here we go, another round in the
boxing ring. you against me this time
goody for you, I think you may have won.
how dull, hum drum, just another woman
who loves you. set the doll aside, its
weeping eyes can put out a fire before
it combusts. I heard energy cannot be
destroyed, only transformed, and this
woman, too, like the fruit flies who pop
persistently in and out of existence from
nowhere. off to find another painful body
to experience, hopefully one a bit better
suited this time, or at least with some very fine
armour. one with white white teeth and some
plump, pink lips that you’d happily bleed
to be swallowed by.
after all you’re that kind of a guy.
I think that last punch wasn’t
even thrown by your good side.
save the worst for last, like someone
else I used to know. strike low blow
after low blow. hey, here’s some space
for you. I have miles of it, you couldn’t
find me with the Hubble telescope.
how’s this? can you feel me again?
can you taste this waning love on your
tongue like yesterday’s leftovers?
pack it up and don’t forget to toss
it in the trash after the fact cause
you never meant to bring it home in
the first place.
Tag: creative writing
fleeting
Shhh
listen in
for the pin dropping
I’ve been
so long here dwelling,
measuring love in teaspoons,
guzzling empty glasses,
savouring flavours barely
lingering on my tongue.
The thorns are waning,
but I can still feel the bruises
swelling in my chest
your lies like litter in
my pulse, rushing through
me like a greyhound on
the track and
I’m always
meaning
to ask,
is this life?
or just the taste of your fleeting heartbeat?
along the way
Thought I’d do something a little different today and post this one in my own handwriting.
I think it’s legible. I tried, anyway.
Thanks for reading 🙂
You know you’re lost when…
On one of my first nights in Toronto, when I was feeling particularly overwhelmed and vulnerable, I was wandering aimlessly up and down this busy downtown street near my sublet apartment like a stray cat. I was eyeing everyone and everything with suspicion, walking stupidly in and out of shops/bars and just generally hopping around from place to place like a little bird who just hit its head.
I was in one of those hopelessly pathetic post-breakup states where you are incapable of focusing on anything other than just how impossibly alone you are. (It’s not just me, right? I have no idea.) Anyways, the streets were packed with people socializing, loitering on the corners, smoking outside of bars, and just generally enjoying the company of others. Another exciting night in downtown Toronto.
Not for me, though. I was busy clinging desperately to the enormous welling tears which I could feel ready and eager to claw their way out of my eyes and torrent down my face. I didn’t want to go back to my new apartment to cry awkwardly in front of my new roommate. Actually I didn’t want to cry, full stop. But it was inevitable and I knew it. I felt confused; empty. I had no one to talk to and had no where to go that I felt comfortable, so when I stumbled upon a sign that read “PSYCHIC READING, $20”, I thought okay.. what the hell? I will try anything right now to feel better.
She lived above some bar on the main stretch and I had to make my way through a group of rather curious and rather drunk patrons to ring her doorbell. I waited at the bottom of the stairwell, surrounded by this group of men asking me why I needed a psychic, telling me what a scam I was in for, etc. Of course I know, of course I do, I’m not stupid. I’m well aware that I’m about to waste my money. I don’t care.
She could probably read the desperation on my face from a mile away. We locked eyes through the door for a moment before she buzzed me in. I turned the knob and made my way up her ominous stairwell with a good dose of trepidation… no turning back now. I sat down cautiously and observed her room. It was exactly what you’d expect from such a place: dim lighting, tarot cards and signs, granite palm figures on the desk, incense burning, curtains dangling around us, candles burning everywhere, and some testimonials framed on the wall describing how marvellously she changed her client’s lives and how amazing she was. Comforting.
I was still fighting to keep it together when she took her seat across from me. We sat in a bizarre moment of silence that seemed to drag on and on before she finally asked me how I was doing. I just stared meekly in her general direction. I knew the next sounds coming from me would not be pretty and so I responded with a haphazard shrug.
“You’re hurting,” she said lamely. And I say lamely because anyone could have looked at me and seen that I was on the cusp of a compete breakdown. Leave it to a psychic to state the obvious.
No shit, I thought, and then it was over.
I sat across from this woman whose name I didn’t know, in her strange apartment, in a new city, feeling desperately lost and alone, and cried like an idiot. I cried and I couldn’t help myself. Too much had happened in too short a time and the finality of it all was catching up with me. I’m sure she saw a dollar sign for every tear that rolled down my cheek. She had hit the jackpot with me.
