satire, of seduction, aggressiveness and realism in a chapter on "The Troubadours" in Tales of Love (Columbia, 1987) over a thick, rich cappuccino drizzled with honey and sprinkled with gratings of dark chocolate.


--
If there's no destination, you can't get lost.
Thyoar
Comments

If only, before...

On a bridge, as if on the Great Wall of China, before a wide green valley and drop into a canyon of rock, the Siberian shaman standing beside me, sharp blue eyes, neck thick with middle-age, threw out the line with the sinker on the end, small metallic piece like a tiny boomerang, and caught floating flocks of ghostly men in black. They are like children's Halloween puppets, black cloth pulled over a head of cotton batten and tied, empty bodies. A group of them appear, drifting in the air. I am alone, the line and sinker in my hand. While I'd watched him throw it out and the way it looped around and back corralling the ghosts in black cloth, causing them to fall into the deep rocky canyon below, I hadn't been shown how. As I looked at the sinker in my hand, the ghosts caught a woman and took her out over the precipitous drop, hovering about her as if she were a doll, and cut her long blue-black hair and sliced the back of her white neck, a thin line of blood, and I couldn't throw the hook and line without catching her and causing her to fall into the pit with the flock in black. I woke with guilt, shame. I'm not used to warfare but I should have flung the line out, at least tried, when I had a chance. Before, before they got her...
Comments

ravishment of light

Ravishment of Light - listen to a recording

Or go to the Internet Archive page for this recording and listen there.

When I have more pieces I'll upload this tiny recording to my poetry reading website, Aural Pleasure, in the meantime I copied this over from a gmail email I'd sent to a friend. It's small -800k- and short -1:21min- for your enjoyment... xo

__

just playing... but I do want to see the movie,
Sunshine, not for the plot, which hasn't received great reviews, but for the images of the sun... and then, oh, perhaps this little piece will expand with light ::twinkle::
Comments

At 28 years of age...

I now go on a 'treasure hunts' in the packed storage unit in the basement that will be a small studio whenever I can get help clearing it out... and find, oh, things that give me pause. Like these photo-booth photos at 28 years old, the only ones from that era, found in an old journal. This one in particular haunted me for about a weekend. I'm not sure who I was, or who I thought I'd be, or what I've become, but the fire is still there, though, ::grinning:: a little wrinkled now.


 BC 28 yrs - 700px


A couple more... the last one looks rather 'Pre-Raphaelite'- something I heard a fair bit in those days. Oh, it makes me laugh to remember!


BC  28 yrs - 1 - Four

(click on photos for larger versions)
Comments (3)

Lacemaker

In a moment words will appear from which everything unravels.

Or begin with an explosion of lace.

Lace that is white, or whitened with the sun's steaming. Looped, twisted, braided threads, sewn with sharp needles, shaped like a cutwork of leaf veins in the sky. Finely-woven stitches, not broken or lost. Florals in white; sun-rises in white; waves in white. Spider webs of lace floating, an organic garden of cotton and linen and silk.

How many fine stitches I see everywhere.

Seams of perfect clothing, backs, shoulders, arms, waists, hips, the tight stitching of form-fitting shoes, the interlapping folds of purses. Fabric. Like skin. Woven tightly or loosely. Draped, tucked, formed, fitted. The soft velvet of the armchair in the cafe in which I sit, rounded, plush.

Colours in swathes, patterned. Different attire for different scenarios. Layers of warmth or mere covering if it's cold or hot. Whether a garment can open or close or covers in one swoop. Pieces of cloth fitted to hold the shape of the wearer. Clothes that adhere, drape, flow for sitting, walking, sleeping, dancing.

Looms and sewing machines and bobbins. Billions of miles of thread around the world. Stitching, this way of composing, holding together, covering ourselves, these metaphors, textual narratives.

What if I don't want to take a stance? What if I don't want to weave a garment out of these threads? A story out of all the stories filling my mind? If "Narratives, or more precisely plots, synthesize reality," (Snaevarr) can I exist without telling a tale of myself to you, or even to myself?

The flow of language like clothing, fashions that encase shaping how we present ourselves. Can we be naked without the speaking that stitches the world together, seam by seam, reams of bolts of cloth, patternings?

What was lost in the scrap lace pile, discarded, worn-out, old, the remnants, unraveled in the tears and rips, bleached out by wear?

How do I hem these words so they don't fray?

Shawls of Shetland lace are knitted first in the middle and then out to the edges and is so fine it can be pulled through a wedding ring. Can we marry ourselves to words that knit us to ourselves, each other, the world?

Social customs inform the attire of any given era and shape the body, but does the weave of worsted wool or soft cotton follow the curves and hollows of the skin and shape the wearer?

