Archive for February, 2018


When sadness strikes

February 27, 2018

I’ve been busy. Very busy. Working seven days a week (but really really not complaining, grateful for the hours) and falling into a bath at the end of the day and bed shortly after that busy.
Today is a rare day. I don’t have to be anywhere in particular, though there are things that need doing (bring in wood, dig out van, path to propane tank, laundry, spend time with dog and cat friends, write write write). I slept in a bit but fired out of bed, made tea and breakfast, fired up the stove, got dressed and ready to conquer. And then realized it had been a minute since I’d just let myself feel stuff. So that’s what I’m doing.

I mean, of course I feel stuff over the course of a day, even a busy one. But those moments are fleeting and get pushed aside to make room for the pressing needs of the day. As grateful as I am for the way working so much helps pay for things and gives me stuff to do, it also gives me permission to avoid focusing on things too.

My friend John died recently. Before Christmas. I’ve had friends go, but for some reason this one is really really hard. Maybe it’s just the years of hurt I’ve been carrying around, finally coming close enough to the surface to force me into feeling something. Maybe it’s because he was such a consistent fixture in a world of summers filled with music and magic, friendship and family and no one will ever call me Trishly Delishly the way he did, ever again. No one will exasperate me and make me laugh and denounce me for insisting he eat this fucking sandwich and drink this goddamn smoothie and then thank me as angrily and affectionately as he would. It didn’t matter how much time had gone by between visits, our connection was such that I’m devastated to know there won’t be another. He could be a stubborn fucking asshole and he was one of my dearest friends.

I’ve not even really connected with his family beyond a tear soaked voicemail that was probably incoherent at best. It’s one of those scenarios where, if you don’t face it, it might not be true. And besides, I’ve been busy. So busy. Life moves on, he’d understand. He might even hate that I’m writing this about him.
That’s not to say that I didn’t spend any free time I had over christmas ugly crying in front of my fire, but those were brief moments that I would tuck away so that I could drag them out later and say, ‘see? I’m mourning and dealing and it’s okay that I’m not calling and connecting because they’ve got enough to think about and life moves on, just keeps going, and suddenly it’s february and now it’s almost march and look at all the things you have to distract yourself… and… and…’

And today I have a day where I don’t have to be anywhere. So I’ve decided to be as here as much as possible. Doing little things for myself that remind myself I’m still here, I’m still worthy of the good efforts, the sane habits.

I’m tired of starting new 30 day fitness challenges and falling down after day three and so quitting. Instead, I do as many pushups as I can when I think about it and have a moment. On the floor, against a wall, wherever. Or have a five minute dance party between laundry loads. Or go swimming for 15 minutes before work. Or tango dancing after.
I’m exhausted from all of the emails I get from various ‘so you wanna be a writer, here are prompts for you’ entities. So I’ve unsubscribed from the majority and instead will just write when I have a minute. In a book, on my laptop, on this blog or the secret one that no one knows about (because it’s filled with dirty dirty stories) or a napkin or a notepad in a room that I’m cleaning or wherever.
And I’m sad from losing people I love and from investing my time in caring about people who are too scared to care back and from watching people I love killing themselves slowly in real time while we all watch and dance around it and pretend it’s not happening because it would be impolite to say Janice, I’m scared that you’re going to drink yourself to death and after you’re gone I won’t be surprised like I wasn’t surprised when I heard that Paul died because I watched him flail all summer and I never said a word because it would be impolite to care enough about someone to say, What the fuck are you doing? Because you know that their response will be, I’m okay. I’m fine. I’m allowed to do what I want. Mind your own fucking business. I didn’t ask you to care about me.

Is it cowardly of me to say things like this from behind a screen instead of to your face? Maybe. But I don’t think you hear it when I say it. And it breaks me that you don’t see the person I do. The one who deserves to have friends who care enough about them to say, What the fuck are you doing?
So, my other option is apathy. To let go completely of any care I might have for your health and well being. If that’s really what you want, okay. I don’t believe it is, but if you insist, it’s your life, to live as you choose.

Just like this is mine. And today I’m choosing to be sad, because I miss my friend.


Scary things – a drabble hat trick

February 20, 2018

“What’s the worst that could happen? Seriously.”
“I could live a comfortable and fulfilling life.”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I. I think I’m addicted to the struggle. It’s not worth it if I don’t have to work hard for it.”
“What if you’re working hard to keep from having it? So trapped within the narrative that you don’t deserve it that you expend all this energy to keep it at an arm’s length? What if it’s not that hard, but you putting up obstacles make it seem so?”
“Telling myself I deserve happiness isn’t the same as believing it.”


