Tag Archives: reading


My life is filled with simple pleasures these days. Knitting has become a fixture, and alternately is used as a relaxation/meditation (replacement) process and a source of visibly productive creativity. I enjoy the fact that I’m making things but not having to ponder the process itself – the pattern and the related elements are already figured out and all I need to do is show up. Hence my Gryffindor scarf in the making (tucked into the beautiful Lantern Moon project bag pictured here).

Another source of joy has been reading, and this evening I had the pleasure of attending a CBC broadcast of a book club radio show. Tonight’s featured author was Annabel Lyon who read from and went on to discuss her latest novel, The Sweet Girl, at some length. I haven’t read any of her work but look forward to doing so soon. As with most of these types of events, I always leave inspired and amped to stretch my own creative muscles, only to feel sadly inadequate at the results. I enjoyed hearing Annabel’s response to a question from an audience member on a how-to point (taking the time to scoff at the notion that creative writing is not a teachable skill): in order to produce good writing one must learn the tools that, combined with taking the time to write in whatever increments are available, will bring about the desired results. That, along with John Cleese’s video on creativity that is making the rounds on Facebook lately, there is no substitute for time in the seat.

I sometimes get this feeling of a pesky niggling just beyond my periphery with such little to go on that I’m not even sure what it is that I’m taking note of or why, but enough to know that I must do something with it. Kind of like (in Annabel’s case) Hellenic sippy cups and spiny “bubble wrap” plants (read The Sweet Girl to see what that means). So the Writers’ Festival happening next month seems like a good, short, foray into picking up some skills for someone (like me, lately) with a short attention span.

Red frocks and red leaves

He who came in a red frock in years past,

He came this year in a brown garb.

The Turk about whom you heard that time,

Appeared as Arab this year.

The friend is one, only the dress changes.

He exchanged the garb and returned to me again!

The wine is one, only the bottles are different.

How beautifully does this wine intoxicate us!

~ Rumi

Rumi’s writings are beautiful. They are deep and resonant… they speak to my soul. I thought I’d share this one with you, as it (abstractly) fits with my rust/metallics postcard piece.

My creative process has slowed immeasurably… call it a lack in artistic stamina. I have materials for postcard production set out and ready to go, but after making less than a handful, I tire of the task and need to do something else. I’ve been feeding my mind and soul… reading… articles online and in magazines and books… fiction and non. It calms the churning going on in my mind… feeding it new material silences the chatter.

The better to see you with…

I have the weirdest thoughts sometimes. When I was young (and I suppose when exactly that was is all subjective, depending upon whose paradigm you are peering through… it’s all very ambiguous) I used to worry about losing my eyesight, and wondered how I would cope if such a tragedy were to occur. Occasionally… ambiguously… fleetingly… the same worry resurfaces (perhaps when I try to read small type and can’t anymore even with my “progressive” lenses-ha!).

For reasons unknown to me, my grandfather (my mother’s father) lost his eyesight in old age, and my mother would tell of how the girls would take turns reading to him. Being as addicted to books as I am (and I suppose there are worst addictions to be afflicted with) it would be positively demoralizing not to be able to read… or have sight. Being a visual artist as well as a writer (let’s not forget the avid reader part), I ponder the ramifications of not having visual faculties, and whether I’d somehow develop new ones or strengthen the ones that are already there to compensate.

(Uh-oh… off on a tangent… )

In the last Matrix movie, Neo loses is eyesight, but somehow manages to “see” with his eyes covered, in fact without the use of his eyes. He is able to sense his surroundings broken down into electrical impulses… well, essentially, all that we “see” is really the brain’s translation of electrical impulses sent via the eyes to the brain. Would there be a way to translate those impulses without the use of the eyes as a road connecting the two? Is there really anything out there at all? Is what we are sensorily experiencing just a really big (but really good) mind fuck? Well… who knows…

Some days I wish that was all it was… just a bunch of us little electronic blips on the radar screen of life, randomly repelling and attracting… other times I wish there was infintestimally more to it. And would someone please explain how I can sometimes feel inexplicably lonely in a room full of people while at other times, when I’m walking alone on the beach or sitting by a mountain stream, I feel more connected to everything and everyone than ever? That’s what it’s all about for me, really… meaningful connections… with people, mostly, but I’ll settle for pets and locations, too.

I picked up a book today (tell me you’re not surprised)… well, actually, it’s a magazine of sorts, called BOMB. One of the literary pieces included in this #100 issue is Incantations: Songs, Spells and Images by Mayan Women. A contributor by the name of Xpetra Ernandes writes, in her Witchcraft for Attracting a Man: “I want him to come with flowers in his heart. With all his heart, I want him to talk to my body. I want his blood to ache for me when he sees me on the way to the market […] I want to join myself to him. I want this man to be my other half.”

Wow… I’m certain that many women feel this way… this strange compulsion for the ultimate communion with a man… not any man but THE man. The man who gets her, sees her (all of her, just the way she is) and STILL feels drawn into this bizarre melding that transcends … all.

Through experience, I’ve come to the conclusion that women are the only ones afflicted by such fanciful thoughts, and men, well… they’re just happy getting their rocks off and going off to forage for food (or something like that)… not that they’re shallow or anything, but the reptile brain genes just haven’t receded enough. *sigh*