Freckle

Am I a writer?
Do I write in order to become a writer,
or is it like a nose, or my eyes.
Something is simply is. A part of my human
complexion.
Speckled words freckled on my screen,
lines, aged lines, that form in the ridges of a
well-thumbed page.

I sneeze. and I write it. Immediate yet conscious.
I don't think it should be conscious, only immediate.
Like the grabbing of her arm when I walk.
It should be like brushing my teeth. Maybe writing
would be more unconscious if I didn't think about
brushing my teeth.

Meanwhile I have these words of others.
The ones I must analyze, scattered and dispersed,
for points. Freckled in my
periperhary. She uses words like iridescence and
emerald.
It's understated and calm. A meditation in the form
of precise, extraordinary detail.
Like a scientist describing the phenomenon of
feeling, silver and cold dark deep.

I wonder what will become of these hands. Will they
hold yours or another. Will they always seek yours
in ways that aren't how you think.
I want your hands like a child?
To walk the woods with you and teach you my
freckles. Like ancestors.
I want to skim stones with you and speak until
all sense falls asleep.
Watch the cinema shots that make you inhale,
involuntarily.

It seems hopeful, too human? It seems true. Little
and golden.
Simple two.
Words and hands and eyes.
That way others can hold your small body and dip
the tip of their noses into your heart that is oversized,
like the snow flakes that press themselves down on
the small
branches of a young oak tree.

I can then go and see if others smile like I do.

I can see if others have beautiful eyes. "I'll watch you
through the smokey haze."
We have metaphysical string tied in a deep full bow
between us.
And it's made of silverwood. Elastic and firm. It
swims and freezes but it unties, never.

Silverwood like hazelwood but made of moon
and the sky on cold days. Made out wind and that
soft sound you make when you wake in the morning.

I still feel lost, like an old traveller. Pocket knife
worn and stupid, and brass leather bag filled with hours.
There will be this feeling until I find another
traveller.
Take me with you. Let me clasp your pinky as
they cheer.
As people grow from you, let me swing
on that disobedient curl. Winter comes and let me
sleep in the arc of your neck in between the vertebra.

One day when our joys and tears write
themselves into our old freckles and the creases of faces,
We will smile knowingly and pick them away, one
by one. Until all that is left is simple and two and
golden.

not a Twitter plug, honest.

(but, in case you're desperately curious, @shellbelle6 & @gijohazelwoods)

"you're right, it is like a kitten... f*cking kitten..."

And here is where my love for my family (and for this song of indescribable beauty and wisdom) acquires physical embodiment :) what we do for 'em, eh?

p.s. that's the sister in shot :)

Allah, Allah, Allah

"Shelly: omg. jo can you watch something for me?
i thought it was awesome

Jo: yeah sure
but you have to watch this first
unless you've already seen it haha
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SnhgpVb-u5s

Shelly: http://www.ted.com/talks/elizabeth_gilbert_on_genius.html

Jo: Sally Field's most critically acclaimed work

Shelly: PAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHA
omg
Ok mine is on an altogether different level. haha

Jo: hahaha
yeah I'm watching
seaweed haha
afraid to be a chemical engineer haha

Shelly: haha

Jo: drinking gin at nine o'clock in the morning hahah
oh my cod I love this woman

Shelly: I KNOW right! I knew you would :) I did also. wait it get better.
s

Jo: Rome, ooog
*oooh haha
Dobby hahaha

Shelly: hahahaha
yes

Jo: swallow the sun oh my goddess

Shelly: :) nodds knowingly

Jo: faeries hahaah

Shelly: I'm sure there could be some scientific objections..... but.
haha

Jo: "excuse me, can you not see that I'm driving?"
my god, that is exactly the kind of thing I do

Shelly: :D yes.
It rings true right?
i thought she was awesome. i want to get her bok.
haha *book.
i want her bok choy. haha

Jo: literal immediate out-loud response?
tears up "oh my god, this woman is- has a genius..."

Shelly: :D
i knew you would appreciate it!. there is another really awesome one but it's for another time. the talker is less cool than her.

Jo: haha ok: :)
seriously, kudos and thankfulness for finding that
can we embed it on TJS?"

As promised...

So I find myself in Canada...

