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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?





Deep thoughts x 307

October 11, 2017

There are places I don’t go anymore.

When I was younger, I sought out the dark. It was sticky and dreadful, and I often wondered if what I was doing was sane. It wasn’t. But such lessons must be learned, and can’t be taught.

I meandered purposefully on paths winding and overgrown, seeking shadows that still held secrets forgotten by all but those singleminded and righteous few still dedicated to actual truth. I believed this truth required I honestly face things broader, grander, monstrous and challenging. That it demanded that I bleed and suffer, because truth can be brutal, and there is beauty in that brutality. I chased after pain, believing the stories that scars told were sincere because they proved themselves to last even after the memories had faded. I placed myself into situations that I thought showed my bravery, because it takes courage to be vulnerable.

But this was folly.

There is no vulnerability in offering one’s self up for sacrifice in the names of deities long dead, only foolishness. I prayed to the icons of those perspectives which were not my own. This was no way to learn the truth of myself, the actuality of who I am, and how I best fit into the world. Because I do, there is no other explanation for my existence that makes sense unless based upon that foundation.   

I still hunt for truth, make offerings on the altar of reason and rationality by learning from mistakes I’ve made in the past, and will continue making until I figure out how to evolve. But I don’t sacrifice my sanity for such things anymore.

More important than leaving the darkness behind for light is learning to live in peaceful co-existence between the two. Because too much light will blind just as readily as darkness will inhibit clear vision.


The dinner party

August 10, 2017

My date was a bore. He came across as charismatic and wild but within the hour established himself as an exasperating fool. He drank too much and fawned over the other diner’s wives, his roving eyes making mine roll. He foolishly assumed that because I had come here with him, I was a sure thing. Now and then he glanced over, raking his eyes over my form, wrapped in an aubergine dress that could make a tomato blush, all rounded hips and bourgeoning cleavage. I could tell that he wanted to put his hands on me, perhaps was even now growing hard under the table imagining my lips on him. He winked at me lasciviously and turned to the woman next to him. She tittered at something he said, at least someone here found his tired wit amusing.

I sighed and wondered how long I would put up with the boredom before I made my excuses and left. Wishing I had a friend in town who I could emergency code for an out. But that was the point of being here tonight. I was new and didn’t know anyone yet. I had hoped that his easy charm, how had I ever been taken in by it, suggested that he was within a social circle of interesting individuals. I could see now, that he was the eccentric they invited for something fresh. A lacklustre crowd of old money and stagnant tradition, there was little excitement for me to have here. At least the wine was good.

Raising my glass to my dark red lips, I felt the hairs on the back of my exposed neck react to a sudden shift in the air. As though the room grew warmer and cooler at the same time. Glancing down the table, I saw a young man and woman had entered. The host, a genteel sort, if a little stuffy, stood and called down the table.

“Alain.” The young man nodded to him, steel blue eyes in a handsome face, his hand on the lower back of the woman next to him, her eyes cast down. “Dinner started at 7. I’m sure there is a good reason for you to show up so late.” I wondered how many people besides me saw the spark in those eyes, the defiance that anyone should demand an explanation from him.

Before he could speak though, the host’s wife, a pleasant woman who has seen the better side of life for a long time, lifted herself gracefully and went to greet her son and his companion. She waved her hand idly toward the head of the table and beamed at her offspring.

“Now Jean, does it matter if he is a few minutes late. What matters is that he is here now, with us. And you’ve brought the lovely Elise with you.” At the sound of her name, Elise looked up, directly into the blue eyes of the hostess. The same blue as her son, but tempered by kindness and time.

Elise was absolutely stunning, green eyes to match the emerald dress she wore. Her auburn hair, just a shade more natural than mine, twisted up on top of her head, not a loose hair to be found. Her eyes sparkled to rival the necklace that rested between her gently rounded breasts as she greeted Alain’s mama.

“Madame, it is a pleasure to see you again.” Her voice was like crystal, clear and delicate, with an unexpected strength to it. This was no simpering church mouse, much as her stance of hands clasped and shoulders tucked, suggested.

