Archive for September, 2015


Let’s get saucy. Don’t read this if you get offended by anything too sexyfine.

September 23, 2015

I’ve been hesitant to post a lot of the things I’ve been writing lately. I get nervous because they can be kind of salacious, kind of dark, kind of ‘oh my!’ inducing. It’s time to stop hiding. I’m coming out.
It’s easy to talk about authenticity, but only show one side of the self. It’s easy to admit a desire to willingly encompass all aspects, but hide some of them from the world. It’s easy to talk the talk, giggle in whispers and shut the hell up when it comes to owning the all.

Just to be clear? Not everything I write is exactly how I feel from one moment to the next. Hell, not everything I think is exactly how I feel the second after I’ve thought it. Evolution is fluid, adaptation demands this journey of exploration maintain a path of open heart, open mind, consistently seeking truth in order to be of greatest benefit to expansion of self.

When I was young, I wrote a lot of fiction. I devoured it, and spat it back out in my own words. My greatest idol? Roald Dahl. When I was 10 my mum bought me his omnibus as a ‘I love you, it’s tuesday!’ present. She’s great like that. It contained stories I never knew he had written. Adult stories of lust and betrayal and darkness. Of course I recognized the dark in his children’s stories (giants who eat humans? A wretched couple who play horrific tricks on each other? Witches who prey on children?) but his adult stories tapped something inside me that I found delightful. I wrote stories, emulating his themes and finally mailed one to him when I was about 13.
He never got it. He died 2 days after I mailed it. I stopped writing fiction.

I danced around it for years, never giving in to it completely. I wrote poetry, prose, rambling streams of consciousness where I wove words with an intent to delight and tease.
Recently I’ve found myself bombarded by voices. Viable perspectives demanding I give them words. Some of those voices speak, some scream, some moan and gasp with delight. I’ve been a confidante for characters who have stories to tell, regardless of the subject matter. In some ways, it’s quite humbling. But a lot of the stories seemed to come from dark places, from places I’ve never been but have no trouble imagining.
I finally realized why. I’ve been in touch with those places since I was very young, but I’ve denied knowing they existed within me because of how much light and joy there is in my life. As though I haven’t suffered enough to understand the darkness that can hide within the heart of man. But Roald Dahl taught me well and it’s time to open wide and proudly accept the gifts I’ve been given.

My intention was to start a secret blog. A place where I could post these things that might be considered lascivious, risque, smutty. Because guess what? I write a lot of smut. Some of it? Is fucking great. All of it involves sex, to some extent. Why? Because it’s smut. Which is defined as particles of dirt or soot. Which suggests, if you get down with the smut, you’re gonna get dirty and sooty.

I’m a fucking mechanic. I understand the honour that comes from getting dirty or sooty, it means I’ve been working hard. It means I’m not holding back.

I’m done holding back. Let’s get dirty. There’s your caveat.
I suck. A love story.

I suck
at brevity.

My love of words and the ability to use them, nay, the desire to want to soak the sheets with my prowess of prose leads me into an overabundance of vivacious verbosity and a need to do laundry more frequently than is sane. I’ll go long and strong with a worthy wordsmith, my synapses love to stray paths beaten or new, and delight in the duel, the thoughtful thrust with preference for parlay. My lust for a tongue lashing of wicked wit and ribald repartee makes me weak in the knees when confronted with one who won’t let up until I’m gasping for mercy. But take note, I did not ask you to stop.

I suck
at lying.

Of course I can tangle a tale, weave a world of whimsy, take pride in my status as patron saint of trickster gods. My love of the fantastic notwithstanding, I can’t hold a candle to those who delve into deceit that so often leads to harm. I’ve tried and failed to convince that black is white and day is night because the blush and stammer gives me away every time. I have no skill for the deception that digs a hole in a heart, the perjury that pains, the falseness that fastens itself to half truths, and tries to maintain a lonely justification that rings hollow when pressed. Honestly? It’s probably because I’m just really disorganized and can’t keep track of things that aren’t truth. I have enough to worry about without spinning yarns that require more wool than I’ve got to spare. I need that wool for legwarmers so I can live my authentic flashdance life. I’m a maniac…

I suck
at not falling in love.

It happens every moment. Every chance I get, I’m charmed by the existence of goddamn everything. The simple things like how strawberries taste like sunshine if it was closer to red and how puppies seem to speak the same language as dandelion fluff. The way stars whisper when we shut the fuck up long enough to listen. The crackle of the jazz lp’s I inherited from my da. The moments when I can’t stop laughing because I’m rocked by the giddy. And with people who write words, make music, provide perspective. And individually. Though I’m not talking simpering flowers and hearts and creepy lurking cupid ready to mess with my chemical imbalance in the hope that I find myself ensconced in a tete-a-tete of wedded bliss. No, more the way your voice says my name like you’re hungry and I’m dinner. Those hands..oh my fucking god..those hands! that I want on me. The look in your eyes when I pass you on the street and know that you’re wondering how it would feel to be so deep inside me I can’t remember my name. Yeah, I recognized the look. Because the same one was on my face.

I suck
at standing on ceremony.

Formality is not my forte. Hell I’m not even wearing pants as I write this. I love the idea of getting dressed up and bein’ fancy now and then, but I’m always going to be the girl who would rather be barefoot and dirty, playing in the forest, having an impromptu pants off dance off in the living room or reading in a tree. Unless tango dancing is involved. I’ll happily put on the heels for that.

I suck
at being subtle.

