The Book

I'll continue trying to read Ishmael Reed, Stan Gooch and Stephen Jay Gould. I'll be tempted with that new pile of books downstairs, Dick Hebdige, Joseph Campbell and Henry Louis Gates, Jr. and a few more.
    Fantasy trilogy is done and I may want more. Something decent. Not a ten book dynastic wank-off.
    Between fantasy, folklore, myth, pop culture, paranormal, theory, sociology I have it covered. A little history of science, the occasional witch blog, Black or Native American cultural studies, crappy comics, pamphlets and arcane poetics. I wish I could merge all this in what I myself make. maybe I do and I don't notice.
    I tried to buy art supplies today, some nice bristol board to cut into panels so I can start drawing. I know there will be duds, wasted paper, crappy third attempts, aborted sequences. But that's ok, that means I'm working. Right now all I have is the taste of blood in my mouth.
    The art supply co-op near me had nothing I needed paper-wise. Not for this project. I bought four six by eight wooden panels for painting because I was there and I should have some such on hand when the feeling strikes. Wood over canvas because I scrape and gouge.
    I have to go downtown now. I always knew I had to go downtown. That art supply shop near me has great stuff but never what I need. Once they were out of white acrylic paint. Good job, guys.
    I'll try again tomorrow, downtown. The problem with that is if I do I'll get home later and there is stuff to do around the house. There are radiators to remove, parquet flooring to cut and glue down, expanding foam to stick between the walls and spray.
    Lots to do. I'll find the time to goof-off too I hope.
    It's all going in the book.

Now And Never

Bullshit, loads of crap and onwards. Stifling thought, fidgeting body, aches and pains. The whole kit, not being able to sit still. Not being able to leave the ground and fly away. Pulled between worlds and tendencies. Monastic fantasies of one small room, a cot, a desk, a bowl, a rug.
Here I would read and write. I would contemplate the mysteries and The Mystery. I would tend my affairs, small and humble, away from the mad rush of the world.
    Off to the side of the magnificent Saint-Joseph's Oratory of Mount Royal is a small building that I have visited a few times. The room above the chapel that Brother Andre lived in has left a deep impression on me. What simplicity. Of course, the small church beneath was opulent enough to render the stark wood of his homely room in relief. The saint lived simply, I'm sure, but he was a few steps from religious gold and wrought works of master craftsmen. I must visit this place again, and forget the line of tourists behind me, and just grip the hand rail that leads me through the tour and stare into that simple single room.
    The monastic fantasy, the single cell or tiny house, also echoes the recurring fantasy of true independence, answering to no one. I have never had the privilege of being truly alone. I have never been without sight of another human for longer than a couple of days in my entire life. It is something that lures me and terrifies me. When I first entered an isolation tank, I snapped the lid shut, turned the lights and soothing sounds off and floated in the dark alone. Within moments I pushed at the light switch and threw the door open with a gasp. I am not so hardy as I'd like. I may go stir crazy in the cabin in the woods. The creatures of the wilderness will quickly creep out from between my ears and unsettle me. I'll plan the trip nonetheless, a week on my own. And if not in complete isolation then close to it. I'll bring books and paper and drawing tools. I'll bring a good knife to whittle and food fit for a pauper playing king.
    The other world I'm pulled to is closer to the one I live in than Brother Andre's world. Opulence and grandeur, the feeding of a growing insatiable ego, servant boys bringing me fresh fruit. Luxury and whim, a not over large estate but one linked to a world of adventure and fine dining. Night life with a driver and a table reserved, companions fresh and charming, bottles filled and emptied. No care for the morrow, for others are doing the caring. Basking in the art of living, tasting culture refined and plenty. Plenty, that's the word. A buffet when I want it. The righteous privilege of choosing only steamed mushroom because it pleases me. Padding about great carpeted studies, selecting volumes rare and lavish. Devoting hours of study, brandy nearby. A huge door to throw open to let the night air in as I smoke a pinch of hashish rolled in fine tobacco. Guests asleep in the far wing.
    This tug of war leads me nowhere. I'm not having any of it. A bowl of steamed mushrooms next to a paperback, my child sleeping in the other room, my partner trying to rest. Planning a camping trip or a morning outing can exhaust me. My man servant isn't up to the job. Push it aside, the task at hand and worry. This isn't what I wanted. This cascade of adulthood. But I never threw a duffle bag over my shoulder and I never hit the road and I never starved and buffets are ok but they are sad things too. This world that pulls me to pieces, it's a world I made. This war is my war alone and both sides fling their error and assumptions at my feet. I wade through it, victim and jailer.
    There is light somewhere. I'll have to rake the ground to find it. I'll have to cast away thought to find it. Stretch this aging body and trade my lust for love. Learning to sit still in my old age.

Candle & I

Last night I sat down in front of a candle, lit it and stayed there staring for a while. I had awoken earlier with a maddening itch on my chin, worried about bedbugs. Can it be, was I bit ? I can't tear the bed apart now searching for a clue. Once awake at two in the morning, with an itch unexplained, it's hard to get back to sleep. I was self consciously scratching my face to no avail. If I were to stay in bed I would annoy my partner so I got up and went to the other room.
    I sat down in a chair that is proving comfortable day in and day out. I read a bit. The chapter in the book I've been slowly getting through was on meditation. It stated how beneficial the practice is. Science agrees. One portion mentioned how a particular researcher meditates on the job by focusing intently on the task at hand. I realized that as I read I was elsewhere, thinking of dropping everything and trying to sit still for a few minutes. I got back to the task at hand, which was reading, and continued until the end of the chapter.
    To think about how you have to go to the bank on the way to the post office is a condition that has plagued me to no end for many years. I'm not where I am. I fidget and scratch. Sitting still is difficult. I toss and turn, pull the sheets, move about, sigh and grunt. Chairs are bothersome. It takes effort to eat slowly, breathe consciously, be here now. Reading, I anticipate finishing the book and putting it down. My eyes drift to the bottom of the paragraph, the end of the page. Relaxing is not so. I cross the house to fetch a glass of water that I drink most of a second from the sink. I go back and fill it up. I reach my seat with a sip left in my cup. Repeat.
    I was reading about meditation and had to stop myself from ditching the book to meditate. Not a bad thing that, but let me at least try to read presently. I'll meditate later. I finished the chapter and, calmly, with intent and resolve, sat down on a soft spot, the babies lamb skin, and put a beeswax candle on the floor in front of me. I lit it and stared. I stayed there. I was there. Sure, my thoughts drifted. Who cares, let them drift. Don't catch them, don't turn them into stories, let them sail away. I was surrounded by plants and the sounds in the alley stopped as I started in earnest.
    The liquid on the skin of my eyes played light shows off the flame. It took me several slow unknown movements of time for me to creak my eyelids open so no light flickered or danced. The flame stood stock still. I stared. We sat locked into each other, that candle and I. The flame did not move. I kept my eyes in that position. I breathed deep. I let the images swim by. I didn't scratch my jaw. I relaxed. Two thirty in the morning, woken from sleep by a minor annoyance.
    I felt peaceful, not tired. My waking was of some good. I went back to bed with nothing itching and I slept. In the morning I had no new spots to scratch and no welts to worry over. I thought, I will sit in front of a candle again.