Archive for April, 2015

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Practice, practice, practice…

April 25, 2015

My relationship with the things I write are funny. As in, unusual, though sometimes haha. Sometimes they make me snort laugh. Those are fairly obviously the haha. I love those. I think it’s important to be in a relationship with someone who can surprise you and make you laugh a lot. It’s pretty much my number one quality. So the fact that I can do that suggests to me that I (we?) are doing alright.
But the other side of the funny is my ability to have something come from me, whether impressive or witty or hilarious or whatever, leave me, onto internets or paper or sidewalks, and never be thought of again. Most of the time, it’s enough that I was there in the moment to free it from the confines of my brain and allow it to exist. On some level, it makes me a bit sad that I don’t have it anymore, but it frees up space for the next thing that is coming. Often I can feel them coming, especially if they’re large and emotional and seemingly all encompassing. Those are frequently things that I’m happy to channel and set free. I had one of those not long ago..it was my M post, about the mourning of something that needs mourning even if it took me a really long time to acknowledge that. It comes when it’s ready and while the moments (days, weeks?) leading up to it can feel stifling, overwhelming, burdensome, once it’s out I feel so much lighter. I can breathe again.

There is something working it’s way to the surface now. It’s nowhere near as sad as the last thing that found it’s way to me but it’s certainly a presence somewhere inside. My tendency is to sit quietly and wait for it to show up, not writing anything else for fear that the thing in question will be diluted.
That’s the part that is kind of funny for me.
That suggests an egotism that can only allow things to be written when I’m inspired. How funny (unusual) that I accept the reality that musicians need to practice. Sportsing people need to practice. Yoga doing peoples need to practice. Limber doesn’t stay unless you make it. Ball catching doesn’t stay unless you make it. This habit I have of only engaging in hobbies that are like falling off a bike (who forgets how to do that?) I think falls into the category of self-deprecation a little bit.

Writers have to practice writing. It’s true.
So while this isn’t the thing, it feels like a tribute of sorts to the thing. I know she’s there (not all my things are a she, but this one is) and I know she’s coming and I’m kind of excited about it because it feels true. In my mind, the best stories are true, and whether or not they really happened is immaterial.
Is it strange that I find writing in rhyme more difficult than just writing? While it creates a lovely sensation of channeling Dr Seuss, it’s damn hard to make sense of things that come, much less make sense of them in a rhyming scheme that flows without trying too hard.

But practice makes better. And so I practice.

I am a burgeoning gift to myself
A present, a presence in tune
Made manifest in a mellifluous madness
Shared by all phases of moon
I am neither virgin nor vixen
A complex surface tension of art
That carries empathic compassion
To the depths of a passionate heart
That beats, yearns, hungry and open
With a resonance of the wild
The ripe appetite of a woman
The beatific delight of a child
I am intrinsic to nature
And in nature I feel at home
No more a maiden, not nearly a mother
And certainly nowhere near crone
I embrace all possible future
But I’m not defined by my past
An evolving and constant creation
This die will never be cast.
There is a strength to my beauty
There are symphonies set free in my smile
Inhabited by languorous melody
With delicious intent to beguile
No one but my own dear self
I desire to invoke and engage
The goddess who dwells deep within
Who cannot imagine a cage
That was built to contain all she is
She can honestly only soar free
To love true, to be loved without limit
As we all are destined to be.

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Overachiever and the snort laugh opera.

April 22, 2015

Because it makes me snort laugh every time I read it, I feel compelled share with the tiny world at large in my blahgaverse.

I was given a writing prompt of a 10 row thing, but with a one letter word, then two letter word and so on to a 10 letter word. I did 12 because it needed to be done and I didn’t abide by the single word encompassing the letter amount because i didn’t actually read the instructions properly.

A
no
god
damn
pants
fiesta
is besta.
Pants are
for suckas
Peace out my
naked legged
motherfuckas

‪#‎overachiever‬ ‪#‎nopantstuesday‬ ‪#‎Ilovelivingalone‬ ‪#‎itsmyweekend‬ ‪#‎mydogwantssomeonetowalkher‬ ‪#‎Imbusynotwearingpants‬

It was however pointed out to me, that the parameters were such that using one word per line was the challenge. And challenging it was, but I almost did it.
I
do
not

care
about
limits
because
pantless
goddesses
can do whatever the fuck they like.

