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Authors: Trisha Cull
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pictures of myself, arm outstretched, that dexterous fateful propping of the digital Olympus FE-115 partly on the palm of my hand but my fingers wrapped around it too, and the forefinger poised over that ominous go button, the little silver circle you press down upon, which in turn releases some shutter inside the camera box and likewise inside your heart, a little quiver.
Yes, this is me, this is me taking a picture of me, in the snow, at night, on the boardwalk by the sea, Victoria, BC, next to the Pacific Ocean, planet Earth.
Or just in my living room.
My cheek pressed flush against the Modigliani painting of the woman with black eyes and an elongated neck, the picture that hangs on a wall in our living room; that woman with black almond eyes, head titled, her loaded smile, Mona Lisa-esque.
Who are you?
I press my cheek against her cheek, press my lips against her lips, touch her forehead, place my hand over her mouth in one shot, place my hand over her eyes in another shot.
Will she go mute and blind (and in that order) if I in turn place my own hand over my mouth, then place my own hand over my eyes?
What is the relationship between the subject and the object, the person and the portrait, the artist and the art?
I kiss my Modigliani woman on the wall.
Itâs not about the kiss, the touch, the sameness of the sex, two women, one real, one false.
What is most erotic is the subliminal film of space (and time) that separates (or perhaps unites) the real from the not real, the real woman from the false woman.
I am searching for myself through a kiss.
December 28, 2008
Leigh was aloof all of Christmas day.
I think it was the booze. Heâd been drinking all day, wine and so on, sparkling wine and orange juice with brunch.
On the subject of drinking, I havenât wanted to drink in a long time, havenât even been tempted really, but that day, at brunch, and in the evenings since, I have had the urge you know? Leigh was drinking Crown Royal last night, and even though Iâve never been a hard liquor kind of girl, it sort of appealed to me. I have, I suppose, quite simply been longing for some kind of fierce high, some potent chemical alternation of my senses and body.
Leigh and I avoided each other the rest of the night. I went in the bunny room and Leigh went to bed. Our Christmas presents to each other remained unopened.
January 1, 2009
Stoned right now.
Itâs 4 am New Yearâs Day. Tonight, in the company of friends and acoustic guitar, I smoked some weed.
Just now I walked home up Fairfield in the pouring rain. I was wearing my yellow raincoat and new black velvet hat. Rain dripped off the rim. I sensed rainwater spilling off my plastic coat in rivulets. I sang âYou Are My Sunshineâ over and over again the whole way home. I was quiet as I approached home. Leigh would be asleep, but somehow I knew I was in trouble. I slipped off my wet shoes and slick raincoat, tossed my hat on the umbrella rack. I made coffee.
Leigh appeared in his bathrobe, said contemptuously, âOhâhi.â
I feel the distance. He sits across from me now, glowering, foul-faced, disgusted. In this moment it is clear that my husband hates me; just now, he hates me.
Leigh has left the room. I am still humming with the high. I know everything, my situation, my treacherous relationship, will hurt again soon.
I miss simplicity.
Itâs still raining.
January 1, 2009
An hour ago, Leigh:
Raging. âYou leave me here to take off and spend New Yearâs Eve with two guys and your sister, two total strangers, come home at 5 am, etcetera etcetera⦠rage, rage, rage. Doors slamming. Laundry flying. Coattails of bathrobe flicking with menace, that too-loose, too-long fabric belt that wraps around the waist, if he ever tied it up, but he lets it dangle loose on each side, one long end almost touching the floor as he rages across the living room. It makes me nervous, not just his anger, but
Yes, this is me, this is me taking a picture of me, in the snow, at night, on the boardwalk by the sea, Victoria, BC, next to the Pacific Ocean, planet Earth.
Or just in my living room.
My cheek pressed flush against the Modigliani painting of the woman with black eyes and an elongated neck, the picture that hangs on a wall in our living room; that woman with black almond eyes, head titled, her loaded smile, Mona Lisa-esque.
Who are you?
I press my cheek against her cheek, press my lips against her lips, touch her forehead, place my hand over her mouth in one shot, place my hand over her eyes in another shot.
Will she go mute and blind (and in that order) if I in turn place my own hand over my mouth, then place my own hand over my eyes?
What is the relationship between the subject and the object, the person and the portrait, the artist and the art?
I kiss my Modigliani woman on the wall.
Itâs not about the kiss, the touch, the sameness of the sex, two women, one real, one false.
What is most erotic is the subliminal film of space (and time) that separates (or perhaps unites) the real from the not real, the real woman from the false woman.
I am searching for myself through a kiss.
December 28, 2008
Leigh was aloof all of Christmas day.
I think it was the booze. Heâd been drinking all day, wine and so on, sparkling wine and orange juice with brunch.
On the subject of drinking, I havenât wanted to drink in a long time, havenât even been tempted really, but that day, at brunch, and in the evenings since, I have had the urge you know? Leigh was drinking Crown Royal last night, and even though Iâve never been a hard liquor kind of girl, it sort of appealed to me. I have, I suppose, quite simply been longing for some kind of fierce high, some potent chemical alternation of my senses and body.
Leigh and I avoided each other the rest of the night. I went in the bunny room and Leigh went to bed. Our Christmas presents to each other remained unopened.
January 1, 2009
Stoned right now.
Itâs 4 am New Yearâs Day. Tonight, in the company of friends and acoustic guitar, I smoked some weed.
Just now I walked home up Fairfield in the pouring rain. I was wearing my yellow raincoat and new black velvet hat. Rain dripped off the rim. I sensed rainwater spilling off my plastic coat in rivulets. I sang âYou Are My Sunshineâ over and over again the whole way home. I was quiet as I approached home. Leigh would be asleep, but somehow I knew I was in trouble. I slipped off my wet shoes and slick raincoat, tossed my hat on the umbrella rack. I made coffee.
Leigh appeared in his bathrobe, said contemptuously, âOhâhi.â
I feel the distance. He sits across from me now, glowering, foul-faced, disgusted. In this moment it is clear that my husband hates me; just now, he hates me.
Leigh has left the room. I am still humming with the high. I know everything, my situation, my treacherous relationship, will hurt again soon.
I miss simplicity.
Itâs still raining.
January 1, 2009
An hour ago, Leigh:
Raging. âYou leave me here to take off and spend New Yearâs Eve with two guys and your sister, two total strangers, come home at 5 am, etcetera etcetera⦠rage, rage, rage. Doors slamming. Laundry flying. Coattails of bathrobe flicking with menace, that too-loose, too-long fabric belt that wraps around the waist, if he ever tied it up, but he lets it dangle loose on each side, one long end almost touching the floor as he rages across the living room. It makes me nervous, not just his anger, but
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