Spotlight on...

[Angeline]

unpredictablebijou. Yes, her.

Haven't you wondered what makes her tick? What brought her here? What motivates her to write what she writes? Is she a witch? Does she have dildos? Does she name them? (Oh wait, that's Wicked Eve.)

The lovely Bijou has graciously consented to answer all your questions in this thread. You can ask her anything. Anything. She doesn't have to answer unless she wants to, but she has assured me that she doesn't offend easily and that poetry and sex are her favorite subjects. And of course you'll be marginally kind in your questions because a) you really want to know what she thinks and b) it'll be fun.

So bring on those questions. Or write her a poem if you like, give her a video, give her a lyric. If you're not familiar with her poetry, check out her member page. Here's a poem of hers that I really like.

Her gods counsel her...
by unpredictablebijou©


Her gods counsel her as she waits for a letter:

This is the price of passions, says Buddha
Unrequited love is most powerful.
He sips his macchiato, adds milk
to preserve the balance.
You must make peace with this
dichotomy; ecstasy and anguish are the same.
You must encompass them, or be lost in your own
jagged mountains.
He manifests his Nature in a biscotti to distract me;
I manage a smile.
He sighs, points at me with his spoon:
Climb the ladder then, if that's your answer
Stand on one foot for twelve years, arms raised, waiting for word.
Throw yourself into a bonfire and translate that way.
But taste this first: it's a Peruvian dark roast.
If you must live in bittersweets, after all…

I don't know, he says. You talk to her.
Freyja smiles, brushes my hair off my face.
You need a trim, baby; your bangs are getting long.
Think of it, she says, as a simple force.
Love exists independent of its object; it’s a tidal thing.
Be in love with the moon now;
let this be your good luck charm, just
a way to become full. Let them be figures in a dream.
What you have is real enough; already this memory,
an independent genesis. Stop hurting yourself with time.

Poor thing, she croons. Fidelity is so new to you, and
desire such a fierce familiar. If I told you more
you'd ignore this purification, live outside yourself.
You haven't touched your hot chocolate.
She warms it with a fingertip.

Skunk grows impatient. Just tell her everything,
he says, tell her right now, and see where that gets her.
It won't matter anyway, and maybe she'd be better company.
He glares at me. You know she loves this, secretly; she's wearing it
like a stripe, like a Hawaiian hair shirt. All this poetry and agony, he spits,
for a season, for biology and basic heat.

You know it's more than that, says Freyja. She licks
steamed milk from her diamond fingernails.
You see she's on new ground here. Old ground,
grunts Skunk. The oldest.

As they leave,
Skunk gives me a new pen.
Buddha leaves the floor strewn with lotus blossoms;
the barista scowls and brings a broom.
Freyja last, kisses
her fingertip and touches it to my lips.
Speak plainly, she says, and let it go
like a wave over you. I know the coffee
has a scent like civet and every
ripe plum catches your eye
so stop waiting. We'll be your lovers, and this food
and this moon and this ticking clock, this rich moment.
Try not to worry.

Corybantes bus the table, sweep
falcon feathers and jewels
into a dusty pile. I leave an extra dollar,
carry my paper cup away like a grail.

Wonderful, isn't it?

So Bijou I'll start.

What motivates you to write? Does it come easily or do you have to work to find your muse?

How do you decide a poem is done?

What makes a poem erotic?

What color is your hair? Your parachute? Your car?

 

[Tathagata]

I'll just leave this

try and get it out of your head



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V4jKF4LWViE

 

[ghost_girl]

.............

 

[champagne1982]

I cannot wait to see what sends this lady spinning. At first I thought it was neo's erotic coffee erratica, then Tee-zed's convoluted imaginings seemed to send her dirvishing into some fragrant bit of nirvana and finally, I have determined a few more of the qualities that seem to set ms upbj to spinning are a sense of the pleasures found in painting your own toenails, the freedom found in honestly appreciating the senses and a definite hilarity for the sublime in the ridiculous.

So do tell, dear lady, what draws you onto this path?

 

[WickedEve]

bijou, didn't you use another name here at lit?

I like big, gay, Swedish dildo salesmen. How about you? Will you be writing a poem about one?

 

[ghost_girl]

............

 

[unpredictablebijou]

Golly. Shucks. I am rather speechless. Thank you.