“There’s been a mixup. You’re  not supposed to be here, living this life, at this moment. We apologize, you must be perfectly miserable.”
“I’m not sure what you’re on about, but I don’t see the issue. I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I’m perfectly content.”
“Erm, according to my records, no, you are not.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible, as I’m here, living this life and it’s good enough for me.”
“Yes, that’s exactly the issue. You don’t see. The worst part? You’ve blinded yourself. Time to wake up. You’ve been asleep far too long.”


Her sewing skills weren’t terribly impressive, but they were perfunctory enough for what she needed.
Clearing a space on the table, she set down everything she needed. With a very sharp and very clean knife, she sliced a hole in her chest, making a slit just wide enough for her fingers. Gently probing inside, she pulled out her heart, and set it in a pie plate.
She wrapped it carefully in velvety soft red fabric, creating a pocket which she sewed closed and reinserted the organ into her chest.

Now her heart could break without a single piece being lost.



Love affairs – a trifecta of drabbles

February 20, 2018

His eyes were sad and dreamed of a poetry he thought lost to him.
He told himself that he’d searched for it in the familiar curves of his wife’s body, that she hid from him, leaving him no choice but to look elsewhere.

He spotted it in the golden eyes of a girl with a whiskey smile that promised the kind of forgetting he craved. Her eyebrow arched very pointedly at his ring finger.

“Touch her the way you would me.”

He recalled the words she’d whispered under the music as he reached for his wife in their darkened bed.


“This isn’t forever.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Nothing lasts forever.”
“Do you think you’ll die?”
“Of course I’ll die, everyone dies.”
“I didn’t ask if you’ll die, I asked if you think you’ll die. There is a difference.”
“I see. Well, to be honest it’s easy to think of other people dying, they do it all the time. But I rarely do, so perhaps on some level I’m not convinced I will.
“So how can you say you know this isn’t forever if you don’t think you’ll die?”
“Because nothing lasts forever, and darlin, this is most certainly not nothing.”

He’d spent his lifetime meticulously pasting photographs into albums, labelling the heavy dark green paper with dates written in the special silver inked pen he kept in its own small drawer in the roll top desk.
Every page carried the weight of years, incrementally, giving the passage of time a tangible heft, as though it were something he could jingle in his pocket as he walked. He often wandered from past to present, his memory rich with timeless moments.

Though none of those came close to the way he felt, even now, when she smiled at him, in that way.


Day 6. Clarity.

February 9, 2018

It’s not about what’s happening right now. I mean, it is. It always is. But not always. Does that make sense?

Writing is the thing that keeps me sane. If I’m doing it on a regular basis, all other aspects of my life seems to make sense. I imagine other people have that with other things, but honestly I’m not sure because (here’s that caveat again), I can only, truly, honestly, speak for me and my world.

But here’s the thing. When I write about something heartfelt, really and truly heartfelt, you have to imagine that it’s like spy tech. As in, it’s existed for some time now, it’s not new. Savvy?

This may or may not be true, I don’t know, I’m not a spy. (Though if I were, I would probably insist that I wasn’t because that’s how spies work.) However, it is my belief that when some new awesome tech becomes available for the every day human, whether it be fingerprint recognition scanning devices (my fucking phone has one! I’ve not used it) or chip technology or hoverboards or cars that drive themselves or sentient robots that make us coffee and remind us we have a dentist appointment (I, for one, welcome our new robot overlords), I have to imagine that tech has become available because the secret actual-in-charge of the world guys have already had it for at least 10 if not 20 years.

That was a convoluted way of saying, if you’re reading something on my blog that is intense and heartfelt and seems raw and painful, chances are I’ve been dealing and processing it for some time and have only now reached a point where I can express how I feel about it coherently and with clarity.
I mention it because I’ve had more than a couple of folks express concern that I might be going through something, as a result of recent posts I’ve made. When something happens, if it’s something that is powerful enough that I need to take a couple of steps back, that will most likely happen on paper.
I will bleed ink from every pore in an attempt to carve sense out of whatever might be happening for me, because that’s how my brain rids itself of infection. It’s like when a cut hasn’t been cleaned properly, the best thing to do is to open it up and let it flow freely until the poison is gone and there is only healthy red blood welling to the surface.

And then, once I’ve gained some perspective, I’ll probably share it here, if only to be completely candid and accountable about my evolution in real time. And not just for those who might be curious about what’s going on for me, but for myself. Having a chronicle of one’s existence is an incredible resource. I’m consistently delighted by the forward motion of my perspective most days.
Now, that’s not to say that I’m not well enamoured of the friends that check in, and please don’t ever stop doing so because I really do appreciate it but know that if you’re reading it here, it’s doubly good because a) it means I’m writing and b) it means that I’ve processed it enough to get to a good enough place to have made peace with whatever might have needed dealing with.



