The Ghosts of Jay MillAr

by Jay Millar

  The Ghosts of Jay Millar

  Jay MillAr

  Copyright © 1998 by Jay MillAr

  CANADIAN CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA

  Millar, Jay, 1971-

  The Ghosts of Jay MillAr

  Contents: Book of leaves: from The ghosts of Jay MillAr / Conwenna Stokes – Bur’d: from The ghosts of Jay MillAr / Alex Cayce – Heartrants: from The ghosts of Jay MillAr / H. Azel -Perfectly ordinary dreams: from The ghosts of Jay MillAr / James Liar – Short g(hosts: from The ghosts of Jay MillAr / John Elliott.

  ISBN 1-55245-034-1

  This epub edition published in 2010. Electronic ISBN 978 1 77056 070 3.

  I. Title.

  PS8576.I3157G46 1998 C8ll’.54 C98-931301-8

  PR9199.3.M.45693G46 1998

  Book of Leaves

  Conwenna Stokes

  If you don’t like poetry don’t write poetry.

  if you don’t like poets don’t be a poet,

  but feel free to write as much poetry as you like.

  there is a difference.

  any community is fictional

  as is what might be

  gathered randomly within the landscape

  and the witchcraft available at all times

  could even cause the greatest of trees

  to burst into leaves one day.

  it’s that easy

  if you don’t believe in witchcraft you

  couldn’t possibly hope to exist.

  can’t deal ‘em ya can’t play,

  everything falls but the game goes on.

  J.M.

  Tree Culture – Some Field Notes1

  APPENDAGES: Not the branches, which are part of the body of the tree. Unlike many other species, tree appendages are not directly connected to the body, like the fingers, the breasts, or the penis of mammals. Careful observation revealed that each tree community has its prey and predators, its decomposers and recyclers, its planters and harvesters, its mechanics, its writers, nests, artists, leaves and musicians. These are the appendages of the tree. While they may spend some time physically attached to the tree, for the most part they are in fact entirely separate beings, free to migrate away from the tree itself, like satellites with a chosen place of residence. It is through these living satellites that communication between trees is possible.

  ART: Mild gentle brush strokes. Glory.

  CHILDHOOD: As with every species, the childhood of trees is pure witchcraft.2 Worship of the sun. Worship of the rain. Worship of the earth, the wind, the clouds. Worship of the grubs, the birds, the squirrels, the chipmunks, the rattlesnakes, the rabbits, the deer, the butterflies, the nuts, the praying mantis, the woodpeckers. Worship of the world and meditation on fire.

  DREAMS: Contrary to popular belief, the dreams of trees are not located beneath the surface of the earth mingled among the roots as a kind of ‘ghost tree’. The roots of any species of tree are simply roots, as the earth in which they live is simply earth. This idea of ‘hidden dreams’ has been a misconception of popular culture for some time now, not only in regard to trees, but with most creatures of the planet. And while having some clever features, such as the metaphor of the ‘underground’ (ref. Greek mythology) or the subconscious, it is only a limited vision. Once again humans have managed to overlook the obvious. Trees are themselves dreams.3 We believe this because they obviously communicate in images, as opposed to speech. What they dream is of their own mind and anyone or thing that comes in contact with them. As the leaves of the deciduous are shed during the final months of the year the various dream states of the tree fall away one by one, until the very centre of the dream is exposed. Conifers, on the other hand, live entirely masked in a dream, and can never be awakened, It is difficult to view the exact centre of any deciduous tree’s dream state, even in winter, when all the leaves have fallen. This is due to the natural masking qualities of snow. Just before the leaves return it is possible to catch a glimpse.

  FALLING: It is as though the tree had become wise enough to teach its children a thing or two about mortality.4 We believe that this is why trees are capable of outliving almost every species on the Earth5, the only close exception being the great sea turtle.

  MIGRATION: (Time Travel via the emotions) Since it is consciousness that gives root to The Tree, migration occurs whenever there is no trace of consciousness present within a three kilometer radius. In the case of such an absence, trees are free to voyage throughout the world by phasing in and out of time upon any available frequencies. This was discovered only recently after careful observation of specific trees grown in a semi-vacuous state. These trees, unable to recognize any forms of consciousness nearby, allowed observers to witness their ghost-like appearance, the mysterious translucence of leaves shifting in time. Most trees, however, actually fear migration and time travel of any kind, and are much more comfortable in a permanent ‘rooted’ state. This is the reason why they invite many creatures to actively live their lives in and about them. One should not ignore the species of renegade trees, however, those who choose to live in harsh conditions (cold regions, high altitudes, and the like). These are the solitary dream-travellers, who wish for solitude, shifting through the space of time and wind.

  PHILOSOPHY: They are your thoughts. Think them. No One Cares. Safety in numbers. Think.

