Archive for September, 2016


A disconnect between thought and deed.

September 26, 2016

I don’t actually write anymore. It’s probably been months since I literally wrote anything more involved than a grocery list or quick note to a friend. I feel like that might be a mistake. There is a grand appeal to the quick trip between having a thought, opening the laptop, typing it out and blasting it off into the unknown and intangible world of the internets. Sharing creates a certain validation, it lends a bit of weight and responsibility to that things I write. An accountability. Yes, I can type almost as fast as I can think, and so that adds allure as all of the thoughts can spill forth without hesitation or filter. Mistakes don’t need to be crossed out, dictionaries and thesauri easily accessed. There are many reasons to switch over altogether to the keys. I could probably even argue it makes me a better piano player, all kinds of justification.

Here’s a difference. I have less attachment to things I type, I don’t remember them as clearly. The idea, yes. The content, not always. I wonder if part of the disconnect comes from not being able to actually touch the letters being etched. And the immaterial nature of them. Back in the day, if I wanted to erase or delete something I wrote, steps would have to be taken. Fire, water, burying of ashes, scattering them to the winds…all of the elements were involved! And now, overuse of backspace, the delete button, highlight and space bar. Efficient.

I don’t write incessantly anymore. I still carry writing books and pens around, I have them with me everywhere I go, but most often they’re used to store a list that may or may not be ripped out and discarded. Books filled with half written notes, dedicated to the memories of shopping trips and future plans that I forgotten about in lieu of the latest distraction. And even those are falling by the wayside, as I use my phone more often to jot down notes or text reminders to myself.

Perhaps it’s alright that pen and paper are an archaic habit, falling by the wayside more and more. But sometimes I get nostalgic for the written word to actually be that.


September 26

September 26, 2016

Desperation is palatable in the dark.
Distractions abound by day, creating a separation of the function and the fervor contained within a heart. But this civil tongue is undone by the sight of bared flesh under the light of a maddening moon. It wants only to lash out, to speak of sin and forgetfulness, to etch the memory of hunger repressed, on every square inch.
Tangled somewhere between the inhale and the exhale, the grip and the gasp, the want and the need, limbs clasped and held tight, in a futile attempt to keep the reality of tomorrow at bay.


September 25

September 26, 2016

Cold nights creep into the early light of morning with the promise of fall colour made tangible. Vibrancy rules under grey skies, a reminder that though everything at some point is going to die, that is no reason not to put on a glorious show.

The green recedes like spring in reverse, as blooms shed their petals, floral breadcrumbs to show winter how to get home. Sleepy flies stumble across the threshold by accident, find temporary resurgence by the heat of a barely lit woodstove (it’s just practicing at this point), realize the folly of their actions, then let go.


September 23

September 24, 2016

The rain on the roof reminds me of the morse code my heart dot dash taps to my brain when I see you.
Except the message got lost on the way,
tangled in the memories of how your fingers feel on my skin,
how your kisses reach all the way to my toes,
which stretch up because they know my lips want you closer.

The irregular rhythm of my heart reminds me of how it skips a beat and heads straight for thump on it’s way to pound, a tempo that drives me to distraction, then conveniently loses the keys.


Stepping stones

September 15, 2016

Since I was little, I wanted to be a writer. I would pretend that I had written the books I was reading, dreaming of a day when my books would be in print. I stumbled onto the style I liked best quite early, when my mum inadvertently bought me an anthology of Roald Dahl’s stories when I was 10. I don’t know if she realized that his adult stories were quite a bit overtly darker than his kids stories. I say overtly, because anyone who has read his kids’ stories understands that there is quite a bit of darkness to them. But there was always a separation. The protagonist was easy to love, to sympathize with. The antagonists were comically and absurdly horrid, easy to revile.
His adult stories sometimes lacked this distinction.

