Janit
Bianic
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Janit Bianic
The Eye of the Potato
I dream I read my tea leaves. One side of the cup is filled with swollen chocolate particles that become a miniature soup ladle and measuring spoons. I startle myself with the vividness of my waking memory, in that split second, all is so clear and yet so humbling.
To “see and know” is a frightening experience in the chilling aloneness of this morning. This winter I’ve felt so lonely stoking the wood stove. I didn’t know when I would find myself again basking on the porch in the morning sun. Looking out at my half-planted garden takes me to the memories of my father and the black soil so clean it never seemed to cling to my pores. The garden has me hooked.
I want to be like air, invisible, ubiquitous in a place where no one can see me or ask for my thoughts. My mind plays with me and takes me to nine year-old immigrant boy miners inside the crevices of the earth to discover 300 million year-old veins.
I want to write and say something that has not been said before. The phone call interrupts. This moment is all there is.
I want to walk freely. I want to shut up and speak and nod and be omniscient but I know nothing.
I can poke and prod and cross out words and yet I have gone no where. I’m still sitting in the same chair. Still the only person responsible for my higher self, knowing everything is an illusion, a sweet and sour kind of consciousness.
I don’t want to lose myself in the editing like I often do, when I negate my experience and make it so minimal that anybody can be me. Another split second of clarity – I am not really alone and know many women of my generation would agree.
I want to untie my father’s quiet-service-mind, perched on top of his elbow against the water reservoir on his wood stove. Pry open the past and walk with him along the railroad tracks, that lead to the end of the line at Courtenay, BC. I’d give him such a shiny penny for his thoughts. I want to follow him. Feel his booming anger transform like a shower of sparking cedar crackling in the moonlight. Maybe he’s still in the garden mixing colors rich with his experience. Maybe that’s the answer; to believe he was an artist who couldn’t afford a pencil.
Janit
Bianic is a creative conglomeration of writer, storyteller, documentor,
and enthusiast. 250-331-3335
email:
janitb@mars.ark.com
Also see "Miss Clutterbuster"
