"It's about words, and words are all I have…"



Sfumato me  (+while you’re at it unfuckthisworld)   On 2nd thought perhaps I

best not be sfumato-ed   With too soft edges  you will no longer be able to count

on me  to bring you the unabridged dirt  as I endeavour to morph into Joan Didion

Of whom it is said: stunning candour  piercing details  electric honesty  I cannot

imagine dying without reading The Year Of Magical Thinking  (New York Times) 


In this book Joan writes about losing her husband of 40+ yrs  +her 20 something

daughter within 9 mths   Abruptly  Unexpectedly   She is likely still in shock well

into her 80’s    Joan admonishes us not to speak of: recovery  but instead to dwell on

magical  occurrences within the the first year  after  


Today I will walk you through the first 6 months  after  losing a father   Some of you

may want to hit  unfollow   NOW


early mornings  coming to consciousness  +within seconds of gluey eyes opening 

remembering  he is dead  all over again  +reliving in those seconds the long scar from

ankle to breastbone  from breastbone to ankle  his courage  the rocky balboa of the

quadruple bypass  his breathlessness for years before   the fucking doctor saying: you

could live 10 years more!   he was 63 +still unsqualid   i’ll take it he cried


He died in 5  +there was little quality   Doctor forgot to mention  blunt force brain

trauma  from heart/lung machine  during 13 hour surgery


Then one day at the 4 month mark  I saw him in his wheelchair at the Landsdowne

subway stop   Dishevelled  with sores  but smiling  Had I been braver +not bolted  we

might have gone for coffee  and those early morning awakenings might have ceased

gluey eyes open  grey light  walls of books  hulking boyfriend   in comes the reaper +

his people  and it starts all over again


Good news though!   28 yrs. later  awakenings are fairly regular   Hulking husband

looms   walls lined with books   Now edges sfumato-ed with scar tissue  + 60 yrs. of

ego-deaths   But there in the corner of mind’s eye  I play a game with said Reaper:

Come on  present him again  In any form  Anywhere  Anytime   You wily bastard

Today will be the day I set him free   Rocky Balboa of my dreams



You will stay on, restive, serene   The soul is captive  treated humanely 

kept in suspension  unable to advance much farther than your look   longing

to be free    (John Ashbery  1975   Pulitzer Prize for Poetry)





*(Some who have suffered a loss report actual sightings, what Freud described as:

clinging to the object through the medium of hallucinatory wishful psychosis.)



FALL  2017

Single Post Navigation

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: