Some Thoughts on Letter Writing

"Writing a letter today, I was struck by the fact that I had been here only three weeks. Three weeks elsewhere, in the country for example, would be like a day; here they seem like years. And I mean to write no more letters. What’s the use of telling anyone that I am changing? If I am changing then surely I am no longer the person I was, and if I am something else than heretofore, then it is clear that I have no acquaintances. And to strange people, to people who do not know me, I cannot possibly write." Rainer Maria Rilke, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, trans. M. D. Herter Norton, NY: W.W. Norton & Co., 1949. Page 15.

"I see him there on a night like this but cool, the moon blowing through black streets. He sups and walks back to his room. The radio is on the floor. Its luminous green dial blares softly. He sits down at the table; people in exile write so many letters. Now Ovid is weeping. Each night about this time he puts on sadness like a garment and goes on writing. In his spare time he is teaching himself the local language (Getic) in order to compose in it an epic poem no one will ever read." Anne Carson, On Ovid, from "Short Talks" in Plainwater, NY: Vintage 1995. Page 32.
. . . . .

Tunnel Mountain Rainbow

Yesterday we climbed Tunnel Mountain.
We were tired and almost didn’t.
We almost said: no, we should work.
But then we said: no, let’s do it.
The trail was only steep in parts.
Switchback weather changed its mind.
Digital cameras can’t gauge distances.
Far-sighted mountains are far too blue.
Rundle’s bald head hid in the clouds.
Breathless from grade we kept talking.
We raced to glimpse the other side.
Gripping grey railing, we peered sheer down.
And found ourselves above a rainbow.
And were sure it was brighter from above.
And wondered if they could see if from below.
And said: wow, we almost didn’t bother.



. . . . .

Here's what I remember:

(...this will only make sense to five or ten people...)

Everyone knows everyone.
The Saint James Gate.
Edmonton up one nothing.
The Embodiment of Idea.
Every other store sells sweets.
Every other store sells fleece.
The wolf T-Shirt.
The liqueur store dwarf.
The house yells at the dogs.
Myron on the phone a lot.
A voice in my ear.
The flash of digital cameras.
Low ceilings.
Lots of pipes.
But not on Flickr.
Front-end, back-end.
All the of kinds of vodka.
Filtered or otherwise.
One air mattress broken.
Sandra burned stuff in the yard.
The smoke got in our eyes.
Michael wrote a book.
I matched the balloons.
Plotted world domination.
Noble wouldn't come over.
Nachoes at his place.
Multi-coloured cupboards.
An amber-coloured beverage.
A young Patti Smith.
We sat on the floor.
We went to the Devil.
Drank in her kitchen.
A naughty Geisha glass.
A pink-coloured beverage.
Michael got lost.
Sandra noticed.
We set out to find him.
Mike dressed up as him.
A girl drew me a map.
We walked in the street.
We found Michael at Myron's.
Most names start with M.
M-A walked me home.
I fell asleep with my boots on.
World domination takes so long.






. . . . .

into the thin air

the thin air has made thieves of us.
homeless and breathless and dry-eyed,
we steal through the night.

through the night our skin thins and flakes,
elbows ashen and ankles arid enough to
scratch the surface of our illicit food dreams.

illicit food dreams feature fillets of fish flying
into our purses. deserts disappear in droves
and wherever we go crumb trails follow.

crumb trails follow us into the forest.
we gnash at snatched sandwiches
and feast on our forbidden fruit.

our forbidden fruit fills us with careful cunning.
into a stash of stolen moments we disappear,
thieves into the thin air.
. . . . .