Your bottom lip, all seduction and grin between my gentle teeth when I tried to kiss you through the smile on my face and ended up here instead. Your fingers biting into my shoulder the way I know your teeth will later, as though you are creating a map, setting a course of the places on my body you’ll mark to remind me how it feels to be possessed, just as I’ll do for you. Your fingers unmistakably finding the places both inside and out that make me moan with wanting at the way you undo, unknit, unhinge and celebrate my surrender. My nails soft, then not so softly raking the flesh of your thighs, your ass, pulling you into me, the feel of the carpet under my knees, the weight of your cock on my tongue as I swirl around the head and lick the length of you, devilish smile in my delighted eyes. Taking you deep, inch by inch, because you love it when
I suck.


Fleeting moments light enough to carry forever

September 16, 2015

There are moments that are huge when they happen. And time reduces them with it’s slow simmer quality to a concentration of experience and memory. They are tucked into a cupboard, left in the dark, nearly forgotten about. And one day, someone says something that makes it come flooding back. And it’s wonderful. Did it happen exactly like this? Does it matter? The memory of how it felt is so grand, even if it’s not 100% accurate, I wouldn’t have it any other way. You know those moments?

This is one of those.

It was so easy to hide up north, short days filled with work and long nights filled with reflection and exercise.
I was more fit than I’d been in years, but I still didn’t love myself. I still didn’t see myself as truly attractive. I looked in the mirror and thought, yeah I’m fuckable. But only the body, never the woman inside.
Focused on work and hiding, I decided it was time I had some fun. Broke out a bit. So I booked a trip to Europe.
I went with little or no agenda. I started in Spain, flight to Paris, a bus to the Netherlands, associating with temporary friends and intimate strangers along the way. I had dalliances now and then, but celebrated myself as the strange, the novel. It wasn’t me they were attracted to, it was my ability to provide a story of a girl from somewhere else to add to the index of conquests.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved sex, just not myself. I never gave them credit for finding pleasure with me, I could have been anyone.

It was time to leave Holland. I took a tram to the train station. I looked up at the board for the next train leaving for the cheapest price. Copenhagen. I had never even considered visiting Denmark.
Why the fuck not?

While waiting for the train to leave, I looked online for a place to stay. There are a bevy of websites that cater to my rambling state of travel plan and there was one profile that stood out. I messaged him and he responded within moments. When I arrived, I would be on a night train, he would still be at work and so I was forced to wander the city until he could meet me.
I found my way to his place around 530, a friend of his was there, they were about to head out to watch a football match from a nearby bar. I had just enough time to drop my stuff and introduce myself, barely giving a thought that nearly everything I owned at the time was being left in an apartment I wasn’t sure I could find my way back to without the map I had left in my backpack.

We wandered to the bar, conversation coming easily. He was much younger than me by about 8 years, but carried a confidence I still couldn’t muster some days. Intimidated, adrift in a country I knew little about, except what I’d read by Shakespeare, knowing even less about the ins and outs of football and just what it meant to Europeans, I wondered more than once if I was making wise choices.
Halfway through the match, four or so very large beers in, we were trading travel stories and rounds. I could tell that he liked this, a woman, unafraid of traveling alone, who had no expectations of having her way paid. I appreciated that, while he was paying attention to the sportsing on the screen, he wasn’t obsessed with it the way some were, coming to tears and near blows over details that were lost on me and maintained interesting conversation.

I felt the shift. I wanted him. It wasn’t the typical, I’m drunk, you’re hot, let’s do this. I wanted him. And wanted him to want me. Not drunk girl who is going to crash on your sofa tonight, but actually me.
I knew it wasn’t going to happen. He was young, I was old. He was fresh, I was broken. At some point, the conversation turned to sex, as it does.

I spoke of the desire to stay single, the fear of settling down, all the arguments I’ve used for so long to keep myself from acknowledging that the I’ll leave you before you can hurt me is nothing more than a defense mechanism. I said, “you seem like a really good guy. I bet you’d be fun to fuck, I know that’s not going to happen, but being that I’m a sexual creature and know what desirable looks like, you should totally take that as a compliment.” My breath reeked of beer flavoured bravado.
He turned to me, the noise of the bar eclipsed by the look in his eyes. “What did you just say?” I stumbled through the statement again.
“Well you seem like a good guy and you’re cute and fit and I bet you’d be fun to fuck, but I know that’s not going to happen because..” he stopped me. His eyes filled with a smile that ripped open my heart even as it ripped off my clothes.

“Now why would you think that?”

We maintained outer decorum, the match taking a backburner to the tension building between us. His team lost, though he didn’t seem too distressed. We finished the pints and left in a hurry, his friend barely having time to kiss both my cheeks goodbye. He took my hand and pulled me down the street until we were about 100 meters from the bar. Then he stopped, turned and, taking my face in both of his hands, kissed me so hard there were no voices left in my head with enough breath to speak, much less come up with reasons why this was happening. We stumble walked the rest of the way back to his apartment, hanging off each other, kissing while walking, stopping to makeout while lights changed and we missed them, groping each other in the corner store where we stopped for more beers and cigarettes, enough to carry us through.
We stayed in bed for a couple of days, he never let me go long enough to think about who he was interested in fucking. He let me know it was all me. The way he touched me, licked me, sucked me, kissed me, fucked me. Said my name, the syllable stretching to two and more, hard, soft, gentle, rough, it was always me he demanded to see.