Yeah, I didn’t really intend to publish this, but because it literally makes me laugh so fucking hard every single time, I hope that it does the same for at least one other person because that’s a lovely feeling.

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Never afraid? Not so. Nonetheless, no harm in trying…

April 21, 2015

I have written many things that never see the light of day beyond the moment they’re written.
Some because they’re just a stopgap, a way for the words that are clogging up the flow to get the hell out of the way so the torrent can tumble freely.
Some because they’re half light, a flicker of something not quite strong enough to power an entire community of thought, but sparkly enough to keep around for those moments when one only needs a fitful amount of battery power.
Some are great and every ounce of me screams “OH MY GOD SUBMIT THIS!” And I smile and go online and cruise the various places that might like to share something such as this with the small worlds that orbit their sites. There is typically a link somewhere on the page.. write for us! submit! click here to share! your words can save lives! Or whatever…and so I click
Then there are instructions. Please submit your thing in (insert format here) and make sure that you haven’t already given it to a whole bunch of other people and be aware that we get a lot of stuff and it might take a while and don’t take it personally if you never hear from us because it doesn’t mean you suck it just means we didn’t like it and remember we get a lot of stuff and oh yeah! Please submit an artists’ bio of less than 150 words with a picture so we can attribute it to the right person and please don’t just send the word garble copied 148 times with a picture of the mahna mahna guy.

And then I close the page. And go make some tea to sip in the bath while reading comics. Because I didn’t really want to submit anyway. It was just a silly dream I had for a moment.

Here’s the hilarious part of my entire existence.
Everything I write, on some level, is about me. Even when it’s not. Here in this space, I write about myself incessantly. It’s literally the only thing I know well, and I’m still discovering parts that surprise me. Which is awesome.

But the second someone says, tell me about yourself…

Oh. ok…um….

In less than 150 words that are cohesive and moderately honest.

Garble? garble garble? Mahna….

WHY IS THIS SO HARD?

I rebel so much at the notion that I can be summed up, that I can be pigeonholed or compartmentalized or say anything about myself that doesn’t come across as narcissistic and blow my own hornucopiously shallow.
I don’t know why I’m afraid (because I’ve come to understand when I type or say the word rebel (as the verb, not the noun) it’s pretty much me saying “I’m scared of that.”  Example. The canadian government at this moment in time makes me want to rebel against them. Translation? Stephen Harper scares the fuck out of me.

But anyway. One of the writing prompts that recently came up in the super awesome super supportive writing group of peoples I’m lucky enough to be a part of was….yup! ARTIST BIO!! Less than 150 words. When I first read that I was like, fuck you Jay Long for picking the one thing that I really don’t want to do. I think it was posted like 3 weeks ago. I grumbled, there was some muttering. There was a moment when I actually said out loud, well, I don’t have to do all of them!
And then people started posting and they were so good and I was thinking how do they know themselves so well! And then I thought, why are you over complicating this like a crazy person?So I wrote a thing. I don’t think this will be the thing that helps me get published, but at least I can now fill out the form in it’s damn entirety. I just hope they’re good with a picture of the mahna mahna guy…

Trish is by equal measures the tempest and the calm at the centre. She strives for the happy medium, having spent a long time being made dizzy by the extremes of the pendulum. That’s not to say she doesn’t delight in the spin, the spiral, the hula of a good hoop, the whirl of a good dervish, the doodoodoodoodoo of a good mahna mahna.
There may not always be a smile on her lips, but she holds laughter in her eyes. Her spirit animal is Henry Miller tango dancing with a honey badger, she is the patron saint of trickster gods, she in an unnatural redhead who is barefoot as much as is possible. Like right now.

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Mesmerized by mourning, madness maintained a presence, until she learned what love actually does if you let it.

April 19, 2015

“All your life you live so close to truth, it becomes a permanent blur in the corner of your eye, and when something nudges it into outline it is like being ambushed by a grotesque. ”
-Guildenstern in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead by Tom Stoppard

When she was young, she thought she would have children. She thought she would have six. They would all have different fathers who could visit but not live with them, they would all be girls, they would be strange and ethereal and witchy. A wrinkle in time meets little women meets the chrysalids meets village of the damned meets matilda meets children who aren’t startled to meet a polite faun in the woods on the other side of a wardrobe. They would live on a property that had running water, a beautiful bright house, dogs, goats and chickens. She later amended this to involve ducks instead, after she had known some chickens.