  POETRY: As far as can be determined, the poetry of trees contains no known words recognizable in any language of the human race.6 It has been determined to be quite punctual in nature, and often it is up to any creatures who live within their branches to become their voice. This reveals the humble nature of trees, as anyone who hears this poetry will tend to assume it is the authors who are reciting it. Trees are in a sense ghost writers of the permanent kind, and wish to remain anonymous, using whatever pseudonyms available in the surrounding environment. Although it is mostly speculation, the poetry of trees is both open, in a kind of gentle explosive manner, and self-reflective, in a violent implosive manner. This is to say that the poetry of trees moves inwardly and outwardly at the exact same moment, which may also help to explain why trees appear not to move.

  SEX / SEXUAL PRACTICES: Each tree is a long slow orgasm of summer. Deciduous trees are generally more sexually satisfied at the end of the summer months and are therefore too tired to maintain their foliage during the winter months. As long as they have leaves, however, these trees are entirely female. Only after their leaves are shed do they become male. Conifers are therefor female for the entire year, and are constantly in a state of orgasm. Thus the social interaction between trees in most forests is lesbian in nature. One will notice easily, walking casually through a woodlot during the summer, the soft leafy curves and gentle swaying motion of trees bathed in their leaves, as though they were walking sensuously through a dream. One will not notice this during the winter. Because conifers remain female throughout the long winter, this allows for a certain amount of heterosexual interaction throughout those months. It has been recorded that the temperature in the middle of a mixed forest will always remain a few degrees higher than a forest entirely made up of deciduous, or coniferous trees. However, this does not mean that trees prefer heterosexual activity to lesbianism; it is more that they enjoy a certain amount of variety within the forest. One can also experience the noticeable difference between the atmospheres caused by standing naked in a forest during the middle of summer and rolling naked in the snow of a forest at the height of winter.

  SCIENCE: There are no tree scientists. Yet we understand that they are extremely wise and spend most of their lives pondering the nature of their being. When they reach a certain age, they also begin to contemplate the nature of their being as it pertains to those creatures around them. There is a heightened aw
areness about a mature forest that cannot be denied.

  SKIN: Trees are undoubtedly all skin, down to the heart, naked as air. It becomes most noticeable as the leaves, which are not skin at all, but a kind of mental clothing7, are shed from the deciduous. This leaves the outer, fragmented layers of their rough skin and genitals exposed for several months. Some species of the coniferous, however, have admitted that their needles are not only a mental sheath, but are an outer sheath of the skin. This allows other creatures of the local environment, even other trees, to live partially, or entirely, within their being for the entire year. We can only assume this enveloping nature is the same for the deciduous, but are fairly positive that this is the case at least for the months of spring and summer. It is strange, however, that despite their apparent shyness, it was the conifers who were willing to offer information about their culture, while the more exhibitionist deciduous declined any such information.

  TREE SONGS: Tree songs are always songs of prayer. Variations on the word ‘wish’ usually make up most of the songs and have been heard both in person and from recordings made on hidden tape recorders (examples: ‘whoosh’, ‘shush’, or ‘wiiiith’). To whom or what these songs are directed has yet to be determined.8 Yet we feel that those who receive such songs are grateful, for it cannot be denied that trees live the most benevolent of lives.9

  TELEPATHY: ( )

  WORK: The work of trees is socio-political in nature, for obvious reasons.10 Not only do trees live in the community of the forest, but there is also a community of leaves gathered upon each tree. Trees discovered very early that they could live most peacefully in a fourth dimensional system, which is why they evolved as they have. Leaves are all equal and are free to live as they please, while the wooden structure of their trees differ only in size, age, shape, and species, perfectly capable of living their lives as they wish. Each tree of the forest is also free to live as they please, in as much as they maintain their leaves to the best of their ability. The leaves of each tree are in fact eternal to the extent that the tree upon which they exist continues to live. Even though the leaves of deciduous trees fall away throughout the months of autumn, in no way does any leaf die until the entire tree dies, and each one is reincarnated as a leaf in exactly the same place of each branch. This system is essentially the same for conifers, although their leaves, or needles, fall away and are reincarnated throughout the year. It is in this way that the tree can care for each of its leaves equally and fairly, while the leaves may work together for the benefit of the tree, and for any of the tree’s many appendages. It has taken trees millions of years to develop this political system, and maintaining it for the benefit of all levels of life is what the tree considers its labor. We are confident that they are doing a fine job of it, simply because individuals cannot help feeling wonderfully easy going and free when in the presence of such beings.

  Trees

  The undeniable, satisfactory crunch

  of the sky through the leaves

  that falls to catch our place,

  how I would love to be able to roll

  the words off my tongue

  like branches that go on

  forever. The trees say

  our leaves are small and we move our feet

  in time to the winds that sing

  too softly for you to hear.

  A Dream in absolute knowledge,

  the very heart of the tree where

  no birds sing. They say each bird

  was made to sing its own song,

  different from the others,

  and yet the same. They say each branch

  was meant to hold a different bird

  each singing a different song.

