Friday, October 28, 2011
I'm in love with a single pixel of you
Today, I've a poem in a snazzy online magazine. Branch Magazine. It's interesting, mixing fashion, design, and poetry. And Fred Wah, who is the featured writer. My poem is about a single, criminal pixel. That I'm in love with.
In the last month, my writing has found itself in a variety of different contexts. The International Festival of Authors (Toronto), the International Poetry Festival (Iceland), chickaDEE magazine, Taddle Creek Magazine. I've an image on the cover of M.D. Dunn's new book, Fancy Clapping, a blurb on the back of that and of Carey Toane's new The Crystal Palace. An image of mine appeared on the poster and the program for the International Poetry Festival in Iceland and the Reykjavik Grapeline printed a full page reproduction of a visual poem of mine. As we speak, my son is writing a country song based on my country zombie lyrics. And I'm reading at the Pivot Reading series on November 2nd. Think I'm going to do some Origami for Terrorists, a sound poem about breathing, and maybe play some flute.
So: How is meaning made? Oh I remember. From ducks. Different ducks. Or is it by comparing different ducks? I can't remember. These ideas run like water off my back and I only know that I have a back by walking forward and seeing what follows from that.
Hey friends, you've got my what? Please give it back. How can I lie down and look up at the clouds? Some of them look like words. My friends that is.
I went last night to the Westdale Cinema and watched Herzog's film about paleolithic caves, Cave of Forgotten Dreams. A beautiful, moving, slow-burning juniper-fuse of a film. I got myself hopped up on Twizzlers and watched the shadows move across the ancient undulating horses and rhinocirrocumulus cave-wall skies, cave-bear scratches like vapor trials across the breathing images.
A scientist spoke of the permeability and fluidity of ancient thinking. A man can become a bull, or a horse can become a river. Identity is fluid. But reality is also permeable. There's not an impermafrost: the metaphysical shares its imaginary spirit-world neutrinos with the tangible anti-Platonic protonouns of the physical world.
What is one pixel? A thing, an idea? A faster-than-light non-neutralino in the/a world without light but filled with shadows? Is light the shadow of a shadow?
Which is not to say that what is not the shadow of the duck is necessarily a duck. Rain also has a shadow.