She understood that it wasn’t quite a reality dream, it wasn’t entirely a practical dream. She didn’t hold it in her heart so much as her mind as something that might be a delightful adventure. She had other dreams that fell by the wayside too, along the path she trod.
As she grew older, the dream of six dwindled to fewer, and fewer still. In the recesses of her mind though, there was one. There was one that she carried with her. A small girl with dark eyes that held questions she understood were unanswerable by human mouths. A creative and strong individual who comprehended that the language wind speaks through trees is of a different dialect than that which blows across the sea. A girl who would grow to take delight in the everyday and suffer in silence because pain affects everyone, how we show that pain affecting us is the part that makes us mighty.
Her fear that she was too broken to carry this girl, to bring her here weighed on her heavily. She had sought out the companionship of other broken people, deluded that she didn’t know how to be whole. To be incomplete with another was close enough, yes?
No.
And she knew that too, but habits ingrained are difficult to relinquish, even when faced with the nonsense of their existence.

Then came a moment. A crashing blazing thunderous rain soaked night filled with music and the intoxication of something wild to match her own. Something that recognized her fire and blazed hot in eyes dark with a madness she found familiar. Who was the moth and who was the flame mattered not at all. The passion extinguished quickly, but the moment would stretch on until she knew that there would be evidence of it before too long.
It was the most terrifying moment she had ever known.
Saying it out loud was the hardest part. She shared with him, it was only right, but this creature would not be his. She belonged to her. They spoke of names, they spoke of a future, out of courtesy more than reality. She already knew her name. She didn’t know where they would live or what they would do but she allowed her heart to curl around a womb and settle into a tempo that would comfort and soothe.
But then the questions. The discussion of timing, of place, of intention. “Is this what the universe intends for you, at this time?”
Though she had already become attached, the need for reason prevailed and she found herself at the river’s edge somewhere between a moon full and a moon new, somewhere between a decision made and a conflict unresolved.
She asked the question. “Is this right? Is this the path intended, or is this a wake up call for my focus to determine itself more cohesively?” She asked the questions, though her heart had already handed over control.

Three nights later a windstorm arrived. It blustered and blew and made furious overtures within the trees. It threatened safety, it raised tensions to a height beyond anything that seemed sane, much less comfortable. The woman in her sanctuary was pensive, she had shared with friends and family the news of the newness within and was afraid of her tendency for an all-in perspective. It was still so early, there were still so many moments for a mistake to be averted. How could she have handed over her ability to rationalize so quickly? It must be something cosmically true that was happening.
That night, her dreams were filled with dischord. She tossed and she turned, there were screams no one could hear, there were omens and portents and candles that flickered though the tempest was outside.
In the morning, stillness. Sunlight through broken branches, birds that sang as though they’d never known terror. She woke and she smiled and then she stirred.

And then the pain.
As though her uterus was filled with razors and any movement sent them barreling into her guts, spiralling up to her throat and slashing any sound she might consider uttering to ribbons. She tried to lie completely still, she tried to summon the strength to pull it all back inside, to push it down and bear the agony..and then she felt it. She felt the rush, stronger than the pull of any river fighting it’s way to the sea. She sobbed, knowing that the thing she had expected had arrived. She could feel the cold below her and she knew that it had gone without her even realizing it, which hurt much more than she could have believed. The creature had left her, this part of her so new, so fragile, so young as to still be nearly intangible, and she hadn’t noticed.
Eyes squeezed shut, she reached and felt the damp and lifted her fingers, praying that when she opened her eyes, there would be no colour spread across them..no…

red.

And then the pain driving deep into her, pulling all of her strength with it. A wave of blinding light, how could something burn while it flows like liquid? A volcano, she thought. I’m giving birth to a volcano. And then the shock, the horror, the fear that she might die here, alone in this place she loved, alone in this bed that this lightning child was conceived in, that the previous night’s windstorm had ripped and carried away from her.
Drawing from somewhere within the pain, she pulled back the covers and sobs wracked her body afresh when she saw what seemed to be the majority of her interior pooled on the mattress. How could she have bled so much and continued to sleep? How could anything have kept her from realizing that the thing she had become so close to have left so stealthily in the night?

She mustered the bravado to clean herself, dress and seek aid. Every step she took was like walking on spikes through cement. She found a friendly face and collapsed, begging for help. The trip to the hospital was a blur. Once they realized there was no one there to save, that the creature was already gone, the only consideration was alleviating the pain. She liked it there.
She liked the numb. She liked the absence of responsibility. She felt silly for even causing anyone trouble. It felt obvious that everything was alright while she was there. She hitchhiked back to the place she lived in a daze. And everything was swimmy and good, there was a dull ache between her legs, a ripe soreness a little higher but there were no feelings.
Until she saw him. Him, who she never even really had feelings for beyond the thunder infused night they shared.

The tears, the apologies for something she wasn’t really sorry for, was she? Honestly, it was something she had never really wanted. Hadn’t she? She was never the marrying kind and she sure wasn’t the maternal type. That whole part of her who thought she was doing the right thing, that was the delusional part, wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?

Admitting this is so damn hard. It might be the hardest thing I’ve ever said in my whole life. But I can’t carry it anymore. I secretly thought there would be another moment, I’ve held that possibility in my heart for so long and it’s breaking me. The bravado I wear as armour is just too damn heavy to drag around anymore.
I have to let you go, I’m so sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever been sorrier than I am to admit this. But I’m 39 now and it’s time to set you free to find your way to wherever you are supposed to be. Because I don’t think it’s here with me. And that’s really really okay. But know this.

I would have had you.
I would have had you and I would have loved you more than I ever thought possible.
Before, during and after you were born.
Your eyes, so dark like mine.
Your hair, with just enough red running through that the moon would seek your company on nights she craves warmth.
I would have taught you the songs of the four winds.
I would have let you come to understand, just because a brook babbles, doesn’t mean it speaks nonsense.
I would have showed you how to dance.
I would have showed you how to ask and
how to stop asking when the only way to invite answers is with silence.
I would have allowed my heart to break over and over and over again every time you cried,
only to grow a little larger with every laugh.
I would have delighted in introducing you to Dr. Seuss, Roald Dahl, CS Lewis, Jim Henson, Neil Gaiman,
anyone who ever wrote a story about a place I believe you’d benefit from visiting.
I would have been enraptured,
amazed,
frustrated,
angry,
ecstatic,
sad,
exhausted,
confused and completely done with it
I can’t do any more!
And then done more.
I would watch mini me as you grow and age and come to understand that all the money in the world won’t buy sense.
I would measure your growth in the lines on my face.
I would cry the first time I realized you were too big to carry into the house,
especially since you hadn’t realized it yet and had to walk to bed sleepy from the car ride home.
I would mark your height on a doorjam that would never be painted over,
kiss every hurt,safety test every rope swing even when you’re screaming at me that it’s your turn.
I would give up the last piece of pie,
Everytime.

Just because I’m not her,
doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have been,
even if I wasn’t.
Goodbye darling,
I wish you well.

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Letting go of resistance, lepidoptera, Love love love…

April 14, 2015

A forewarning, there is a very emotional blog post in my near future. This is not it. This is my attempt to keep the pendulum from swinging too far into the dark, thereby taking a damn long time to come back and who has time for that, really? Because I do this thing when I know that there is something kind of heavy or uncomfortable or emotionally stormy in my head.

I refuse to write it.
And then I get sad.
And then I start to punish myself. I might buy a pack of cigarettes. Or food that I know I’ll kind of hate myself for eating later. Or I’ll just drink until I pass out, and conveniently skip brushing my teeth because I’m wined out unconscious. Which I have done the last two nights.
And I’ll wake up and it will still be there. Still waiting, patiently for me to stop resisting, stop trying to turn myself into someone I don’t like so I can justify not giving in to the truth of something.

So ok, I’ll write it. But not today. Today I got rid of the cigarette(I only had one left in the pack, but it still felt good..I thought about going back for it four times), I ate food that was yummy and good for me, I cleaned the house that had been slowly taken over by apathy goblins and I made a cup of tea. Tomorrow might be all whiskey soaked blues caterwauling in a clawfoot bathtub while I pour out my messy heart onto paper but today is about coming back to a mindset of strong enough to face it. It’s so easy to hide, whether at the end of the road or is the middle of a big city, to deny my ability to face things and understand myself better, to create the habits that help me grow, rather than sliding back into the mindset that it really doesn’t matter if I do this little thing. If I smoke one cigarette, if I..oh my god..I started to delete that smoke one cigarette part. I started to delete it because I wanted to let myself off the hook if for some reason I decide I want to have a cigarette. The voice in my head actually just said, “now why would you give yourself shit for wanting to have a smoke now and again? Seriously, everything in moderation..right?”