  Out here my head is as low

  to the ground as a root.

  Our breath disappears

  with each passing moment,

  a high pitched wail we do not hear

  restoring us to consciousness.

  TreeSong

  In this empty landscape we have gathered successfully (one house) among the leaves that float for miles along the sky and the leaves that go with them. What riches we have are of home. An acoustic guitar in the mouth of the sun. And passing… I was an oak and you were a birch. This clear dark sky has been pre-served here for all time in a version of itself (VIEW). And we live in the sun, we live in the wind. Painting our symbols for the eyes of our lovers. I was a maple and you were a poplar. We live in the rain. Married to the very thought of the wind to life. Satie would have been proud. Just look at the stars. I was a sycamore and you were a red ash. We were so ashamed to fuck like writhing snakes in our upper branches during the long hot summers that as we waited for winter we would fall apart. We would sleep so hard, like rocks or ice, just to cover up the scent of our bondage. What leaves we have shed in the months of our offering. To each other and ourselves. I was a hawthorn and you were a willow. One or two of our beasts will float forever upon their thrones like downy pebbles; we let them have their stay, in the end we give them such defeat. We only know these gifts. Beethoven would have been proud. Of course we were living together, and all in love. All summer I enjoyed listening to the clacking of your leaves and I have fought against each day from that perspective. I was a downy serviceberry and you were a sumac. In autumn, why do we always fall for ourselves? There is something entirely justified and hopeless about our situation. Love would have been proud. Living like cradles poking into the sky, always giving up gently at the last possible second. I was a hickory and you were an evergreen. We have all been offered such riches. But that is what I love about you. So much like myself. So hopeless, full of curiosity about this language we stick into each other as we die of love and hope. Living in the fallout of winter. I was a magnolia and you were a slippery elm. Sometimes there could be miles and miles of us, all holding hands, pierced through the many hearts of the rain. Holding each creature inside us like this soft wood pulp. Satie would have been proud. All of us alone together and unnoticed. Our own path is no less than where we let ourselves fall. Often it is how we wonder why we do this. I was a white cedar and you were a dogwood. No reason, no worry, listen to the last songbirds of summer sing our way.

  LeafSong

  Because the two sides of our love, invisible, opaque

  we will always love We will never We love you… O

  what love

  We always love. Use us accordingly O seasonal beasts, for

  we shall be our ghosts until we return filled with green.

  We remember with winter space we never leave.

  Make love to air and fall away what we are

  Small beings in love with you

  O ground, love you and shall wait for you

  always over here, on our side, alive living with you O air,

  we are will be the wind one more time waiting in the wind

  in the wind the birth of the wind… many shapes of wind and home.

  Through the burning hot days of summer which is the fruit of our lust.

  Waiting where we are we are for what we come with us

  where we know we are. Here we are wet, here we are green

  awaiting your solid kisses O ground, slide through us

  as we melt into All summer long in the air,

  the hot wind our shape flows through us with motion our soft

  limitations. Lead grace to the slow orgasm of the tree

  when we turn to the light birds ourselves.

  What advice might we give We become

  our red shapes

  for such to kiss, kiss our yellow shapes, kiss our brown gold shapes.

  As we become ghosts never disappear. We long to with you,

  O ground, for you fall through us. For we know who

  we will always be here in love with you O air,

  even in the lust our absence,

  When we make love to ground. O ground,

  all summer long, we are in love with you,

  waiting for return.

&n
bsp; 4 Leaves (4 pages)

  when the wind is all around so

  stoned i couldn’t possibly move, (BUT I DO)

  What intellect could be out here in the open

  bug-eyed, sapped out of my mind.

  might as well be on a bicycle, turn over and

  over myself, move along without trying,

  out here the ups and downs are accompanied

  by hills that meet the dark edges of the air

  where we will slice at what creates hanging

  on, and i bite my nails to rid them of a dance

  they will always choose, the ritual of their time.

  I have also thought it must be easy to ride without hands.

  Ah! everything tends to become directional with time, and drawn

  off the deep end. (settle down and be where).

  i know it really has nothing to do with me, but

  with a small thing of myself that i live.

  what could i be without you? i’m pretty worn out

  of sight against the wind and amongst our many shapes,

  as they come into being and not at all yet drifting on

  the slope of darkness you should call night.

  which of course, as anyone with

  half a heart will tell you,

  will only go down from here on

  in through slippery shadows of air.

  it’s all folk music

  of the air,

  or something similar,

  a quiet imitation,

  a quiet right through the trees

  of the trees

  beating the thickness

  of wood, something

  that goes on

  a bright heavy

  summer, a gun full

  of heat that rolls

  the wind, so slow,

  going nowhere into the night.

  i find it so, i don’t know,

  perfect, this balance

  between heaven and sky.