I am totally going to start naming my dildos from now on. It's an excellent idea. You see? There is so much to learn here. That's at least the beginning of one answer anyway: I am here to learn.

I'll get the easy ones out of the way. Hair: debatable. It's lotsa different colors. I took a survey once and got red, blond, brown, ash, and several other answers. It is long and wonderfully unruly, and it is shot through with a great deal of grey. I stopped coloring it forever when I got my first grey hair. Parachute: hm. I believe mine is made of blue lizard skin and skunk fur, with the occasional torn bit of fuschia feather boa used to patch the various holes. As to a car, I careen along dirt roads in a mad battered 9 year old white toyota named The Panda. (I myself did not batter it; long ago I used to let other people drive my car...)

Now then. Writing.

I write because I have to, because when I don't write, the people I love gently suggest that maybe it's been too long since I wrote. Seems I get sorta crazy when I don't. I come from a long line of Batshit Crazy women (that's an actual clinical diagnosis in our case) and I truly believe that over the years writing has helped me avoid the more decisive chemical measures that might otherwise have to be taken to keep me functional.

I am intensely auditory. I do not see pictures in my head; I see printed type. Laurie Anderson once said in a poem/song: "Language is a virus from outer space / and hearing your name is better than seeing your face." I know exactly what she means. Given a choice between being touched fondly and hearing someone say my name, or any of my names, fondly, I would be hard pressed. To me they are the same thing.

I also write because I love words and language. I love everything about the process of making words, from the actual study of linguistic anatomy to the delicacy of syntax and structure and the power of a narrative to change a life or a viewpoint. Language fascinates me. I am more turned on by skill in word-smithing than just about anything else a human can do or be. Really good writing seriously and actually arouses me, even when it's not about sex.

I have to write. I am compelled to make words on paper. I am compelled to report and analyze and describe. I don't have a lot of attachment to the other end of it, the publishing, the being read, the approval or even understanding of an audience. That set of priorities is there, but it is secondary and I suspect mostly installed by the fact that when one declares oneself a student of words, one is thrust into an educational agenda that has to do with effective communication of a message to a particular audience. All of that is fine and good, and I am all about learning and improving those skills, but that aspect is of less importance to me than the process itself. I have tried to make myself care about being published or recognized, and I just cannot manage to give a damn, no matter how hard I try. If I knew I was alone in the universe and no one would ever read a single word I made, I would still write. I have to. Or I go crazy.

The Muse thing. Yeah. I never really understood that. I do get stumped if I sit down with some sort of agenda: I will tell Fred how sexy he is, or I will Teach a Thing, or I will illustrate a philosophical point with a personal anecdote, or I will write the Ultimate Sex Poem that will make readers come as soon as they hit the third line, or whatever. That sort of goal does indeed make me sit and look at a blank page for a long time. But if I just open myself to words, they happen. There is always something that desires to be said, and if I'm quiet I can hear it and write it down.

That worked really well when I was publishing a series of essays in a magazine, years ago. I had a 3000 word deadline every couple of months for several years, and if I sat down with an agenda, something to preach, I'd be flattened. But if I sat down and listened, I'd hear something, and I could flesh it out with my own illustrations. That series had to do with moving to the country from a very urban lifestyle, and as long as I approached it by asking myself what I thought the land itself wanted to say to people, I did fine.

I'll end this particular section now and run it up the proverbial flagpole. I have to think more about when a poem is finished, and what makes a poem erotic. They are most excellent questions and I'd like to do them justice.

I'll say it again. Golly gee. I'm overwhelmed and honored. Tak So Mycket. and so on.

bijou

 

[unpredictablebijou]