That just happened in real time. My mind wanted to give me permission to do something that is bad for me because it’s convinced that there will be moments in the future that I’m going to want to not like myself. How is it to notice that? That’s good, right? Especially since I’ve written it as it’s happening and left it in, which might make me sound like a crazy person, instead of deleting it and just sweeping the whole episode under the proverbial rug (which I vacuumed today, it looks beautiful again..gala is out looking for a stick to chew to bits on it since hers have all disappeared..).

Growth is tricky. Sometimes all this introspection feels like masturbation. Feels like self-love lip service. Maybe I just really like thinking about myself because I’m incomparably self-absorbed. But statements like that feel like a backslide into the comfort of self-deprecation. It’s so damn common. At any rate, it’s really late and I’m tired because I’ve been doing battle with the head talk that really doesn’t see any need to change. How ironic is it that my favourite word in every language I’ve ever heard (read) it in, is butterfly.
Whether it’s lepetka, kupukupu, schmetterling, farfalla, kimimi, mariposa, papillon, bili bala, iveveshane, sommerfugl, pulelehua (Roma, indonesian, german, italian, sioux, spanish, french, welsh, zulu, danish, hawaiian..for the record) I love it in every language. In ancient greek? Psyche.
The definition of psyche? One random internet spot.. from the Greek psykhe “the soul, mind, spirit; breath; life, one’s life, the invisible animating principle or entity which occupies and directs the physical body; understanding”

How appropos that the word for the soul, mind spirit should also represent a creature whose very existence depends on an ability to evolve and transform within it’s life cycle.

This chrysalis heart,
wrapped up tight
She thought she was protecting herself from the pain
of unraveling.
In denial of the symphony
She found herself bereft of cohesion
Parts with no sum,
A melody of dischord.
Lost sight of the wild,
At odds with her inherent nature,
Confused by the desire
to be consumed
by the calm,
she mistook drowning for a pervasive sensethat she finally learned how to keep still.
She has forgotten that she carries the storm
in her back pocket,
to have on hand
When the need for inspiration strikes.
As often as it needs to.
For this moment,
But not many more
she is trapped in a pattern,
a static slumber.
Every passing moment,
reminded,
remembering,
her tumultuous dreams
filled with memories of light
And the music that sings in her soul.

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This is a letterless poem

April 10, 2015

I’m eating almonds, alone, in a dimly lit room
Trying to summon the presence
of the surrealists.

Halfway through the second handful,
papery brown skins between my teeth,
I wonder if it’s okay that these are roasted.

Do the ghosts I’m attempting to call forth
Expect a certain purity
in their nut?
A rawness,
A blank almondy slate
That can then be
Salted,
roasted
Spiced or sliced
Slivered thinly
Like an eyeball with a razor blade.
(Don’t fret, it’s only a calf’s eye,
much like the one that stared blandly from the table in science class,
well beyond the point of wondering why)

“I have it on good authority*,” I said to a friend one day,
“That surrealists love almonds.”

She, unlike the preserved ocular sphere on the table
was not beyond the point of wondering,
“Why?”

“It must be the shape.”
If one speaks with enough conviction,
anything will seem true for at least a moment.

“Whoever heard of something round having a point.
It seems just absurd enough to have a certain appeal for a surrealist.”

She nodded in agreement
and it became true.

*Sheri D Wilson

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Keen to know, she let the world in and the words out

April 9, 2015

You’re on your way to me
I can feel you coming on the wind,
this gentle push of whisper before breeze
carrying a hint of your warmth.
I’ve waited for you,
mostly patiently,
Though there are the what if days of doubt
That come around more often than I’d like to admit.
What if I’ve missed you?
Or you already came and I dismissed you,
didn’t recognize the voice I was sure
I’d know better than my own.
I feel you in the way
I desire every poem to have closure,
to find a finish
A satisfied resolution both in words
And in tone.
I feel you in the way the water moves
here
below the surface
When I swirl my fingers just so,
and you’re in the eddies of my heart as well.
When I’m doing nothing at all and my heart skips a beat,
I know it was looking for you.
You get caught in my throat,
in the strands of my hair,
I feel your fingers in the sunshine sliding across my shoulder blades,
how it curls under that bone
As if to remind me that I once had wings.
As if to remind me that I can fly again, any time I choose.
I only have to remember how to jump.

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