Day five. This is where it starts to fall apart

February 8, 2018

This is the place where it starts to fall apart,
just far enough from the starting line to have engaged the heart,
And so obviously fear rushes in
To remind me that I never finish things that I begin
A schedule of stretching, writing, habits beneficial
The notion I can’t do it just fucking silly, prejudicial
Content doesn’t matter, more the act of pushing through
To ignore the fear and say, “I know I can, and so I do.”

Day five was supposed to be about last words. If you only had a week to live, what would you want to share with the world? Or whatever. Talking about death tends to make me uncomfortable but not in the way one might think. I’m happy to speak of the inevitability of it, but I hesitate to expound on the speculation. Perhaps it’s superstition, or an inherent belief that I invite those things I focus on, but it feels arrogant to pretend I would know what I would say, given a very real and temporal best before date.

The reality is, this kind of thing makes me think of my dad, makes me think of anyone who was ever handed a “you’re probably going to be dead by this point” endgame scenario. I wonder if there is a percentage in there who feels relief at the directness of that. The rest of us are wandering around, knowing somewhere in the subcutaneous layer of our being, that it could end at any moment, but there’s no way to know for sure when that moment is. Or how.
I’ve often said (and will continue to say) that I’m going to live to be 111 and on my eleventy-first birthday I will put on the ring and disappear from the shire forever, aka walk into the ocean. I feel like that’s a nice long time to experience some stuff, and a nice way to finish things off. Head back to the sea, the way the whales did so freakin long ago.
That’s my way of pretending I have any sort of control over what happens to me. Of course there are things I can do within my own sphere of influence to mitigate risk of bailing in advance of that but the reality is, anything can happen.

I think a better question than what would I say might be what would I do? There is much talk of bucket lists, of all the things one might want to do/see/experience before the final curtain call. I have a list that I made 12 years ago, on New Years Day 2006. I was laid up on a sofa with a really badly twisted ankle having missed a good portion of the new year because of hangover and injury, and was terrified that there were so many other things I was missing out on. So I made an extensive list.
I revisited it tonight.
Most of the things I’ve accomplished on the list didn’t come about because of my focus on checking them off, making sure that I did all the things like I was in some existential scavenger hunt. Most of it was incidental, incremental, showing up in those moments when I forgot to focus on all the things I needed to do to feel like I was succeeding, and just living my life.

And there are many things on the list that I’ve outgrown, because that happens. The things I desired when I was younger have evolved, become refined. I guess the most important part has to be, if I did have a limited time left (I do, albeit 70 years or so) is there anything on that list I would regret not having done? And that doesn’t suggest that there isn’t a ton of stuff I want to do/try/see/eat/climb/laugh with, but I’m lucky enough to say that the answer is no.
So maybe that would be the thing I’d say, the thing I’d want to share. Simple, but pretty goddamn accurate.

I’m good, thanks.


Day 4. A letter to the person involved in my last heartbreak.

February 7, 2018

Dear me, well done. Brava!!

You’ve gone and had your heart broken one more time. How delightful this will feel once you’ve stopped lamenting how much it sucks. I know, right now it sucks, but it will get better. You’re intelligent enough to know that, thank fuck.

Thank fuck and all the other deities whose names are expletives that get screamed to the heavens, cried into pillows or whispered in the dark while having tribute offered in the form of fleshly delights that we do have enough of a brain to understand that all this heartbreak is the means to an end that will ultimately end well if we keep learning from it.

Yes, we could go with the Leonard Cohen perspective of cracks are how the light gets in, but honey, there’s plenty of light inside already. That’s not the issue. The issue is the same with us that it’s always been. Fear. Not of success, that’s bullshit and you know it. Nah, try the being afraid of sucking at something. In the bad way.

You’ve tested the waters a few times, considered that intimate relationships might not be so bad, until the feels showed up and then you ran, so so scared of the way a heart seems to so easily crack open and feel hunger once it’s tasted affection. And every time it cracked, it hurt so much that you swore to never do it again.

Remember that time you decided you wanted to learn to do a chinup? And started with pushups because you couldn’t do one of those either? And it sucked and it hurt but you kept doing it, one or two more every day and now we can do 10 pushups (so what if it’s from our knees! It’s still good! Boobs are heavy, fuck!)
It’s the same with love. It gets easier every time. Going slow is not a bad idea. You don’t build a fire with logs, you cut up some kindling and patiently let it catch, encourage it, give it air.
How are you going to learn to do a chinup from a dead hang when you can’t even support your body weight (boobs and all) while you’re lying down? Baby steps, girl.
And connection doesn’t have to be synonymous with shackle. Intimacy doesn’t have to suggest monogamy. Love doesn’t have to look the same to you as it does to anyone else.