here's h er bio--what's left to ask?

~~~~

oooh, I know,

bijou, are you really Swedish?

Yes I am. Well, half of me. My father's side. My mother is a standard Whiteperson mix, dutch, german, irish, scottish and english.

Been thinking about editing that bio lately, actually, cause I don't know, it seems sorta... long... but I keep deciding not to.

maybe someday.

xo
bj

 

[unpredictablebijou]

I'll just leave this

try and get it out of your head



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V4jKF4LWViE

You are occasionally pure evil. An auditory memory like mine suffers twice as much as a normal one with stuff like that.

I will now sing 60 choruses of "I'm Henry the 8th I am" for you.

That'll teach you.

bijou

 

[unpredictablebijou]

I cannot wait to see what sends this lady spinning. At first I thought it was neo's erotic coffee erratica, then Tee-zed's convoluted imaginings seemed to send her dirvishing into some fragrant bit of nirvana and finally, I have determined a few more of the qualities that seem to set ms upbj to spinning are a sense of the pleasures found in painting your own toenails, the freedom found in honestly appreciating the senses and a definite hilarity for the sublime in the ridiculous.

So do tell, dear lady, what draws you onto this path?

Neo is hot, and so is his coffee, and I am an addict of hot boys almost as much as I'm an addict of The Supreme Bean.

The TZ does things with words that make me feel like melted ice cream in all the right places. So yeah. That too.

Toenails, and toes in general, are wonderful things. My stepmother can tie a bow and pick up dimes with her toes. She is my hero. Mine are short and purely decorative; they have no particular skills or talents. I like to paint them Drowning-Victim Blue, or occasionally Hypothermia Silver.

And as to hilarity, it has been a motto of mine for a long time to Remain Amused. Amusement tends to deflate Drama and erase anger and remind one that this is all an illusion anyway.

So far you're absolutely right on all counts. But I am unclear. Of which path, you delicious sparkling beverage, do you speak specifically? Poetry? Writing? Hanging out with gorgeous brilliant poets in a stellar imaginary landscape? Or just Life in the Four Dimensions on the third stone from the sun?

bijou

 

[Angeline]

When you get a chance (I know we've asked you lots already), I'd be interested to know what your writing process is. Do you write every day? Do you have a discipline you follow or is it more a when the spirit moves you sort of thing? And what about editing? Is there a point where you know a poem is "done" or would you go back to something you wrote X time ago and revise? I'm always interested in how poeple approach that because I sometimes revise things I've written years ago.

My parachute is broken, so I'm building wings.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

bijou, didn't you use another name here at lit?

I like big, gay, Swedish dildo salesmen. How about you? Will you be writing a poem about one?

bijou is in fact my only name on this board. I have a single alt, purely for publishing some personal stuff that might hurt feelings if people I know actually read it, but I do not use it to post anything in the forums. I've been considering an alt, though. Seems like all the cool kids have them.

I will do more than write a poem about a big gay Swedish dildo salesman. I will actually dress as one and show up at your house with a suitcase full of mind-boggling erotic machinery, which I would normally sell door to door, but which I will give to you free of charge for the pure privilege of sitting outside the door and listening to you try them all out.

Fuller Dildo Man, at your service.

bijou

 

[Sara Crewe]

... I like to paint them Drowning-Victim Blue, or occasionally Hypothermia Silver. ...



bijou

Our senses of humour must have come from the same egg. It's eerie.

I would have a million questions for you and none. None because in the end, I already know I like you and would rather just be silly and talk about which is better drowning victim blue or dead for three days purple.



I'll get ya a poem for the other thread too. By the end of the weekend.

 

[ghost_girl]

...........

 

[unpredictablebijou]

I do have a serious question-


I noticed you have a lot of refs to gods and goddesses, and such. What was the main influence in your life that inspired these type poems?

Who influenced you when you were young? ( too young to name off authors from some best seller list, I mean)

What is your earliest memory of reading- was its someone reading to you? or perhaps, just you, daydreaming of writing, with your favorite book in hand?

Wow, cool questions!

I am reluctant to use the term "worship" since it implies that I consider myself separated in some way from the Divine, but it might be easiest to say that I "worship" many of the Old Gods. I venerate them, emulate them, invoke and evoke them, study the archetypes and ideas of deities from many cultures.

I literally cut my teeth on the Eldar Edda, the ancient Icelandic sagas of the Norse Gods. I still have the big picture book of Norse myths that I read as a child, and it has my actual toothmarks on it. Don't get me wrong - I was RAISED fundamentalist Xtian, but Grandma and Grandpa Mumbleson managed to get a little viking philosophy snuck in there occasionally.