"A Case Of You"

Just before our love got lost you said
"I am as constant as a northern star"
And I said "Constantly in the darkness
Where's that at?
If you want me I'll be in the bar"

On the back of a cartoon coaster
In the blue TV screen light
I drew a map of Canada
Oh Canada
With your face sketched on it twice
Oh you're in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet

Oh I could drink a case of you darling
Still I'd be on my feet
oh I would still be on my feet

Oh I am a lonely painter
I live in a box of paints
I'm frightened by the devil
And I'm drawn to those ones that ain't afraid

I remember that time you told me you said
"Love is touching souls"
Surely you touched mine
'Cause part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time
Oh, you're in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet

Oh I could drink a case of you darling
And I would still be on my feet
I would still be on my feet

I met a woman
She had a mouth like yours
She knew your life
She knew your devils and your deeds
And she said
"Go to him, stay with him if you can
But be prepared to bleed"

Oh but you are in my blood
You're my holy wine
You're so bitter, bitter and so sweet

Oh, I could drink a case of you darling
Still I'd be on my feet
I would still be on my feet


© 1970; Joni Mitchell


(cover to follow soon, we can but hope)

Just checking in.

11:42 am, July 31st '09

It's been a long time since I was sat here on my bed waiting for a call.

It's been even longer since I've expected one from you.

My insides are turning; I'd eat to pass the time but it wouldn't stay.

I shake.

I wait

to tell you how,

even now,

with this truce in place,

my fingers fight-

first spelling out your number like it were their own name,

then knee-jerk refusing to dial.

And somehow you are here,

in my city, just as I've cracked-

but why would this surprise me?

New

Awesome, love it.

Happy Holidays

into ink

The release in purging my subconscious onto a page;

the stifled spilling, stumbling out and into ink,

and somehow landing in somekind of sense,

of beauty even, or a tripped heartbeat.

All the mavericks in the house put your hands up!

one two three

my name is sarah palin you all know me
vice president nominee of the gop
gonna need your vote in the next election
can i get a ‘what what’ from the senior section
mccain got experience, mccain got style
but don’t let him freak you out when he tries to smile
cause that smile be creepy
but when i be vp
all the leaders in the world gonna finally meet me

how’s it go eskimo
(eskimos)
tell me what you know eskimo
(eskimos)
how you feel eskimo
(ice cold)
tell me tell me what you feel eskimo
(super cold)

i’m jeremiah wright cause tonight i’m the preacha
i got a bookish look and you’re all hot for teacha
todd lookin fine on his snow machine
so hot boy gonna need a go between
in wasilla we just chill baby chilla
but when i see oil lets drill baby drill

my country tis a thee
from my porch i can see
russia and such

all the mavericks in the house put your hands up
all the mavericks in the house put your hands up
all the plumbers in the house pull your pants up
all the plumbers in the house pull your pants up

when i say ‘obama’ you say ‘ayers’
obama. (ayers) obama (ayers)
i built me a bridge - it ain’t goin’ nowhere.
(ohhh)

mccain, palin, gonna put the nail in the coffin
of the media elite
(she likes red meat)
shoot a mother-humpin moose, eight days of the week

[three gunshots]
now ya dead, now ya dead,
cause i’m an animal, and i’m bigger than you
holdin a shotgun walk in the pub
everybody party, we’re goin on a hunt
la la la la la la la la
[six gunshots]

yo i’m palin, i’m out!

KT Tunstall writes...

"Friday, September 26th
Plane landing at Kangerlussuaq
We could see the east coast of Greenland, indifferent, majestic, and there they were – icebergs from above!! Aaaarrr!! We were suddenly all toddlers, looking down on the little minty sailboats being shoved out of the nest of the shore, forced to take off on voyages from which they would never return. Ever diminishing, ever more alone. Gliding off into the vastness.

5 hours sailing down the gargantuan straight of Sondre Stromfjord, the light starts to get soaked up by the time. Like a waking dream. Milky green sea that looks alive. A beautifully perfected valley scraped out of the landscape as our guide, singing us out of its mouth. The weirdness. The spook. That half-light that makes you feel like the whites of your eyes are glowing. A low-lying cloud that turns a scottish landscape into a science fiction set. The boat is full and buzzing like a hive. The Belgian-Danish bar and restaurant manager Jan (Yan? Xian?!) has the best and weirdest burr on his r’s I’ve ever heard. Want to teach him the Ragged Rascal Ran toungue twister.