I finished the sip of my wine, realizing I had been holding the glass still, through this entire exchange. It would seem as though my evening had the potential to be quite interesting, indeed.


At a crossroads

August 9, 2017

She sat on the railing of the bridge, the warmth of the sun drenched plank juxtaposed with the cool air rising from the river that drifted below, bare legs stretched out, ankles pivoting in circles as she waited. Tilting her head to the side, unsure if the noise she’d just heard was the sound of a fish jumping, she spun so that she was straddling the railing and smiled at the man suddenly standing there. He gave her a look, one eyebrow raised with a smirk.
“I wasn’t going to push you.” She saw his smirk, and raised him some incredulity, along with an eyebrow of her own.
“No, you never push, do you? I’m sure that if I had fallen in the river, perhaps startled by someone sneaking up on me, you’d bust out the old free will argument? After all, I chose to sit on the railing, perhaps out of some unconscious desire to self-sabotage? Put myself in harm’s way?”
“You said it, not me.” Pulling a pair of sunglasses from the pocket of his shorts, he grinned and climbed up next to her, swinging a leg over so that their knees were almost touching…but not quite. He saw her glance and moved back an imperceptible distance. She rolled her eyes.
“For someone as ancient as you are, you can be frustratingly childish. Do you ever get tired of the games?”

“Never.” He hadn’t moved and yet somehow she heard his voice directly in her ear, as though he’d leaned in and whispered. She shivered involuntarily and tried not to smile. “It’s not so much the game I like, it’s the reaction. For example, when I do things like this..”
He dropped his sunglasses to the bridge of his nose and looked at her intently for a moment. She struggled to maintain composure in these moments when he let her see past the facade. If he saw her struggle, he didn’t mention it, but leaned back, somehow finding enough room on the 2×8 railing for both of his elbows behind him, grinning.
“Oh my girl. You could be so deliciously wicked if you would just let yourself, the way you did that night in Paris..remember that?”
“Of course, it was midnight, a tuesday. I was drunk and asked you for a light. On the corner of Rue des Archives and Franc Bourg…” She grinned as his jaw dropped. “I’m kidding! How could I forget that bar on Oberkampf?”
“I bet that young man hasn’t forgotten.” He laughed as she ducked her head, unsuccessfully hiding the smile. “I was so pleased with your progress. Yet you turned your back on all of it. You could be as bright as a morning star in the city of light and instead, you’re here…which,” he gestured to their surroundings, “is clever, by the way. Everyone always thinks of a cross roads as being a place defined by blacktop when the reality is so much simpler.”
“And so we come to it. The reason for your visit.” He sat up, the motion pushing his knees against hers, but did not move back this time.
“The reason for my visit? You think I have time for social niceties like visits? Darling, you summoned me. It must be something absolutely fabulous for pride to take a back seat like that. Unless you’ve changed your mind? I know you miss Paris. I bet sometimes, you even miss me….”

“You won’t rope me in with nostalgia. Exes are exes for a reason. Because it didn’t work out. And darling, we didn’t work out. I know you hate to lose, but there are creatures much more adaptable to your proclivities than I. I couldn’t keep up. I didn’t want to. I thought it was what I wanted, how terrible and wonderful of you to give me exactly what I thought I wanted, so that I’d be better equipped to discern when it actually showed up.”

“Let me guess, it showed up.” She nodded with a small smile.

“There’s this house…”

“And you want me to, what, make it so you win the lottery? Convince the owner to fall for you and then die, leaving you the property? Ghost write a best selling bodice ripper like those ones you used to devour and then pretend to have disdain for so you can make a ton of money?”

“I’d like you to do nothing.”

He narrowed his eyes and looked away, trying to work out the angle she was playing.

“You summoned me here, to the crossroads, to ask me to do…nothing. Have I got that right?” She nodded again.


“Okay, consider my interest piqued. Explain, little girl, before I forget myself and look inside your skull for the answers I seek.” He waggled his eyebrows dramatically. “Unless you’re into that of course…”
She rolled her eyes once more. He knew exactly what she was into.