So why am I writing this letter to me, instead of to the one who broke my heart? Because I am the one responsible for my heart breaking. Every single time it’s happened, I was the constant. I was the only factor present during each instance, ergo, I am the one who deserves this letter. 

I take full responsibility for the reality that sharing my heart does not allow me to have any expectations of the one(s) I choose to share it with. I’ve often said, what’s the point of having a heart if you don’t open it wide enough to break sometimes. But perhaps by exercising the muscle, it gets to a point where it doesn’t break anymore because it’s not so fragile, and strong enough to support itself, boobs and all.


Day 3. Make up a word.. Absilet

February 6, 2018


An affirmation, joyfully so, that things are just as they seem. No so constrained as to be absolute, it allows for the possibility that anything can and likely will change at any moment, making room for breathing space, evolution, growth.

I did not make up this word, but technically the person who made up this word also did not make up this word. We were, however, in accordance that it should be a word and so it has found it’s way into at least my lexicon, and perhaps his, once he remembers making it up.
Is there a possibility the definition of the word will change upon receiving further input from other influences?





Day two. Write me one sentence to tell me who you really are.

February 4, 2018

Am I so very simple
to be encapsulated thus,
To be summed up in one sentence
Without any kind of fuss
And what should be the topic
The tone, the bent, the play
The most accurate direction
To most convincingly portray
The me who is the most me
Beyond the flesh and bone
To the soul that’s carried round
In the skin it calls a home
A symphony of stardust
Atom based anatomy
From the furthest inside out
Vibrating at a frequency
That is congruent with the warp
And weft of poetry
As at home on the land as a dreamer in the sea
But something more than parts of some
Star parts that might have drifted
There is a well of consciousness
In this body I’ve been gifted
That likes to think of things astounding
Things that could amuse
That makes decisions based upon the hope
I don’t need to put on shoes
And brain is sometimes silly
Filled with wit and calculation
Knowing that a sentence end
Requires punctuation
And so if I continue thus
Then I should win the day
Using rhyming couplets
To be clever, never say
The thing I know you’re waiting for
Though I deflect with rhyme
Now and then, I’m this or that
But a writer all the time.


Day one. A letter to myself three years ago.

February 2, 2018
The TL;DR version? Chill the fuck out girl, it’s gonna get so good, even if it’s not for the reasons you think.
We were purposeless, devoid of trust and with a pretty tenuous hold on sanity. We had lost something that will never come back. That’s going to get easier to handle, as long as you have no illusions about that.
Life isn’t one of those tourist places where someone reminds you to take all your belongings with your upon exiting the ride. You don’t have to keep everything you came with, or even the things you picked up along the way (that includes relationships) but that doesn’t make it any more or less a ride.
I see now how you’d forgotten how to enjoy yourself a bit. I don’t blame you. 40 was looming and you’d still not done the thing. I’m sure by your reckoning I’ve still not done the thing, but honey, chill the fuck out. You’re still so locked into the very prevalent reality of when I have… then I will… Even when you think it’s not so? It’s so.
I’m not going to say anything to deter you from going to school though it will result in some trauma and you will not end up as a mechanic making large cash and surfing every year. It will result in a sense of accomplishment that comes from finishing something. I doesn’t sound huge, but it is. That eye on the prize mantra you’re going to inhale and exhale all day long to get through the bullshit is totally appropriate, but don’t get hung up on what you think the prize is.
And you know it already, but once you leave Powell River, you won’t be going back any time soon. A sanctuary at the end of the road is just a fancy way of describing a place to hide.
You’ve not learned to push yourself yet, and sometimes what feels like going backward is a actually forward movement. Ymir is the most home you’ve ever known and the girl going back there is not the one who left. You’ve proved you’re not an alcoholic and you’ll continue to discover how little your creativity is dependent on outside influences. It’s here. It’s always been. It doesn’t matter the geography, the view, the chair (though we need a better chair), the prompt, too much time, too little. Staying frustrated because of a perceived lack of ability is pointless.
I’m going to publish a book soon. I applied for a grant, which might seem arrogant since I’ve not written the book yet, but sometimes a kick in the pants and accountability is what’s needed. I know you’ll consider a published book to be the thing, the arrival point, but it’s just part of the ride.
I know how unpalatable it is for you to say it out loud, but I’m a writer. I take full responsibility for everything that goes with admitting that. You’re not ready to. That’s okay. I am.
%d bloggers like this: