I've been sick since my latest trip to Calgary, at which I attended a book club in my old home of Woodbine and hosted a party at Comrad Sound with readings by ryan fitzpatrick and Claire Lacey, and some really terrific music by Church of the Very Bright Lights and the ever lovely Morgan Greenwood. It was one of those rare, perfect evenings of warmth and friendship.

The first week home brought Aunt Flo and the Flu. The second week brought a severe depressive episode, and the end of the second week brought the bleeds again. This could be a reprise of last summer, during which the first 6 months of my unemployment were spent bleeding every two weeks and suffering the attendant anemia and fatigue which curtailed all the writing I thought I was going to get done.

I am, as my father would say, not a happy camper.

In the academic year of 2000-2001, I took Poetry Writing II at the University of Calgary with Fred Wah. Early in the session, in response to some ill-advised feminist body writing I was doing around the subject of miscarriage, Wah said "How come you women are always writing about the body?"

At the time, neurotic insecure little whelp that I was, I took the question as condemnation of my project, though my more reasoned take years later would suggest that his question was rather a critique meant to provoke a critical defense of what I was doing and why. At the time it just made me whither.

But the question has haunted me ever since, especially as I came to understand that the feminist Writing the Body project had come and gone by the time little 20 year old me was trying to explore body angst through poetry. A little later than that a colleague, I forgot who, similarly queried me: "Isn't that whole Writing the Body thing over?"

It was, and is. That time has passed and that topic is passé.

Only The Body is not over, especially for women, regardless of the pill, regardless of science. (Because of science.) 

The Body colonizes, announces and defines us in myriad ways. Forget Descartes. My own body disrupts and reifies my thoughts in more ways than I care to admit. There is no control. There is only surrender.

All this weekend in Vancouver there is a conference on Olson. I will be home, sipping tea from Baba's Prairie Lily (floral emblem of Saskatchewan!) china cup and growling.

Just think of me as the Magritte of East Van. 



POSTSCRIPT: After whining away in this post and stumbling about the internet a bit, I notice that my friend Andrew has a blog. Andrew is a sweet, funny, courageous, ballsy, smart, foul-mouthed, tough little cookie of a 26 year old, who just happens to have relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis. As always, his attitude throughout his struggles put my own into sharp relief. Ceci n'est pas une tasse indeed.