Sunday, October 5th
Our last day
You know that Apple Mac screen saver with the cosmic tracer thing swirling around? About 10 of us were stood on deck late night and looked up at the same time that it escaped out of someone’s laptop, gained gargantuan proprtions and launched itself out of the sky above our heads in neon green; spinning, speeding, an incredible Catherine Wheel firework that made us all scream. I stayed out there for an hour and a half in minus ten, making myself laugh as my frozen face was about 5 seconds behind any words I tried to say. The best light show in the world.

Stayed up in the bar pretending we didn’t have to leave at 5am, gabbing away to my rad new sister Vanessa Carlton and dancing to Bill Withers.

Grabbed a couple of hours sleep and woke up to my last bowl of porridge and rumours that Graham Treehugger was going to enjoy a morning dip in the sea/liquid nitrogen. We all ran out reminiscent of a fight at school, and there he was in his swimmers, barefoot and perched on the railings 15 feet above the water. We thought he was going to die. He didn’t die, he splashed around delighted, whooped, climbed up to the 4th level at 30 feet and jumped in again. The thermometer was reading -15 outside.

Now, I remember going in the ladies pond on Hampstead Heath one scorching weekend in late April and was instantly paralysed and unable to remember my name. Who was this man?! Impressive.

My lasting memory was the tide line back on land. In the virgin dawn light I saw that the only flotsam left by the sea on the beach was a thin line of ice; pure white, in the shape of a wave.

Ryuichi had told us when he played his recording of an underground glacial stream that it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. The sound of water that was frozen solid before human beings even existed, heard for the first time, unspoilt, no particles of plastic. Baby water. Old as the earth.

As we waited to board our plane, a Greenlandic choir sat at a table in the golden morning sun, absent-mindedly eating sandwiches and practising one of the same songs we had heard at the children’s home.

Beautiful, mournful, comforting, ancient, innocent.

Posted by KT on the 9th October, 2008"

from Al Seckel's preface to "Bertrand Russell on God and Religion"

In conclusion, there is a marvelous anecdote from the occasion of Russell's ninetieth birthday that best serves to summarize his attitude toward God and religion. A London lady sat next to him at this party, and over the soup she suggested to him that he was not only the world's most famous atheist but, by this time, very probably the world's oldest atheist. "What will you do, Bertie, if it turns out you're wrong?" she asked. "I mean, what if -- uh -- when the time comes, you should meet Him? What will you say?" Russell was delighted with the question. His bright, birdlike eyes grew even brighter as he contemplated this possible future dialogue, and then he pointed a finger upward and cried, "Why, I should say, 'God, you gave us insufficient evidence.'"

"Language is surely too small a vessel to contain those emotions of mind and body that have somehow awakened a response in the spirit."-Radclyffe Hall

Krish

Krish - piwrite.blogspot.com, inertialcartwheel.blogspot.com, goldpondfish.blogspot.com
(the always mindblowing, whose new works we excitedly check for every time we're online).

FEBRUARY 16th, 2008

Yellow cabs observe through worried mirrors,
When I stare at streetlights passing fast,
This city is crowded with lost glass slippers,
And five feet boxes of lives ajar.

You wore orange on your lips when I worked my hands by,
Like a liquid pool of sunrise that burst upon my skin,
Time is but a pawn of hope, she whispered as we parted,
I watched as love quietly suffered your cost.

They hum prayers under muted breaths,
Some chant through their friday night journeys,
When I watch the sea run by these rusted carriage railings,
My heart wells at the thought of where you might be.

These days are filled with fragile dusks and dawns,
How many have I seen in passing with you?
How many have we broken through promises you made,
I'll map them on the sky and hope you find me some day.

Perhaps "snowflake" would've been easier to spell. Or "buttercup"? :)

life above the smog line.

"Is that Central Par- a pigeon! Hello pigeon!"
"Take a photo!"

Fleetwood Mac, Rhiannon (Live '81)

Seeing as Jo can't stop watching this, it really does need to be posted. Stevie at her most mesmerizing.