“Be serious for a second and I’ll explain. I’ve wanted this house for a long time, but it was mostly intangible. I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to settle in one place. But I kept coming back, no matter how far I went. It’s not even that I don’t still want to go places, surf warm ocean, tango in Paris, watch the sunrise from as many different horizons as I can manage. But travellers need a base camp. It’s time. And so I need you to step back, I need to know that I can pull this off on my own. It would be so easy for you to do that thing you do but sometimes it’s important to earn it.”
This time he rolled his eyes.

“You’re going to buy a house without any help? I find that hard to believe.”

“Oh, I’ll need help. Lots. In the form of roommates and work trades and renters and probably even my mum.”
“Oh, how is your mum? Still going to church? Does she know about…” He pointed frantically between the two of them, grinning like a loon.

“You remind me of Rik Mayall in Drop dead Fred when you do that, you buffoon. And no, she doesn’t. Unless this somehow ends up on my blog, I’m really not planning to tell anyone about..” She used the same back and forth gesture. “Seriously though.” She arched an eyebrow. He smiled.

“I hear you, cherie. I won’t interfere.”

“Thanks for that. I know how sentimental you can be.”

He lifted his sunglasses onto his head, so that she could see the mirth in his eyes.
“Me? Sentimental? Well, I do have some good memories. Like that time on the canal, with the champagne? Remember when you..” He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, then laughed uproariously at the blush spreading across her face. “I see that you do. You know, this is sort of like a canal. If only we had some champagne.”

“How about a tea party instead? You’re officially invited to my housewarming.”

“For a house you haven’t bought yet. Charming.”

“Exactly, the key word being yet.”

“You are determined, aren’t you?”

“I am. Everything is going to work out just fine.”


“I don’t know. It’s a mystery.”

“That’s my girl.”


A familiar rabbit hole

July 24, 2017

How is a raven like a writing desk?

They carry ideas through time.

These tools that allow me to communicate my thoughts, my intentions, they don’t have any say in what I speak of. But they are intrinsic.
Ravens carry information generationally, they pass it down, they never forget. They are sinister elephants with wings. They find their way home, every time. Just like the words. As far as I think they’ve gone, as often as I think they’ve left me for good, they always find their way back. They are as integral as the tools I need to convey them. Words, like ravens have a passerine nature. They perch at the edge of my thoughts, waiting for their moment.

I think about the man who needed stories, he wasn’t successful to the extent he thought himself capable. He wanted the recognition, the fame, the validation that he was a great writer. He traded a bezoar for a kidnapped muse. Calliope. He imprisoned her, thinking her presence would allow the words to come. He was right. They came, and so did the adulation, the glory. It was hollow, but he didn’t care. Something is better than nothing, right?


Eventually, her former lover, a powerful sort of sandman, found his way to where she was and helped her get free. The author, still locked into his bullshit entitlement mindset said, “but what about my stories?” And Lord Shaper, being well versed in the places that stories come from said, “You want stories? Fine. Have them. Have them all.”

With that his mind started to flood with ideas, it was all he could do to write them down fast enough. And they kept coming. More and more and more. His pen ran out of ink, his pencil worn down the nub, every scrap of paper covered, recovered. Stories written on top of epics, written across poetry, scribbled alongside novels. When paper ran out, the walls became parchment. When the ink ran out, blood. When the blood ran out…

How appropriate. To bleed for his art.

Is a story really mine? Does it already exist and I merely act as a vessel to carry it so that it can be raised in a toast and drank to satiate a desire for knowledge? Stories are literal, allegorical, lessons, imaginings. They prove the human mind is capable of so much. There are many things you can do to me that might be sensual or painful or awe inspiring or sadistic.

I can do worse, or better, to myself without lifting a finger. My own mind will create realities out of nothing and build them up to a tale of epic proportions. I’ve created that reality in my head. It now exists somewhere. Does that make it real? Don’t mistake me, I’m not delusional in that sense of the word. There are other places I am delusional but that goes down a merry garden path of how easy I find it to lie to myself, regardless of how difficult it is to lie to others. That’s not where I’m going today.