Or are the words we clothe ourselves with what we hide under?

Presentation and fashion. The way I compose myself every day; every piece of writing. Gathering myself in this historical time, a product of my age.

All the stitches of the world held in syntactical rhythms of meaning, social fabrics.

Is that why we want words to unfold in comfort from us? Wave-white words wedded. Words that aren't performative; that are dream-like, real.

Unraveling, I came to this, and I can't obscure it, truth, death, the words of the lover, and she who knits, knots, tapes, crochets, sews the world into being with her openwork, the lace maker.
Comments (5)

Little Dancer Sketch

BrendaClewsDancer-Sketch

14.5cm x 22.5cm or 5 3/4"x 9"; india ink sketch on archival paper coated in acyrlic matte medium

How long ago did I do this little sketch? It must be months. I taped it to a small board and it's still awaiting a fast wash of paint. Since it'll only take 5 minutes to paint, perhaps it's that I have to be in the right 'zen' frame of mind to finish it?

And when is that going to happen?
Comments (3)

Sep 2019 (5)
Aug 2019 (1)
Jul 2019 (6)
May 2019 (2)
Apr 2019 (1)
Feb 2019 (1)
Jan 2019 (1)
Nov 2018 (2)
Sep 2018 (1)
Aug 2018 (3)
Jul 2018 (1)
May 2018 (1)
Apr 2018 (12)
Mar 2018 (5)
Feb 2018 (3)
Jan 2018 (4)
Dec 2017 (3)
Nov 2017 (1)
Oct 2017 (10)
Sep 2017 (1)
Aug 2017 (3)
Jul 2017 (1)
Jun 2017 (3)
May 2017 (5)
Apr 2017 (2)
Mar 2017 (3)
Feb 2017 (1)
Jan 2017 (5)
Dec 2016 (8)
Nov 2016 (3)
Oct 2016 (3)
Sep 2016 (1)
Aug 2016 (8)
Jul 2016 (6)
Jun 2016 (3)
May 2016 (7)
Apr 2016 (10)
Mar 2016 (5)
Feb 2016 (5)
Jan 2016 (4)
Oct 2014 (13)
Sep 2014 (6)
Aug 2014 (11)
Jul 2014 (9)
Jun 2014 (9)
May 2014 (9)
Apr 2014 (17)
Mar 2014 (5)
Feb 2014 (8)
Jan 2014 (13)
Dec 2013 (11)
Nov 2013 (7)
Oct 2013 (13)
Sep 2013 (6)
Aug 2013 (8)
Jul 2013 (5)
Jan 2013 (12)
Dec 2012 (11)
Nov 2012 (16)
Oct 2012 (11)
Sep 2012 (20)
Aug 2012 (19)
Jul 2012 (17)
Jun 2012 (12)
May 2012 (14)
Apr 2012 (18)
Oct 2011 (17)
Sep 2011 (19)
Aug 2011 (23)
Jul 2011 (48)
Jun 2011 (18)
May 2011 (17)
Apr 2011 (8)
Jan 2011 (19)
Dec 2010 (20)
Nov 2010 (7)
Oct 2010 (10)
Sep 2010 (3)
Aug 2010 (6)
Jul 2010 (6)
Jun 2010 (15)
May 2010 (10)
Apr 2010 (12)
Mar 2010 (9)
Feb 2010 (12)
Jan 2010 (20)
Dec 2009 (1)
May 2009 (19)
Apr 2009 (17)
Mar 2009 (13)
Feb 2009 (22)
Jan 2009 (26)
Dec 2008 (19)
Nov 2008 (26)
Oct 2008 (8)
Jan 2008 (7)
Dec 2007 (13)
Nov 2007 (19)
Oct 2007 (19)
Sep 2007 (16)
Aug 2007 (11)
Jul 2007 (8)
Jun 2007 (5)
May 2007 (6)
Apr 2007 (8)
Mar 2007 (7)
Feb 2007 (10)
Jan 2007 (15)
Dec 2006 (6)
Aug 2006 (21)
Jul 2006 (21)
Jun 2006 (25)
May 2006 (18)
Apr 2006 (18)
Mar 2006 (23)
Feb 2006 (21)
Jan 2006 (3)
Jul 2005 (7)
Jun 2005 (16)
May 2005 (7)
Apr 2005 (16)
Mar 2005 (18)
Feb 2005 (7)
Jan 2005 (1)
Sep 2004 (1)
Jun 2004 (12)
May 2004 (1)
Oct 2003 (1)
RSS Feed 

© 2019 Brenda Clews Contact Me

Thank you for visiting, and come back soon.