Little Black Book

My first Queer Cab (for CABaret) on October 15th (Wednesday) was themed Little Black Book and hosted by Jess Dobkin.

I wrote an acrostic poem for it, but didn't end up presenting it because there was no computer access, let alone Powerpoint, despite there being a projector, and it would work only if there was a visual accompaniment. My idea was to make the audience read it for themselves, be it aloud or in silence, because I wanted them to give it their own voice.

The poem as it is wasn't what I was planning to write about. There was a workshop before the event (again, by Jess herself) and one of the pieces we did was map out themes/brainstorm what we personally associate with the Little Black Book. Unfortunately, mine was rather sombre.

My Little Black Book
> Moleskin
> Diary > Secrets
> le français > la France
> March of Remembrance and Hope > Holocaust > Survivors > Hope for the Future
> Little Black Bird > The Raven > Death

Therefore, I originally came up with this:

Every night, before heading to bed, Madame DuBois would first retrieve the extension of herself, the tangible embodiment of her non-physical self in the form of a little black book, tucked carefully amongst her little black dresses of yore.

It was in the book did she spill her thoughts and emotions, express her creativity and visions, ideas, wishes, hopes, dreams and aspirations. But most importantly, the book represented not some mere diary but her secret's keeper.

In the lovely cursive of a young French schoolgirl, with all the flourish, every detail of her handwriting possessed a beauty which was difficult to come by during those dark times.

Madame DuBois does not open the book, she does not read those words written by a different girl from a different time, she does not look at those images drawn by a girl wrought with fear and despair. No, she doesn't.

What she does do though, is hold the book close to her with her eyes closed. Unwelcomed memories flood her without bidding. Her nightmares are haunted by them. Yet she does it every night religiously.

Are you intrigued? The pages reveal a story of an incomprehensible reality during the Holocaust when unimaginable acts were perpetrated.

Our little girl stood witness to schoolmates disappearing, her neighbours forcibly removed from their homes, but what caused her most grief was the knowledge her father was implicit in such crimes. Yet every night, as she embraces it, she is filled with remembrance and a survivor's hope for the future.

Tonight, Madame DuBois does not open the book, she does not read those words written by a different girl from a different time, she does not look at those images drawn by a girl wrought with fear and despair. No, she doesn't.

What she does do though, is hold the book close to her with her eyes open as they gingerly track the silhouette of what appears to be a little black bird perched on her window sill. Alas! The raven's come for her.

I didn't like it a whole lot. I found it wasn't as polished as I wanted it to be. I tried my best to do something about it over the Thanksgiving weekend though (Sunday, October 12th). I went down to my favourite spot at the easternmost end of the Beaches at the water treatment plant/facility. While there, I decided to do something from scratch. I did was I did best. Random spontaneity.

To me, the ending was a surprising twist. Deep with a sense of love-hate. Dark, mysterious. Sultry, that's the word.

look over your shoulder
if you are alone
take a chance and
turn heart from stone
little by little
each bell will ring

birds will sing
little by little
as winter comes spring
comes blossoms bring
kiss me with love

blood red deep
over and all over
over and it is over
kiss me deeply... with lover's hate