*Spoiler alert!*
The woman who kills her husband with a leg of lamb and then serves it to his friends on the police force who are investigating his murder. The woman who knowingly leaves her annoying husband in a horrifying situation before going on vacation. The sweet landlady with a penchant for taxidermy. The adventurous uncle who travels the world, with an appetite for money making schemes surpassed only by his prowess with the ladies.

I saw nothing terribly nefarious about these characters. He made them people I could sympathize with. Perhaps that’s just as much to do with how my brain works, as his storytelling capability. At any rate, I wanted to write stories with lovely twists and turns that resulted in “ooooooh, that’s dark!” or better yet, “Oh my god! I did not see that coming!!!! How very clever!” Neil Gaiman has this same ability, he goes places so familiar and strange it’s like coming home to a place I hadn’t been yet, but always hoped someone might take me to, if that makes any sense. I could do a whole post about him, but this is about beginnings. And Roald Dahl was where I started.

I love his children’s stories. Danny the champion of the world might be my favourite, (young child living simply in a caravan with a mechanic dad??? Foreshadowing of my actual existence, anyone?) though the BFG is definitely up there. I wanted to be Sophie, I wanted to see the dream country. I’ve long desired to have a whole pantry filled with colourful jars that contain every flavour of thing, including dreams, ideally golden phizzwizards.  All of his kids books will forever have a place in my heart.

But the dark twisty delight of his short stories? He took me to places I didn’t think the human psyche could go and still be relatively content they are on the side of the ‘good’. He gave me permission to giggle at the darkness contained in the human mind. That there could be a happy ending of sorts for the ‘bad guy’ who I felt enough of a connection to cheer on. That’s what I wanted to do. I wanted to write stories like that.

I had a box, a red box made of cardboard with little drawers and a lid that lifted up. It contained blank lined paper and pens. The three drawers had three categories of stories. Ones I hadn’t written but copied down because they were short and filled with ideas I wanted to be reminded of, ones I had written that I didn’t think were very good, and stories I’d written that I liked. That I hoped to develop into much better stories for the anthology I would make someday.

Of these, there were stories about a sculptor husband who drove his wife insane with a horrid troll that she insisted was moving though he pretended it wasn’t, a man who had his wife turned into a statue when she told him she was leaving him for another man, a woman who was attacked when the townspeople thought she had come back from the dead, though she’d just been away visiting her sister. For the most part they were pretty badly written. I was in practice mode.
But then I wrote one that I was really proud of. I was convinced it was the best thing I’d ever done. Honestly? I can’t remember for the life of me what it was about. But I knew it was good. Good enough to publish.

I mailed it to Roald Dahl. This was back before the internet, so I had a devil of a time tracking down his address in Buckinghamshire. But I did, and sent it, filled with joy. That was November of 1990. I told my parents while we were driving downtown, I was excited, figuring it wouldn’t be very long before he wrote back, telling me what a charming and clever girl I must be to come up with such a story. I remember how quiet they got. My mum looked at my dad, who was driving, and he looked back. We were on the highway, just about to cross Tillicum road.

“Oh Trish. Roald Dahl died a couple of days ago.”

I don’t remember if I cried. I was 14 and angry about everything, stoic as hell (though according to my dad, I was even stoic as a little kid. He said it used to freak him out how I wouldn’t cry sometimes) and I can well imagine my instinct to withdraw even further into my teen angst bullshit and never let anyone see me hurt.

1990 was a tough year, we’d already lost Jim Henson back in May, my world of creative inspiration gods was getting smaller. Plus I was 14 and everything sucked.

The worst part? I stopped writing stories. I kept writing, I wrote incessantly! Diary entries filled with musings over how futile and lame everything was, how bleak the future and how apathy or rage were the only options. Pretty typically terrible stuff. After I left home, I had my backpack stolen at one point. The loss of clothes was whatever, but all of my diaries from age 12-present day were in there, except for the one I was writing in at the time. I was kind of relieved. I still am. I don’t have the nostalgia for the things I wrote back then, it was fucking terrible. Trust me, I remember.

