Saturday, October 31, 2009

Yes, I Thank You

Why is it that at certain times I am drawn to this book of interviews, Woman to Woman - Marguerite Duras and Xaviere Gauthier? And I admit I know exactly what I'm drawn to - the 'wild and scraggly' parts of the interviews, those parts that Gauthier chose to leave in that others would have likely edited out. She says, "we know we are taking a risk in leaving them exactly as they were said." She allows us to know that the telephone rang, that a dog outside barks for some time and there is a worry that on the tape it will have drowned out their voices. There are pauses for wine to be poured, books to be leafed through and cigarettes to be lit. There are interruptions. In between the interviews they make jam. More than once, the tape runs out and then noticed, and an attempt is made, the conversation is reconstructed. We know it is not as intense as the original but we are grateful for what we have.

I am grateful for this sort of insight: "It was much later that I moved on to incoherence."

and

"I'm in an abominable state of doubt..." (Duras).

Equally so for these types of exchanges:

"XG: Could I have another cigarette?
MD: Of course."

or

"MD: Would you like a glass of wine?
XG: Yes, I thank you.
[interruption.]"

Life, as always, intervenes. Voices are drowned out by barking. Words go unrecorded, are lost. A friend of mine once suggested that she should write a book of the interruptions she experiences rather than what she was attempting to write. When I become more weary than usual of the interruptions (for interruptions there will always be...), I like to return to these polite exchanges. Would you like a glass of wine? Yes, I thank you.

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Humming, Hanging

This photo sums up how I'm feeling these days...humming, hanging, auming, longing. Not quite in between projects, but almost. Not really wanting to finish, wanting to finish but unable to find the time, the proper mental space needed. Wanting to start the new project, feeling my way slowly into it. As fragile as a glass hummingbird, hanging, on the cusp of winter.