At one point, I stretched like a cat, murmuring, “I could get used to this, to you..” and froze. Afraid I had ruined it. He looked at me.
“But I thought you preferred to be single. To be free. You know this can’t last. I’m leaving tomorrow on a trip. You’re leaving for wherever you’re going next.’ I ducked my head and nodded, receding into myself again. He caught me, pulled me back.

“Do you want to pretend? To pretend it’s forever?” My breath caught. I felt the threat of tears and swallowed then nodded.
“Yes. Just for tonight.” He smiled.
“Alright my sweet girl.” And he showed me what forever might feel like. This gorgeous, confident, delicious young man.

The next day he left. Left me in his apartment while he went away for the weekend. I slept in his bed, curled up with his scent and allowed myself to dream of how it would feel to be someones’ forever.
It was beautiful.

On monday morning, I packed up, locked the door, dropped the key through the mail slot and took a tram to the edge of town. I got on the highway and stuck out my thumb, pack heavy, heart light, wrapped up in a luscious mindfuck of a forever dream.
I still remember how it feels. It still makes me smile, every time.

Thanks for that, honey.


The happy medium between the mystery and the overshare

September 14, 2015

I wrote a couple of things today. Totally not appropriate to post here, so why even mention it? Because I’m holding myself accountable. I said I would write every damn day and I am. Not all of it is going to be intended for public consumption. I struggle with that. With the notion that if I’m going to be a writer (like I’m not already) then everything I create belongs to the world, for the sake of posterity.

Ha! You can kiss my squishy posterior if you think every part of me belongs to anyone other than myself. Regardless of what I share and what I don’t, it’s still me. My words, my insanity, my rambling brain that comes up with this stuff. Yes I riff on themes I’ve encountered before, styles I admire, but I owe nobody nothing.

That said, I love to consider that the things I create stimulate a reaction. Which tends to result in a propensity towards over sharing, in the hope that more content generates more reaction. But that’s a good way for quality to be lost.

I’m super wary of the over share. I think I do it a lot and I think other people do it a lot too. I strive for the balance between closed off and too open. There’s a delicious mystery in there somewhere. Hearts on sleeve, cards close to chest. If I had to give it a personality, I would say it’s a character in a Dashiell Hammet story. He sees much, he reveals little. He understands the motivations of both the alpha and the underdog and manages to walk a path, not always uninvolved or unscathed from the effort, between the two.

But this post tonight isn’t about me. (they’re all about me to some extent, that’s unavoidable) Regardless of the oversharing there seems to be a tendency towards, I find at times, I still rarely identify with humans on the other side of the screen. I rarely identify them as humans, which is unfair.

I read a lot of stuff on the internet. Some resonates and some percolates and some aggravates and some just makes me smile. How often do I consider the person on the other side of the words? Almost. Fucking. Never.
This is my attempt to remedy that.

I try not to apologize. It suggests that I’m sorry (I’m not).
Or that I made a mistake (I didn’t).
Or that I’m Canadian (I am, but not that kind).

But in this instance, I am sorry. Because I forgot you were a person, that you have days where you look in the mirror and think…whatever it is you think, I don’t know, I’m not there.

I can project all day long what I believe you would think, that wouldn’t make it true. I can read your blogs and stories. I can look at your pictures and follow threads on various sites and infer all kinds of things about your character. But that doesn’t mean I know sweet fuck all about you. I can rejoice or envy or snort derisively or laugh until I fall off my damn chair or discover that I’m about 3 inches away from the screen drooling on my keyboard and wishing you were close enough to do that thing you wrote about to me, just once…at least until I catch my breath. Then I’ll probably want you to do it again. Goddamn are some people good at writing smut. Yum.

But you’re not here for me. And that’s a good thing, when I remember that. Because it reminds me to be here for myself. To find the things that make me happy, fulfilled, complete, without concern for what may or may not be right for anyone other than me.

So I search and I read and I watch and I learn. Lucky enough to stumble across intelligent, eloquent people who are on varying stages of the same journeys of self-discovery. It helps. So much. The hard part comes when I find stories that resonate so deeply with the places I want to be already. I’m impatient, I’m eager, I’m excited. I forget that the journey others are on, while beneficial to my own evolution, are not intrinsically tied to my own explorations. I forget that, while the most important person in my narrative is me, the same is true for them.

We all (yes, I’m generalizing, it happens, get over it) want to be seen, to connect, to find those of like mind and appetite and share parts of ourselves without concern for shame or judgement. We are social creatures, humans are. Even those of us who are firmly entrenched in a happy medium of gregarious loner. (it’s not that I don’t enjoy being social, I’m just so damn happy to socialize with books, just as, if not more readily) It’s intoxicating to imagine that someone I see as delicious, brilliant, creative, stimulating, as attractive, would see me the same way. I start to think about what I might do better, how I might look and sound more appealing, in order for that to happen.

And I stop being here for me. I’m attempting to create a likable character that might fit in some way with the dreamy personality I’ve imagined you to be. I don’t consider that there might be days when you don’t see yourself as likable, as attractive, as brilliant or delicious because I’ve stopped ascribing the qualities of being a human (who has good and bad days) to you.

I’ve stopped thinking of you as a person. You’ve become something for me to react to, whether good or bad.

I read something someone posts that is hateful and angsty and I don’t think about the possibility that they’re having a terrible day and this is how it manifested. Maybe they stubbed their toe running to get a phone call where they were told that their mum was really sick. I take the words at face value and I write them off as a compassionless douchecanoe. (maybe they just are though, I’m struggling with the reality that some people are just jerks. Which I really don’t want to believe is true.)