But it was a damn long time before I came back to anything resembling fiction. Some tiny fragment of my brain wondered at the timing of my grand story and his death. Had he read it? Would it be rude to write to his wife and ask for it back? Did I kill him? (Yes, I know how insane that sounds, have you met people? We’re kinda crazy sometimes)
I also stopped reading fiction regularly for a while. I was pretty busy, what with living on the streets, being a wandering mendicant, journaling epic poetry, gaining perspective and learning who I was without the constraints of societal expectations. I was lucky. For the most part, it was a good experience for me. Sure there were harsh and shite moments, some lessons harder and more painful than others, but I survived mostly intact and have no regrets.

Except one. That I let fear of writing feel louder than the stories that wanted to be told.

I stopped delving into the dark of my own imagination and decided I needed to know how it looked for real, in order to be able to honestly write about it. A lot of Dahl’s experiences in the war changed him. I didn’t want to go to war, but I got caught up in this need to suffer to understand how to be a better artist. It wasn’t necessary and I’m very fortunate it never went altogether sideways on me.
It feels right that I’d come back around to paying homage to my first favourite short story writer on the anniversary of his 100th birthday by submitting a story for publication. Which, coincidentally, has references to Charlie and the Chocolate factory in it. I had no idea it was his birthday when I was writing the story, I only discovered that fact after I’d finished it.

The first story of many I hope to write, to share, and hopefully someday? To make someone feel the way he made me feel.

As though there is magic everywhere, because there is.

Thanks Roald Dahl. For all of it.


September 12

September 12, 2016

There was frost this morning. The sun shines, but I feel like it’s scared too. To reassure everyone, I decided to make oatmeal for breakfast, but it’s been so long that I did it wrong and I don’t know if the autumnal gods will be appeased by my attempt. One can only hope because I feel like the gods of autumn aren’t as cheerful as the gods of spring. But I might be wrong in that. I know that there is a part of me that delights in the fall. In the way everything changes so damn quickly. The hedonist in me digs it, from an instant gratification perspective.
I dreamed last night that it snowed. I was somewhere between here and there, speculating with someone as to the difficulty of continuing my journey. I commiserated with them, agreeing, “yes, you’re almost certainly right, I likely am trapped for the time being. It would do me well to make the best of it.” But in my head was already scheming as to when things would open up and I’d begin to move forward again.

On some level, that’s part of me, panicking that I’m buying wood instead of travel insurance and heading down the coast to California!!! But she’ll always do that. We all have aspects that come into their strengths at different times, in different places. I just happen to have one that shows up whenever I make a moderately major decision to tell me I’m wrong. Queen wrong of the bastard fucking wrong people.
But the reality is, her reaction does not suggest I’ve made the wrong decision. Only that I’ve made one. If I was writing this using the wifi of a krispy kreme somewhere south of Redmond (I hear there is one in Issaquah….), I’m sure she’d be hooting and hollering about the importance of putting down roots and not being afraid to stay in one place long enough to grow some food or spend the winter being creative and still, while paying down some of the debt we’ve incurred over the last while. Because road trips aren’t really conducive to that.

It does feel a bit like sanity, what’s going on right now. For some reason, I’m not sure what changed, I woke up feeling really optimistic this morning. Sure there is frost on the ground, but that just means that the world is still turning. If one is going to stay still for a time, while spinning through space at an insanely quick pace, I feel fortunate that I’ve found a really good place to do that.
So I’ll do that.


September 10

September 10, 2016

Switching perspective from ‘the fear is what stops me’ to ‘the fear is what drives me’ seems difficult at first glance. But it’s just a matter of wording.

‘I’m afraid I can’t so I won’t try’, becomes ‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to, so I’d better’.

I’ve never really been driven, content to go along for the ride, see where I ended up. Most of the time, I’ve been really fortunate. But a passive role in my own existence doesn’t satisfy the way it used to. I don’t know that it matters when it happens, but today seems reasonable.


September 9

September 9, 2016

Yesterday, I posted nothing here. For the last week or so, I’ve been doing a drabble a day. 100 words. If for no other reason than to keep the homefires burning. Keep the words from drying up altogether. A use it or lose it mentality.