How is a raven like a writing desk?

The words aren’t important. The thing that they convey is. However, that said, I’m a fierce legolept. I love words. I love the way they look, the way they feel rolling off my tongue, from the tips of my fingers. I often speak them as I’m writing them. I type because it’s the only way I can keep up with my thoughts. My fingers and my mind have a mutually beneficial arrangement. My brain will produce thoughts if my hands will act as the conduit to express them. I try to keep both limber, dextrous.

The words aren’t important, the ideas transcend them. Still, I take such comfort in them. I get riled when they are disrespected. When they are shortened, hacked up, altered for the sake of laziness or lack of space. I feel like words deserve space in a world increasingly concerned with character count. I despair a little bit when I see what a short fuse culture we’ve become. A society of lit pop purveyors, so to speak. That’s not to say there is never depth in a short message, never the opportunity for a grand explosion from a short fuse but I find the demand for the quick distraction disheartening at times, though that might have just as much to do with my seeming inability to write a short sentence as anything else.

It can be difficult to embrace the evolution of language, as with any kind of change there is an emotional tumult to be considered. And perhaps I should be less concerned with how other people are using words and just focus on my own damn self.


The words; an epiphany

July 23, 2017

They are exquisite, diaphanous, dreamy, exciting, liquid, strange, fugacious and mellifluous.
They are wrathful, irascible, petulant, cantankerous, blowhardy.
They are ethereal and surreptitious and quintessential.
They are grounded and flying and abundant and watchful and fierce.
They are sometimes, always, never and yes.
They are home and love.

I once read that there are no synonyms, truly. And I wholeheartedly agree. I find merit in each individual word, but I am a person who keeps her phone on 24 hour time so that every hour has it’s own identity. There are not two fives o’clocks. There is one five and then a 1700h. It just feels better to me.

I’m caught in the spell of the individual. I appreciate the intricate details that make each person, place, thing stand on it’s own. It can be debilitating, constantly being wrapped up in the emotional well being of coffee cups (do they like having hot liquid poured into them? Are they screaming in a pain invisible to my hopelessly unaware ears? Are they disappointed when someone uses them for a cold drink, their tiny pores closing up and retreating from my pretty much blind when compared to a microscope eyes? Yes, these are things I am constantly thinking and not just with regard to coffee cups.)

And this is how I feel about words. I want to use them, but properly. I struggle with finding exactly the right word to fit the moment that so often the moment passes, is gone, and I’ve said nothing. I make a note on one of the many pieces of paper that litter my desk drawers, backpack pockets, recording apps with some hint that I’m sure I’ll come back to and flesh out once I have time. Once I’m inspired to do so.

And then the voice of self-deprecation, that not so saucy more tedious and tiresome bloviated twatwaffle(though I’m torn because I’m so sure that’s what she wants me to think she is…damn it!), charges to the forefront with rallying cries (who the fuck are you trying to rally, anyhow? The rest of me who thinks you’ve overstayed your welcome as I’m no longer an insecure truth stretcher trying to find a reality that best suits me, rather than embracing the absurd and delightful everyday that is existence within this skin?) of arrogance! (who looooves being talked about, by the way) and What makes you think the story you have to tell, if you ever sat still long enough to do the work to tell it, has any merit? There are soo many people writing things that are better than you. You should just…

Ugh. See what I mean, with the tedious and the tiresome? Two words which are likely exhausted by such behaviour, I’m sure.