I read words that seem effortless in their cohesion and speak truths I’ve waited all my life to hear someone say and I think, wow! They fucking get it! We’re obviously meant to be friends. Forgetting that there are seven billion people on the planet. Odds are a good proportion of them are going to say things I agree with, that doesn’t mean we need to hang out. Appreciation can happen from a distance just as sincerely as over drinks.

I think sometimes I see fragments of you and I want to fit those pieces into my own narrative, hoping to complete the picture I have of myself. Hoping that picture will be something glorious as a result.

I forget that the picture is already glorious. As is the whole of your humanity. Good days and bad. From my perspective anyway, because honestly? It’s the only one I have.
I’m just glad you’re in it.



September 13, 2015

It’s tough reconciling the part of myself as being a avid practioner of always start, never finish with someone who will get it together to publish something people want to read (while arguing, kicking and screaming that I’m not writing for the yous! I write only for myself!!! Uh-huh. I don’t write for reaction at all…). Perhaps that’s the problem though. I’ve locked myself into this mindset that I am that person and it needs to change. Change is hard. Today’s challenge is, therefore, kind of hard for me.

‘Short blurbs or brief plot synopsis of three novels, non-fiction or poetry books you’ve not yet written.’

Let’s start with poetry books. Because there is a comfort in the prose and it’s ability to step outside anything resembling structure and form. It’s the interpretive dance of writing.

Folderol and Bafflegab – a collection of rambly-stambly-bambly foofarah
Dedicated to Tim Healy, for giving me the title one lovely Festivus evening so long ago

This collection of poems is Trish’s attempt to make sense of the world around her, while wreaking havoc with anything resembling logic or reason. At times Shel Silverstein gets drunk with Dr Seuss on a leaky tugboat driven by Roald Dahl, she revels in the nonsense inherent in her own brain while cackling madly at the beauty of it all.

Wordpornisms – a collection of saucy smutterances

These poems are a deliciously depraved collection of salacious thoughts viewed through a sultry perspective of low light and atmosphere. With every form from haiku to whathaveyou, Trish runs the gamut from raw, unapologetic lust to a delights of a more sensual timbre. This collection is not for those under 18, those with firmly closed minds or legs and people who think poems should rhyme, everytime. <-haha!

Delusions of grandeur – a collection of dreamstate meanderings

These poems, each written in the style of a different author are Trish’s attempt to pay homage to those she calls hero. Every poet who ever loved enough to write about it is a large list and this book does not encompass that list by any measure. Instead, she has chosen 15 of her favourite writers and written about the dreams they might have.

Just before

From the first kiss to the last breath; a series of 7 poems on the subject of what happens just before.

So I did four, so what? I write a lot of damn poetry

In the words of the luscious and dreamy man I’m going to have a torrid affair with one day, Eddie Izzard, ‘et voila’.

Seriously, it’s so unllikely I’ll ever write something that is non-fiction because that suggests the things in the book are factual. I believe that the division between fact and fiction to be tenuous and blurry. Perspective can shift it very easily. The closest I come to non-fiction writing is this blog, mostly because as these thoughts tumble from my head, I intend them as truths, from my point of view. They might not stay true, but for at least a moment, they exist there, happily factual.

Fiction – starting with short stories

Henry and me – Short stories

A woman named something other than Trish discovers the hidden secrets in the dark corners of the City of Light in a series of erotic adventures while searching for and finding Henry Millers’ Paris.
To be followed up with a second book where she looks for Anais Nins’ Paris.
Spoiler alert! She finds that too.

The dark side of romance – 8 short stories that blur the boundaries

Tired of the usual, a woman discovers what joy there can be in some strange; hoping to spice up their marriage, a couple invites a third into their bed with unexpected results; people interact and then sex (i’m getting really tired) plus 5 other stories!

I kinda don’t want to do this anymore. I have lots of story ideas and projecting the books I’m going to write freaks me out a bit. I’m breathing them into being, ergo creating a world where they already exist, even if it’s just in my head for now. That suggests I now have an obligation to write them and what if, being that my mind is occupied by a focus on these stories, I miss out on the ones that might not have as strong a voice but just as legitimate a right to exist? Ideas come and go so quickly, I have to ignore some of them because there just isn’t space, not to mention enough to them to fill out with content. I do have ideas for whole book length stories I’d like to write, but I’m quite intimidated to talk about it. I do best when I have something show up and let it percolate, allow it to find it’s own footing in my head and dictate how it wants to be represented.
That said, I do need to step away from the role of always start, never finish I’ve created for myself and work on being the always start, follow through on that, then start the next thing.

And in the immortal words of a writer I adore without knowing why exactly, since I’ve never read him, whose Paris I looked for, and found. “Forget the books you want to write. Think only of the book you are writing.”


All of the reasons, which is a lie because there are way more than 21

September 12, 2015

I’m not doing day six. It’s about writing poems with soft sounds and ones with hard sounds, then determining which one makes you feel more.  This is how I picture it.

whish whoosh wush foosh frawash
shush shush shush, I said be quiet.
mish mush mooshoomoosho


fuck fuck fuck
fuckin fuckity fuck fuck fuck
suck it fucker
you fucking fuck
(I tried to combine the punctuationlessness of yesterday with this prompt because I kinda feel the same way about it.)

So yeah, gonna skip that one. Day 7 is a poetic love list of 21 details about my human experience that make me fall in love with life and savour it.

All of the reasons I love it.