And as to why they appear in my poems, I think the archetypes are powerful on a very deep level, that they communicate to humans in ways we may not even realize. There may not be any new stories, but the old ones are still just fine, and haven't really been used up yet.

I read constantly as a child. I had a sort of Victorian crippled-girlhood, full of Wholesome Literature and lessons in the Acceptable Feminine Arts - music, painting, that sort of thing. So the books were the ones you would expect: Little Women, A Wrinkle in Time, C.S. Lewis, Winnie the Pooh, Stuart Little. Childhood classics.

My father has an excellent reading voice, and when I visited him on weekends as a child he would read chapters from whatever book we were exploring. I remember listening to Swiss Family Robinson, and wishing I lived there so I could hear a chapter every night.

I was writing by then. I wrote and illustrated my first short story, entitled "The Lonely Little Pancake," when I was about 5. It was a present for my Grampa. Perhaps it was the accolades that piece earned me that got me hooked on being a writer. I still have the manuscript, inherited back from him when he died seven years ago.

I read Titus Groan by Mervyn Peake when I was about ten. That was the book that really changed things. I discovered that sentences could do more than just say things. They could fly, or hobble, or swim. They were feasts, paintings, sculpture. I could taste them and feel them and drink them. I could spend an afternoon chewing on a single paragraph. I wanted to be able to do that. I wanted to read more words like that, words that seemed to shift things in my whole body. I think it was partly the vivid imagery that caught me - Peake writes so well that even I, although I am incapable of seeing pictures in my head, was occasionally able to catch a glimpse of Gormenghast.

What excellent questions. Thank you.

bijou

 

[ghost_girl]

............

 

[unpredictablebijou]

When you get a chance (I know we've asked you lots already), I'd be interested to know what your writing process is. Do you write every day? Do you have a discipline you follow or is it more a when the spirit moves you sort of thing? And what about editing? Is there a point where you know a poem is "done" or would you go back to something you wrote X time ago and revise? I'm always interested in how poeple approach that because I sometimes revise things I've written years ago.

My parachute is broken, so I'm building wings.

Y'know, when I started building sculpture, I got this thing that would happen in my head when i really got to know someone: I would imagine what their particular Wings would look like. I've actually built a few pairs of wearable wings for people I love - my friend G is a short, rather spiky and brilliant man who would remind you of a gnome. His wings were amazing green and black thorny affairs with lots of leather and snakeskin. My friend R is a compassionate earth-mother type, mama to the world, all heart-based, and her wings are pinks and lavenders, with lots of fur. I have never designed wings for someone I have never seen or met, but it would be an interesting challenge.

I will answer the Real Question, as well as the initial ones you asked early on, very soon. Now is a dumb ol' meeting at which I must be, but late tonight I will be left Blissfully Alone with no more customers buying things and no phones ringing. Then I'll have time to think about poetry. And stuff.

I suspect "Angel" wings would be too easy, and highly inappropriate. Hmmm.

bijou

 

[unpredictablebijou]

Our senses of humour must have come from egg. It's eerie.

I would have a million questions for you and none. None because in the end, I already know I like you and would rather just be silly and talk about which is better drowning victim blue or dead for three days purple.



I'll get ya a poem for the other thread too. By the end of the weekend.

Hooray! I almost put a giant S in my tagline as a bat-signal, but I thought I'd try a psychic PING first.

I have Asphyxiation Lavender, which is probably quite similar to the 3-days-dead purple.

bijou

 

[ghost_girl]

............

 

[champagne1982]

<snip>
So far you're absolutely right on all counts. But I am unclear. Of which path, you delicious sparkling beverage, do you speak specifically? Poetry? Writing? Hanging out with gorgeous brilliant poets in a stellar imaginary landscape? Or just Life in the Four Dimensions on the third stone from the sun?

bijou

I am justifiably smug at the moment. Please allow me to relish my rightness...

HMMMMM... there.

Now, my final question was actually a reiteration of all that the wonderful poetry people have asked you in this thread. It's fun to see what makes you tick. I'm glad you're so open and sharing of your story. It's been a highly entertaining read and I can't wait to see if you're gonna teach us anything about derty pomes.

 

[Sara Crewe]

Hooray! I almost put a giant S in my tagline as a bat-signal, but I thought I'd try a psychic PING first.

I have Asphyxiation Lavender, which is probably quite similar to the 3-days-dead purple.

bijou

You pinged me in a good spot. It left a sonic mark though...kinda like a hicky-echo.

 

[Sara Crewe]

hi sara

you do have a wild imagination, lol.

when I write stuff like that, I get hate mail...

hey gg,

You need to tell your hate mail-ers to send their complaints to:

Kiss My Ass
I don't give a Flying Fuck
Grab a Life
