Heath - ProfilesArchive

About Me

I have some pretty great manners for a guy raised by wolves. But then I was only raised by wolves until the age of three, when kind nuns adopted me and together we travelled the highways of Eastern Ontario selling religion to each village. At least, I thought it was religion that we sold. I was really young and I didn't understand many many things, but I did wonder why it was we needed the shotguns. In any case, all that running away from villagers made my bones good and strong and at the age of eighteen I left the sisters to make my way in the world. That's when the wolves caught up with me again. Late at night we ran across the meadows and parking lot, baying and scratching and howling. I felt dazzled and alive but then, in the morning, stiff, hung over, slightly repentenant. I was tired of wolves, I decided. Tired of nuns and tired of wolves. So I set fire to my bow, poised my arrow and shot off into the dark amoungst them. My arrow sizzled through the sky. It took a long while for me to find where my arrow had landed. But I found it again in the hollow of a tree. I felt it. It felt clammy. I smelt it. It smelt honey.

My Interests

New moods, fighting the heat of the battlefront, lulls, getting to be the one to tell you all about it, Foghorn Leghorn, telling dogs that they're good dogs, tickling children and asking them "Who's a monkey? Who's a monkey?", great anecdotes that are only slightly related, caribou-eating sharks in the rivers of Northern Quebec, suicide doors, seeing-eye ponies, bees and their world, fruit as fashion accessory esp. bananas, novels with characters who burst into flame, chests that are hairy and burning inside, swimming, fast-moving slappy skies when the leaves are right on, Canadian dialects, simple meals, leaving that there for now, something else.

I'd like to meet:

Yeah, they're alive and can have those colours, but I'm pretty alive too. I always feel like I have to sing and dance, to tell you about this, in the hopes that you'll see and you'll know, and knowing you might be drawn to me. And so I sing, but I sing from amoung all the dark shit, the blueness, about the chance to know you, about the chance to sing all the me's in you. You see, you hold me up to the light in a way I never would have expected, or even suspected, because you always tell me I am you, that I'm you and that I'm right. The awesome trees loom. I'm yours to die with, you know, to desire. I can't ever think of me, I desire you. You whom I'm not allowed to ever stop remembering. Remembering to forgive. Remembering to pass beyond you into the day on the wings of the everyday secrets you won't know. Now I prefer "you" in the plural, I want "you." You should come to me, all golden and pale like the dew and the air. And then I start getting this feeling of exaltation.

Music:

WILL OLDHAM!!!, Kate Bush, Arthur Russell, Lionel Ritchie's "Hello", Bruce Springsteen, Kate and Anna McGarrigle, Larry Levan, Sinead O'Connor, Smiths, Gillian Welch, Yoko Ono, Gonzales, Nina Simone, Junior Boys, Hot Chip, Giacinto Scelsi, Glenn Gould, Bjork, Divine Comedy, Life Without Buildings, Neutral Milk Hotel

Movies:

Decalogue, Vertigo, Tropical Malady, Talk To Her, Gremlins, Squid and Whale, An Angel At My Table, Fat Girl, Grand Illusion, Clueless, Wonder Boys, Running On Empty, Tales From the Gimili Hospital, Eternal Sunshine, Horse Feathers, Mulholland Drive, Before Night Falls, Return To Oz, Wet Hot American Summer, Paris Is Burning, Night of the Hunter

Television:

Stella Shorts, Posh Nosh, French and Saunders, Six Feet Under, The Cosby Show, Curb Your Enthusiasm, All cooking shows

Books:

Lately: "The Savage Detectives", Marguerite Duras, Ian McEwan's "On Chesil Beach", Elfriede Jelinek, "The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter", That Moretti guy's huge tomes "The Novel" (Vol. 1 and yes, Vol.2), Mary Gaitskill. Always: Fernando Pessoa, Alice Munro, John Ashbery, Tolstoy, Faulkner, Proust, Mandelstam, Lorca, Celan, Coetzee.