When she does not find love, she may find poetry. Because she does not act, she observes, she feels, she records; a color, a smile awakens profound echoes within her; her destiny is outside her, scattered in cities already built, on the faces of men already marked by life, she makes contact, she relishes with passion and yet in a manner more detached, more free, than that of a young man. Being poorly integrated in the universe of humanity and hardly able to adapt herself therein, she, like the child, is able to see it objectively; instead of being interested solely in her grasp on things, she looks for their significance; she catches their special outlines, their unexpected metamorphoses. She rarely feels a bold creativeness, and usually she lacks the technique of self-expression; but in her conversation, her letters, her literary essays, her sketches, she manifests an original sensitivity. The young girl throws herself into things with ardor, because she is not yet deprived of her transcendence; and the fact that she accomplishes nothing, that she is nothing, will make her impulses only the more passionate. Empty and unlimited, she seeks from within her nothingness to attain all.
"The EW Reading Series, founded in January 2012, is dedicated to showcasing talent by Canadian authors who have not yet published a major book. To keep things more dynamic, EW does not book repeat readers, leaving room for new voices…"
Under race he wrote, “human.”
Under color, “seasonal―oyster white to beige.”
by Ted KooserIt’s a kitchen. Its curtains fill
with a morning light so bright
you can’t see beyond its windows
into the afternoon. A kitchen
falling through time with its things
in their places, the dishes jingling
up in the cupboard, the bucket
of drinking water rippled as if
a truck had just…
"Of all things, I liked books best."
- Nikola Tesla
“Members of the creative class typically earn less, economically speaking, than those of the traditional middle class, yet they place value upon certain decadent lifestyle activities, unaware of the socio-economic consequences of such activities. After all, waiting in long line-ups, sitting around crowded tables the size of Kindergarten desks, and eating overpriced (and often bizarre) foodie concoctions seems, as Micallef points out, far from leisurely. This paradox demands that we investigate what else might be at work amidst the sparkling flutes of mimosas.”
I, I, I sign my name everywhere, and everywhere is mine. Still I crave. I will never settle. I will never have enough. There is never enough. There is more to take, always, opportunity bends over. One must be present. One must be subscribed. The tentacles of my desire spread exponentially. I take over. I remake. I circle the globe with my eye. I feel war approach and I work harder. I feel my roots penetrate and command. There are a million ways to profit. There are a million ways to split.
My life an expressway; my life telephone poles, felled and erected, felled and erected, a great precession of uprightness. My life standing outside the motorcade willing myself to enter the great streets, the ‘sanded paths of victory driven through the jungle.’ My life up and down Yonge street. My life wavering, ‘even my thin legs ripple like a stalk in the wind.’
“We demand that sex speak the truth… and we demand that it tell us our truth, or rather, the deeply buried truth of that truth about ourselves which we think we possess in our immediate consciousness.”
― Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality