“Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.” — Virginia Woolf
Forty-eight years after after our last meeting, Hans and I rendezvous in Tamworth, Ontario, where he lives. A picture perfect village with a glorious bookstore. I feel such profound pleasure in experiencing this Ontario landscape. My return to Ontario is a homecoming. We recognize each other, Hans and I. Late in life, we think we know more than we knew then. Bookends in life. Today: Hans and I perform the present very well —a loving friendship with healed hearts this many years later.
The dream was compensatory. In the dream, they could have been anyone. Anywhere. ... The discovery was simple. If you looked closely, out of the body of the main character a dark powder grew, sloughed off, eroded. The substance floated to the ground like cocoa. The collaborator learned the skin released this effortlessly. The effect? Sensual arousal.
Mid-Autumn moon musings. On this night of the Chinese lunar festival, across the mountains, the moon shines down on my daughter. In Hong Kong lantern festivities of gold dragons wind through streets and light protests glow from the heights. Hong Kong dwellers form an illuminated human chain across Lion Rock.
Wherein a woman walks and muses. The shape of the woods sounds like birds. Writers abound. The stories cross oceans and wave. All this to try to stem the tide in her head of climate catastrophe and the rise of authoritarian regimes here there & everywhere. Keeping a world on self-destruct at bay.
No Gate No Lock 