  1. The way my toes feel when they sink into sand after the ocean recedes is like giving over control to something more intense and beautiful than I can comprehend.
  2. The way my skin feels when I know it’s going to thunder and lightning outside, as though my goosebumps are my senses communicating with the future via braille.
  3. The way good whiskey or bourbon smells when it’s cold. Pour some over 2 cubes of ice, swirl left, swirl right, continue in one direction, then the other until it smells cold. You’ll know when you’re there.
  4. The gasp that turns into a laugh because that thing you’re doing with your fingers delights me in such a way that I get confused about how it makes me feel, mostly because I’m feeling everything at once. No, I didn’t say stop.
  5. The way fall smells when you realize that it’s almost Hallowe’en. Like darkness and ritual wrapped up in the good kind of scared and bone china moonlight.
  6. The look in your eyes when you see that I see that you’re going to kiss me and I’m really quite pleased about it.
  7. The moment when I fall into bed and it’s so amazing that I can’t believe I stayed up so late, aka bedgasm.
  8. Strawberries, perfectly ripe.
  9. When music reaches out, curls it’s smoky fingers under my chin, calling me to dance.
  10. The way it feels to sit on a board, feet in the sea, looking out and seeing, from so far away, the wave that belongs to me.
  11. Walking home in the late of the evening, the early of the morn, inhabiting that space between night and day.
  12. The way my brain and body feel when I know that something worth writing is on it’s way. As though all of the possible combinations that words could be used in might all come flooding out at once. And be glorious.
  13. The way it feels when I actually manage to sit down and write something, without being distracted by all the shiny, which includes my own innumerable variations on self sabotage.
  14. When it gets dark enough to see the pathways I’ve lit up. Seeing people react to that with joy and giddy.
  15. When my friends do a thing that makes them understand how awesome they are, which is how I see them all the time.
  16. All the poets who ever loved someone enough to write about it.
  17. When things smell like good memories I’ve forgotten entirely, except for the smell.
  18. Watching Serenity be born.
  19. Paris.
  20. The moment when he said, why would you think that? And then kissed me. For three days.
  21. Sex. Wow, was that ever a good idea.

Skipping days like stones because I love the dead stop as much as the dot dot dot

September 12, 2015

I didn’t do day five yesterday, I was busy. Or whatever. It was a poem with no punctuation. Then add the punctuation. But I can’t bring myself to do that. It would look like this

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Suck it punctuation
There’s no place for you here

But I looove punctuation! I’m excited for exclamation! And jubilant for hesitation, which can lead anywhere…

But I groove on a dead stop.
Why? She asked, curving her smile to match the end of the question..
Because from a dead stop, anything could start anew.

So yeah, skipped that challenge. Kinda. I guess.
Day 6, as it should have been 30 minutes ago, says I have to write an autobiographical story in first or third person where change is reflected. I submitted a piece to the rebelle society a while back, which is where this 30 days of writing challenge came from. I kinda liked it, but hesitated to post it here, out of not being sure if this counts as the somewhere else in the “if you’re gonna send us stuff please don’t publish it somewhere else because we want to keep it FOREVER” or whatever it said. I’m shite for reading the fine print. But I’ve waited a while and I think if they were gonna post it they would have. Turns out, it’s kinda perfect for this prompt and since I’m feeling lazy (I wrote a story earlier today, and while the idea was good, the story was only okay. I’m pretty much phoning in the words by this point) I will post it here, saving myself the writing of something that may only be mediocre, taking back the joy of the thing I wrote and fulfilling my daily writing prompt.

All Stories Are True If Told Well
by me

Once upon a time there was a girl who dreamed of something sensual and fiery that came from passion instead of anger. That met her eyes and didn’t shy away or try to conquer her. Something that recognized her need to be acknowledged and respected as a creature worthy of love.
She searched for this, looking everywhere she thought it might be. She found variations on a theme, most of which left her lonely and empty and feeling like she was wrong to desire it at all. As though it either didn’t exist, or worse, would never reveal itself because she wasn’t strong enough to accept it into her world.
She started to fear and built walls impenetrable, so that even if it did show up, the fortress she had carefully crafted around her heart wouldn’t let it in. She became jaded and cynical, pretending that she had never really wanted it in the first place. That she preferred the solitude, the isolation.
And then one day, someone knocked at the door. The sound was so alien, it had been so long since anyone had visited, she wasn’t sure how to react at first. She crept to the large door and yelled, “who’s there?” And a voice called back, “I’ve heard there is a heart imprisoned in this place. A heart that has forgotten there is enough merit in the simple act of beating to justify it’s existence.”
She laughed derisively. Whoever this was knew nothing of hearts. If allowed to, a heart would pound like a runaway engine, uncontrolled. It would carry the love of another without leaving space for love of one’s self. It would crack open with compassion for those who would never reciprocate. It would bleed and think it was living truth.
And as though the person on the other side of the cumbersome door had heard these thoughts, their voice responded.
“You hide because you are afraid of the pain that comes with these acts. You are afraid if your heart pounds too heavily, it will burst from your chest and leave you vulnerable. But this lets in love, just as readily as pain. Better to have both, than neither.
You worry that if you open your heart wide enough to carry love for another, it won’t be requited and there won’t be enough love left for yourself in times when you need it. But demanding that sort of devotion, that kind of from one other being is unfair. It’s cruel to expect that there is only one who can be everything for you. It’s cruel to all those who want to share parts of themselves with you as well, all those beautiful stories that you might miss if you demand to live within only one of them.
You fear that if you show compassion it will make others believe you weak, when really it proves how strong you are. Strong enough to forgive those who do wrong to themselves and others. Strong enough to have hope that they can do better, be better.
You’ve forgotten that bleeding is what hearts do. If they didn’t, how would that blood get to the rest of the body, so that it can continue to function as best as it’s able?
The truth of it is this. You are enough, you have enough love to give and you are have space to receive love from those who will, who do cherish and adore you. You deserve such things from such people who deserve them in return. And besides, what’s the point of having a heart, if you don’t open it wide enough to break once in a while. When something breaks, it’s an opportunity to put it back together in such a way that it works better.
There is fire in every sunrise, a reflection of the light in your eyes every morning you open them. There is a sensuality inherent in every part of your skin, this amazing organ that covers your entire body. It allows you to feel everything, to taste rain on the wind, to carry scent that will remind you of moments you might have otherwise forgotten about. There is passion in every laugh that keeps pain at bay and every dream that you realize in defiance of apathy.
These things that you seek, that you desire, yes they are all around you, but they’re just as vivid and alive inside you too. You spent so much time seeking them externally, you hadn’t noticed they were here all the time.”