and take the pole outta yer ass


And then paint your nails a nice shade of 'Don't -even- look- at- me- or- I'll -burn -your- eyes- out- red.


Works for me.

 

[Eluard]

OK there is a personal question that I have been curious about, but it is a sensitive one — I'll ask it though, because you've been candid enough to write a lot about it:

How old was your daughter when she died and what did she die of?

Oh and an addendum:

you've mentioned several times being able to offer convincing proof of a divinity: just curious what that might be?

 

[unpredictablebijou]

OK there is a personal question that I have been curious about, but it is a sensitive one — I'll ask it though, because you've been candid enough to write a lot about it:

How old was your daughter when she died and what did she die of?

Hello dear,

okay yes. Here is the Story.

I was told early on that it might be very difficult for me to conceive. I was not attached to the idea of making a new human; i figured if a new soul wanted to choose me then it would maybe happen eventually if I tried. Both my mates have vasectomies, one for 18 years and one for 11 years. So when we found out We Were Pregnant, it was quite a surprise, to say the least. (and no, at that particular time, there were no other potential candidates). All I said was, hey, maybe it's time to think about trying to have a child if I ever want to have one. within three months, there she was.

The pregnancy was blissful and beautiful. I was healthier and more vibrant than I ever have been, or ever will be. Rain Michael, whose name and gender I knew before two months had passed, was also completely healthy in every way, all the way through the pregnancy.

The time of carrying her was the most ecstatic and amazing time in my life. My central injury is this: I know that I will never, ever be that happy again. Ever. Continuing to stay on this planet under those circumstances has been a challenge. I stay because there are still ways that I can be Of Use to the World, and because there are people who would be in great pain if I chose to leave, and I will not put them through that. Those are the only two reasons I stay now.

She chose to leave, for reasons unknown, during her birth. I was in blissful labor at home, floating in an actual heated swimming pool that my engineer mate had manifested in the new nursery, and suddenly there was something Terribly Wrong. I was at the hospital within 6 minutes, but she was already gone. Had I already been at the hospital, they may have been able to do a c-section but she would have been gone anyway. She weighed nearly ten pounds. i was in labor for another 12 hours after that, because that is what had to happen. She had black hair and blue eyes, and there was no visible cause for her departure; she simply decided not to stay.

I chose to not see her after her birth, since I wanted to remember her distinct and extraordinary voice in my head, rather than the empty shell I delivered after that day of hell in the hospital. I am not the same person I was. Everything that I was before her existence was burned away during that time I spent in that particular room. All three of her Parents endured the darkest purgatory there, and we are not the same creatures. We are transformed, burned, simplified. But we have stayed together and we help each other. She died on the 12th of June 2003 and was born on the 13th. She is buried in her own grove on my land. People who love us come to that grove regularly and leave beads and stones and mobiles and wind chimes in the trees. A landscaper friend is building a meditation garden nearby.

Whenever I tell that story I always add this: there was a website that saved my life, and every one needs to know about it, just in case. One million infants die every year. That's two million bereaved parents. Every year. Anyone who knows one should send them here:

http://www.nationalshareoffice.com/index.shtml

I do not exaggerate when I say that those people kept me on this planet.

Let's move on, shall we? And listen: seriously, thank you for asking. Mamas like me would love to talk about our children except that we often feel like Frankenstein when we do, so we just don't. Rain was extraordinary, and she has changed my life and made me far more Useful than I was. I'm proud of her. I think she could still save the world someday.

Anyway.

*rest of post moved*

 

[TheRainMan]

i feel a lot like Sara does – i find you so easy to like that i’d rather just horse around with you and swap poetry. you’re writing is terrific and you’re the queen of monkey business (with due respect to King Tath).

but just to go along with the spirit of the thread, i do have one question (i think you answered this for me already, but it didn’t penetrate this granite skull of mine) –

why remote, land-locked Kansas?

you were raised in centers of culture, and your writing and intellect seem ideal for one. and never mind your jewelry business – in the heart of Time’s Square, you’d be beating customers away with a stick, or one of the bullwhips i’m sure you have stashed in a closet somewhere.

i’m quite sure Lawrence is a great town, and its people too. but i find people everywhere remarkable – that’s why I like being surrounded by millions of them – and the question probably reflects my own preference for big cities and seashores, so strip me of my prejudice.

make me love the land of Dorothy. make me click my heels.