So far, it’s been a long dry summer, which followed a short dry spring (at least for wordiness, it rained soooo much here) and I’m hopeful that the drought is moving on. It could be that I’ll have to find ways to trick my brain into co-operating, the way I do when being overly concerned about the health and happiness of every single object around me, that I’m using them in the fashion they most desire to be used in. It seems so odd to me that I’ve never given that consideration to words. I always felt (arrogance!) that they were such an intrinsic part of me there would never be any issue with calling them forth upon command. Sure there have been quiet times, when I didn’t write as often, but in this instance, they actually disappeared for a time. I would look at things and instead of seeing possibilities, I saw mere things. Which makes me sad, because nothing likes to be mere, except perhaps mere, and I’m sure it has the occasional delusion of grandeur when it thinks it could clean up real nice and be the fanciest adjective at the ball. But perhaps it’s perfect or content or satisfied to be just as it is.

Oh my lexicon, I could do this all day. I don’t know that anyone else can understand what is happening for me right this second, being that I am more or less the only person living in my head and having the perspective that I do. Every time I use a word, something magical happens. Something is conveyed, transported, created, communicated. And not just a statement, sometimes it’s accompanied by a feeling, a question, a place. When done properly, it’s possible to impart descriptions that engage all the senses. To make someone so afraid they’re forced to turn on extra lights, to take them all the way back to childhood and recall the scent of the lilacs in their grandmother’s front yard, to find themselves with mouths watering and the acidic feel of a orange on the surface of their tongue. All of this can be achieved with something as subtle and important as the most appropriate word for that moment in time.

And you’ve never left your chair.

Fuckin hell. It might be the best thing ever.


To Nicole

June 14, 2017

You asked me to write to you. They were the last words you said to me as I left Tomas’ art show and they were so perfect because it suggests you know me so well, and are such a good friend that you know what I need. I need to be told to write. To abandon this habit of finding a way out of the places I need to be, those places that encourage growth, evolution, out of some misguided notion that I don’t deserve to be better. To relinquish the idea that I haven’t earned the joy that coincides with those times when the words do more than whisper to me.
It was as though you knew that they had been quieter than usual, that I needed an impetus, a push, a gentle squeeze of a friend’s hand with an earnest request. “Write to me.”

And so I shall, darling.

I saw you quick and brief in the swirling streetlights and dizzying dichotomy that is the city at night. Overwhelmed country girl feeling out of place and right at home among nature, captured and pinned to the wall, because I can appreciate perspective.
The eye of that man, it sees much and reflects it back, altered, his mediums are many, and he has helped me to recognize the intangibility of those things people miss in plain sight, often.

And you, my friend, my dark eyed mystery story set in a place so familiar it might be Paris, might be Berlin, might be anywhere people seek culture, seek collusion with creativity and spark. You are both places sought out and shadowy corners defined by the sass of a darkened hallway piano concert. You are layers of intellect, each peeled back to reveal a giggly undercurrent of joy, unfettered. I watched you greet all with the same sincerity of character that draws me, that infectious smile that strikes at the heart of me and wraps me in welcome.

“Write to me.”

I wish I could sing to you, these words finding melody, mellifluous, harmonious, true all the way to my tapping toes. The best way to cross a crowded dancefloor is to move like water, as if we were weeds bent by the river and carried along without concern for where we’re going or how we’ll get there because the babble of the brook reassures us that we will be like stone, softened by time. Sharp edges have no place here.

I wish I could sing more. And it’s not even that I can’t but that I don’t, this notion that those are anywhere near the same thing is folly, the notion that anyone can take my voice without my permission is just another excuse for not doing the thing that feels best.

I used to get so angry with my mum when she would tell me that the people who told me I was less only had as much power as I gave them. How did I so readily believe them, and not the people who told me I was enough? I wish that I could write to young me, to tell her there is merit in listening. That there are stories one only encounters when one is oh so quiet, eyes closed, breath held, waiting patiently. But patience never came easy. I’m still working on that.

“Write to me.”
My darling friend, I would spin you stories of fantastic proportion. Of those places where heart and mind intersect. Of temptation and forgiveness. Of love and murder and how well both of those things go with a nice hot cup of tea.
I would write with the ferocity of the rain on a tin roof, all bluster, drowning in noise that rattles and pounds at the windows. Screams that disguise how scared I am of the day when the words stop altogether. And so I will fight, will rail against that, and I will write.

Thank you, my friend.

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