Crying, she fumbled at the locks, determined to know who it was that had come to share this wisdom with her. Some of them were well rusted and took all of her strength to open but eventually she did and flung the door wide.
There was a girl there, behind her a landscape of fields, trees and flowers, backed by a horizon that stretched, seemingly infinite. Through tears, she saw that the girl was crying too and she reached toward her face, to comfort her. At the same moment, the girl reached for her. Their fingertips touched, a smooth wall of glass between them.
And she realized it was a mirror. Turning, she saw that there had never been a fortress, it was only her perspective that had created those walls that appeared real.
She inhaled deeply, exhaled and smiled. Turning her face to the horizon ahead, she walked towards the future. To live, happily.

The beginning.


If you knew what was coming, what would you change?

September 9, 2015

Day four. Imagine the world is ending in 24 hours. Write the way it will end and how you would fill the hours.

This one is tough because in my mind, the quintessential last day on earth scenario was encapsulated in Last Night, directed by Don McKellar. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything and could have written something similar, since that movie was made in 1998. I had such a 90’s crush on Don McKellar and Callum Keith Rennie. Still do.  It’s also tough, because I wrote a thing for a prompt at the end of July documenting this exact thing. It read like this


My last day. How would I spend it? I’d love to say it would be filled with friends and laughter, music and food but that’s folly.
I seek the solace of solitude when I’m hale and hearty, I can only imagine the last day would be more of the same. I might stay up the night before, writing you a letter. This is what it would say.

I love you so much. Your smile filled a crack in my heart and I will forever be grateful for that gift.

As the sky grew light, I would make a cup of tea, earl grey double bergamot, with almond milk and some brown sugar. I would eat a bowl of strawberries because they’re the most sincere of all the fruits and taste best when eaten while holding the leaves and stem.
And then I would paddle out into the dawn to catch the morning break.

I wouldn’t come back because I’m already home.


But maybe I can try again.
I feel like the end belongs to Jim Morrison. However I feel about him and it’s shifted from either pendulum swing over the years, he reminds me of someone who saw the tenuousness of the veils between worlds. There are a few artists who seem to walk that line, who tap into the either a little bit more than is usual. I have moments I think, but my muse feels more like an ernest hemingway inspired bull in a whisky store. She has something to say, right fucking now! And I’d better sit down and not move while she lets it out. It’s the lie back and think of england school of writing. It’s why I post things in fits and starts and why I’m nervous about this writing every day thing. Will it become diluted with consistency? Even now, my body is telling me I should go back for more dinner, that my half full cup of tea needs a top up, that I should….be anywhere else. The other day when I couldn’t make myself sit still long enough to study for an exam, I finally, out of desperation, literally tied my ankles to the chair. Check that out.

I literally tied my ankles to a chair because it was the only way I would sit still for longer than 5 minutes. It worked, I sat there for 1.5 hours, studying and passed my test with 87% (four that I got wrong I had changed at the last minute, my original answers being the right ones. Second guess myself much? Yeah, too much.) That was the only way I could get my body and brain on the same I just need to sit here please stop distracting me with all of the things place.
What the fuck’s with that? Whatever works though.

Right! Channeling a muse that will lead me to the end of the world.

Does it matter how it will end?
We know that it will.
We know this like we know that 24 hours makes one day.
That’s what is left.
Would you sleep?
Would you cry?
Would you find the one who makes you feel alive and kiss them goodbye?
Would you think about the things you haven’t done, the things you’ll never do and mourn the loss of possibility?
Or will you laugh at the dawn, find reasons to get out of bed and embrace the feeling
of time
in real time.

Has there ever been a time as real as this?
Were there any minutes before now when we held ourselves as accountable as we do this second?

Will I find a way to delight in the cascade of moments as they slip from me like skins I’ve shed to find truth?
Will the woman who faces the end of this day be any more than the one who started it?
Of course.

With every moment I am more than I was.
I arc towards cohesiveness, a cumulative effect of mindful meandering
and reflections of things that mean the most.

I’ll carry you with me
all the way to the end of it.
You made impressions on me
dirty fingerprints on a heart
with wanting to be full.

How would I spend the last day?
Given the choice, I would paddle out at break of day.
Salty toes drifting light with the weight of her depth below.
The sound of the waves lapping to remind me of rhythm, intrinsic.
The sea brings me home.


I’m a psychic!!!!

September 8, 2015

Actually I’m totally not. If I was, I would have known that I was going to miss posting yesterday and would have anticipated such things, ensuring that I posted a thing, making this longwinded intro superfluous.