I fight so much with the notion that the constant flow dilutes the quality so last night I took a break. It was partly unintentional, I passed out at a relatively early hour, and partly because I wanted to see if a day off gave me more inspiration. Turns out nope. So I’ll just keep writing.


September 7

September 7, 2016

If the glow that comes to me
from a star already dead,
brightens my world,
gives me hope that wishes might come true
How does that reflect on the perspective of finality?

Stories and songs,
varied and similar,
carried and passed along,
like distant lights from time travelers carrying treasure maps of genetic instruction,
meant to reassure me
that I am intrinsic.

One day, this form will be finished,
but nothing ever really leaves.
These memories we carry,
these points of light that connect,
these moments when there is no thought of before or after,
this is when we shine.


September 6

September 6, 2016

Delighted suddenly, with the surprise that I’m not worried about what’s coming up for me. I’ve been telling myself I should be concerned, that the trajectory of my life is heading in an unanticipated direction but I feel like I’ve got no reason to be scared. When did being afraid change from a thrill, a shriek, a giggle infused reminder of the way blood feels when it pounds, to a status quo and a way to stop myself from living fully. Like most traditions, I don’t know when this one started but I’m feeling like it’s time to let go.


September 5

September 5, 2016

I sip red wine and think of dead French poets. Names and dates far removed, though their voices whisper to me with clarity.
Are they here with me?
Or I with them?

This is the power of a moment captured. When shared, it dissolves the linear limitations of time and encompasses both worlds.

Pen on paper, words set free.

Where will it reach?
Who will it touch?
How will it be received?

There is a challenge and a blessing to creating something new, something carefully crafted, and loved enough to be let go.

I’m learning to be brave like this.


September 4

September 4, 2016

I’m still in the mode of refusing to put on pants, allowing a sense of righteousness to fuel my recalcitrant tendencies, feeling moderately secure in the knowledge that it’s still legitimately summer until September 21. The back burner stress that is a result of not enough cords in the woodshed will keep me warm, a low level hum that resonates a lack of felled trees in my fall. When visiting friends, I experience what must be known as ‘wood envy’, aka a lack of bucking, upon glimpsing satisfyingly stacked and terrifically tetris’d layers of insurance against the winter to come.


Sept 3

September 4, 2016

Sultry September innocence, her sunshine bright sky and evening temperatures that slide slowly down the thermostat, with a light that isn’t dimmed by the whisper of longer nights ahead. Bare legs by day, bundle up and snuggle in the dark, the queen of keep your feet and your powder dry, there will be fires to light soon. She is socks and shoes, reluctantly, and hooded shirts with sleeves pushed up. She is a healthy moderation, a happy medium, a harvest moon month that could go either way, weather-wise. Sandwiched between dog days and hallowe’en, September is definitively, unapologetically autumnal.


September 2; an autumn drabble

September 2, 2016

I’ve spent a summer not seeing the trees for the forest. All sorts of green, capitalizing on being the colour of camouflage and hiding in plain sight.
I’ve passed moments in grass so tall, it seemed reasonable it tickled the sky in much the same way it did my legs when I jumped up and ran for it, dodging the unintentional sabotage of twisted ankle gopher hole reality.
I’ve slid contentedly into the delusion that it will stay thus, regardless of how many times I’ve witnessed these trees and mountains succumb to winter.

Dying leaves remind me this is folly.


September 1; a drabble

September 1, 2016

The approach of rain watched through spotted and cracked glass, I consider the cloud ferried darkness ahead. My preferential tendency for cheerful reclusive introversions revels in this time of year. While school playgrounds prepare themselves for the quiet of summer to become the cacophony of fall, I consider the colours of crisp air and the delight of no longer needing an excuse to stay in.  I imagine the crackle of long night firelight musings, the soft promise of snow under stars too distant to share warmth, but bright enough to inspire a kind of poetry that carries it’s own music.

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