However, I’m here now and find myself caught a bit. It’s day three(ish) of the 30 day writing challenge I signed up to do approximately 37 days ago. I know, I’m so fucking organized. Sincerely, anything that takes a backseat to my schoolyness right now is okay with me. Do I dream of being both writer and mechanic? Fuck yeah, amongst other things (surfer, barefoot, silly, pie baking, festival pathway lighter, caravan builder, world traveller, sailor…yeah…it’s kinda endless) that will shift and become more or less important depending on the moment. This moment? School is the most important thing. Which is why crazy self sabotage brain has been sending me story ideas like there’s no tomorrow. I’m serious, I just had an idea for a short story that involves no tomorrow while typing that. And they all have such good reasons for wanting to be written! But none of those reasons benefit my ability to learn about braking, suspension, hydraulics and all the other fun stuff I’m trying to squish into my brain right now.

I don’t know if this applies for anyone else. Sometimes I start a post, a poem, a thing. For some reason, I have to walk away from it. An appointment, a distraction, perhaps I’m getting to close to something that scares me. I can tell when I’m getting into it, because if I’m on my laptop, I’ll open a browser window and start looking at something else. I can pull myself back most of the time but if I let it go for too long, typically I can’t resurrect it. I’ll delete whatever I’m working on, or I’ll save it and say (never out loud, that infers accountability) that I’ll come back to it.

I never do.
Even if the memory of it pops up, my brain has decided that we’re too different from the person who started that story/post/poem/love letter to Tom Hiddleston/list of sexual requests for Michael Fassbender/whatever.

Or, to save time, I could combine the love/lust letters, engage both of them to be my paramours and just be the queen of lusciously erotic efficiency. Damn, I have some great ideas.

What was I talking about?
AH yes, the followthrough.  Honestly, I’m not going to get very down on myself if I don’t post here everyday. Because I have been writing every day, much to the detriment of my mechanics education. Though, I’m following through on that too, not to worry. Perhaps not to the extent I could be, but I’ve cleared the 2 month honeymoon and so now my brain is suggesting that there are better things we could be doing with our time. However, knowing myself as I do, if I dropped out of school with the intention of being a full time writer, would I write every day?


I would find something to distract myself from that. It’s what I do. But the point of all this rambly-bamblyness isn’t to cast light on those things lacking in myself, such as focus.  It’s more to acknowledge that I’m learning myself well enough to recognize what’s happening, in real time. Which doesn’t make me psychic, but what is psychic ability anyhow? Seriously, I don’t actually know. Hang on, Imma google.
A person who claims to use extrasensory perception (ESP) to identify information hidden from the normal senses. Thanks wikipedia! That leaves it pretty broad. It could be argued that we are all to some extent psychic, working out the information we hide from our own selves through what’s taught or construed as “normal” in an effort to be more balanced, to evolve and adapt and find those parts of ourselves that encompass a healthier, saner truth.

Why do I keep harping on the psychic thing? Because the day three challenge was to write a short story as if I were psychic and able to read the thoughts of those around me. A character study of the inner workings of the people around me.

Here’s the truth of it. It’s not that I don’t care about the inner workings of those around me. It’s just that I have enough trouble understanding my own motivations and perspective while on my meandering course through this life of mine. Would I better comprehend my tendencies and proclivities if I had a greater sense of what is going on with the humans around me? Perhaps.

Ultimately, the only person I can speak for is myself. Every character in every story I write is, to some extent, me. I can imagine how it feels to be raised a young boy in southern california during the depression, a middle aged woman who decides to leave her husband of 40 years because it’s something she needs to do, an apple who grows and thrives under sun and rain all season to find itself at home in a pie come september, an alien who discovers that everything their society believed about extra-terrestrials is wrong. But it’s always going to be me who writes it, me who sparks life into those characters. That doesn’t mean that I don’t hope I will create something that other people can see themselves in, something that resonates to such an extent that it brings them to tears, or laughter, moments of “I thought I was the only one!” We are a collective of beings sharing space on a tiny rock in space, after all. It’s good to share.

I feel like I’ve lost the plot of this one. But does there always need to be a cohesive narrative for clarity to be apparent? I suppose the point of this challenge is to write every day, the content doesn’t matter as much as the intent. And so my intention to follow through, both on writing and school ( should probably be first…) is manifesting itself as a finish what you start kinda thing. I’ve started school, I’ll finish it. Kick some ass, chew some gum, learn some stuff. I’ve started the 30 days challenge and I’ll see it to the end. The posts might not always follow the prompt to the letter and they might not be amazing stop the presses quality every time but the words will be spoken..written..typed..whatever.

And the stories that are filling my head? I’ll do my best to leave breadcrumbs back to them when I have the time. But for now, my focus should be on finishing the ones I’ve already started. And so I’ll do that.
If I can manage 1500 words a day? I’ll be stoked.
If I can write and/or post every day for the next 27? And perhaps most of the ones after that? Huzzah! That’s grand.
If I can learn all I can about mechanics and rock out with my engine block out ( then remember how to put it back in so that it runs better than before, of course.) and end up doing work that makes me mentally and physically strong while enabling surf trips and delightful travel adventure shenanigans?

Well, honestly, there’s no if about that last one. I’m not saying I can predict the future, but I’m pretty sure I got this.


A letter to the me who never was aka what the everloving fuck does that mean?

September 6, 2015

Day two prompt is write a letter to the person I think I should have been by now. Explain to them why you aren’t them and offer them proof that who you are is better.


Ok. To be fair, I’ve been drinking a bit. It happens (often) and that’s no reason to shirk my responsibility to this 30 days commitment I’ve made to myself. Especially if that shirking takes the form of an episode of Drunkalele where I sing a song that resonates with this challenge which was not written by me.

But seriously. The attempt.

Dear me I’m not,

Perhaps on some level I should have been you. But I’m not. Get over it, you crazy minx. We’ve known forever that we’re not that super focused, goal-oriented, endgame having girly person and we see no reason to start now. Yes, we’re in school doing awesome things with machinery (bliss!) and there will probably be some amazing adventures that come out of this. But we know, they’re inadvertent. We’ve lived our lives according to the mantra, if someone had told me (insert specific random time period here..6 months..2 years..a week ago) that I would be (insert amazing adventure we’re embroiled in at this moment) I would have said they’re crazy.
It’s just what we do.Is it fair to go all disdainful on this writing challenge because of a perception that it does not apply to us? Yes. Why? Because it presumes that we thought we’d be somewhere better than we are, until we conclude with a passive argument that even though we thought we’d be better than we are, we are actually better than we are.

What the everloving fuck does that even mean?

It means, let’s have another drink and sign the fuck off for tonight. Day three can only be better because it’s actual future us we’ll be interacting with, rather than speculative ‘I thought you’d be better than this’ future us. Fuck her, she’s a crazy fucking bitch.

I love you, you crazy fucking bitch,

Me aka the crazy fucking bitch (or some reasonable facsimile thereof.)

Cue laughter followed by some falling off of chair…then snoozies. G’night!


On beyond zebra I go.

September 5, 2015

I forgot who I was doing this for.

I forgot about the girl who loves the words, the ones that sing, that stumble awkwardly, that trip and fall and sometimes catch themselves in time to make it look intentional.

I forgot that there is no hidden agenda. No ultimate desire to create something beyond the something being created. That is to say, my intention for this space of verbosity does not have an endgame. Evolution has no endgame. There is no point where I will stand from this desk and say, “I have a arrived! I am a writer!” and rest my literal ass on my figurative laurels with contentment.

I forgot about the love of the loquacious, the propensity for the prose, the fondness of the flow, the wild eyed delight of the word written well, the appeal of alliteration.

I forgot that I don’t need to be anything in particular. My penchant this week for writing ramblings of an erotic nature does not preclude my proclivity for poetry. And, to be fair, there is a plethora of poetry in a fuck done well.

I get so caught up in the this or the that, it sometimes makes me forget I encompass the all.

So here it is, day one of a new 30 day write yourself alive writing challenge that started well over a month ago. I wasn’t ready to do it before today. Why? Because of the words.

I forgot to not get hung up on the way something is worded for it to have resonance with me.
The first challenge? What is standing in the way of your creative revolution?

I’ve struggled with the answer to that since August first, when the challenge started. “well, it’s obviously me. not making time for this thing that I should have found a way to make a viable endeavour by now. Is that what I want? Do I want to be a published author at some point? Is that my goal? Do I write things worth publishing? I don’t even know if that’s what I want! Should it be? But I barely show up, that’s obviously what’s in the way. Plus I give in to the voices that tell me I have time, that I can do it later, that I can spend another while reading someone else’s genius, rather than acknowledging my own. Because how arrogant is it to insist that I’m in a category similar to these other writers?”

It’s not fucking arrogant at all if it’s true.
And it’s true.

We all have things that we’re good at. I suck at being a responsible parent. Why? Because it’s not something I do. If I did it? I wouldn’t suck at it. It’s the same with writing. I’m a way better writer than I am a parent because I do it way more often. And if I did it as frequently as a mom or dad parents someone? I’d be a fucking genius at it. Every day, go hard, don’t turn it off because you don’t have a choice. That’s not to say that I won’t have days where I’m a shitty writer, just like parents won’t have days where selling children to gypsies feels like a viable option. (How did that start? Are gypsies really in the habit of buying children? I was always hopeful when I heard that, nothing ever came of it though…) but it’s the showing up, the goddamn I have to leave this bed WHY? ok, fine! and doing so. But I was trying to reconcile aspects of myself I found lacking and trying to plan a creative revolution to unseat them and perhaps chop their heads off and dance in the streets while burning the bastille.

But that would suggest there are aspects of me that need to go. That need to be usurped and deposed and done away with. And that wasn’t sitting well with me. And one day I suddenly thought, how different would this feel if I dropped an R?

What is standing in the way of my Creative Evolution?

Instead of revolting and railing against the old guard, the habits that have grown complacent and out of touch, how can I fold all of these traits into this personal pastry I’m in the middle of baking and turn it into some damn fine all of the things pie?

I don’t deny that there are habits I’ve outgrown. I don’t pretend that there aren’t patterns that need work. But to demand of myself that I sunder them, cast them aside and forge a new, stronger personality from the ashes of my former self seems slightly more brutal than I’m inclined to do.

Now I know that there will be those who would see a revolution as the best possible scenario. And that’s great. But I’ve come to understand that for me, the best perspective is one of evolution. Tearing down the old makes way for the new, but in doing so, many of the lessons that could have been learned are lost. Of course I grasp the benefit of phoenix from the inferno, new growth after a forest fire mentality, but that doesn’t suggest a revolution to me. It’s nature.

And, being that it’s natural for seasons to change, and things to start anew, here I am in my writey place at day one.

What’s standing in the way of my creative evolution?


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