I started to tell her everything that had happened in the last month between my (ex) partner and I. She listened so sweetly while I spewed all the frivolous thoughts in my head about how confused I was, how lost. But of course, crying is therapy and more I let out, the better I felt until finally I was able to think with some semblance of rationality again. (It seemed to slip away so easily for a while…) When I finally finished my sob story she took me by the hand and stared intently into my eyes.
“I want to be more than your psychic,” she said, “I want to be your spiritual advisor.”
Well actually.. you haven’t really done much psychic-ing up to now, if I’m honest. But I didn’t mention that.
She started to explain that she could help me. She knew what had to be done and she could get my partner and I back together in two months tops. (Guaranteed!) Relief was mine if I wanted it, she’d carry the burden from now on. She would give me her number and be at my beck and call whenever I needed her. Anytime of the day or night, all I had to do was call or text and everything would be alright. All I had to do was trust in her to do her work.
Oh, and dish out 800 dollars for a special candle.
Uhh…. what’s that now?
Yes, you read right, eight hundred dollars… for a candle.
I explained to her that that was impossible as I couldn’t even afford the twenty dollars I paid for the sheer pleasure of crying in her company. But she continued…
“I’m so worried for you. If you don’t do this, you’re going to become more and more upset. The crying will never stop. You will be more alone than ever.”
A bit harsh, I know, but she was only doing her job. In any case, I needed to shut this perceived avenue of revenue down for her ASAP. I mean I know I looked desperate, but there was ZERO chance I was willing to give her 800 dollars to burn a candle in the hopes of rekindling my relationship with my ex.
The interesting thing was that as I sat there listening to her try to convince me otherwise, I started thinking… What if I’m not supposed to get back with him, though? I’ve just moved across the country to start this new life, I can’t turn back now. I can’t dilute my energy like that. Isn’t there a reason why I’m here and not there right now? Why can’t you be telling me that there are great things ahead for me HERE?
These thoughts took me a bit off guard. I mean, hadn’t I been crying over my ex for the last twenty minutes because I missed him so much? Wasn’t I so upset because our life together was over? And then I realized that no, that wasn’t it. Not to say that I didn’t miss him in that moment, because I did, but it wasn’t him that was leaving me crying in a stranger’s house at 1130 at night. I was just overwhelmed that so much was happening all at once. I was in a free fall with no idea where I was going to land, and I was scared. Of course I was. Nothing wrong with that.
Suddenly it seemed entirely silly to be sat there, crying over my ex with a strange woman, when I had so much to look forward to. I’m not exactly sure what I expected to get out of the encounter. Some guidance, I suppose. A hint that I’m on the right path. Truth be told all I really needed was a friend with a shoulder, and to her credit she gave that to me and I’m grateful for it.
Crying is like writing sometimes, you just need to get it out in order to make sense of things. I thanked her for her time, she gave me her card, and I left. I left having gained everything I needed to in that moment. Just a little clarity, a little piece of mind. And she gave that to me in the exact opposite way I imagined she would.
If you guys haven’t been to see a psychic yet, I highly recommend doing so. It can be quite the experience.
Rupert and the Frozen Pond
The greatest pleasure of a dog is that you may make a fool of yourself with him, and not only will he not scold you, but he will make a fool of himself, too.
― Samuel Butler
I went out for a walk with the dogs a while back; it was just after a cold snap, -20°C for a week or so, and finally it was warming up. You wouldn’t call it warm per se, being only a few degrees above zero, but in comparison to what we were having before it was positively balmy. At 2 or 3°C I was still decked out in winter boots/coat, scarf, toque and mitts. I didn’t go crazy thinking it was shorts and tee-shirt weather just yet, although I’m sure some people in this city would have argued to the contrary. My point is that though it was sunny and pleasant, it was still cold with no shortage of ice and snow.
Rupert, for whatever reason, decided that that day was a good day to test how serious I am about our relationship. Rupert is my 2 year old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, although some might mistake him for my own biological son, seeing as we’re both redheads and all.
He’s about twenty pounds and a bit of a trouble maker. Lately he’s been going through a phase of doggy teenage rebellion. The terrible twos, perhaps. I don’t know. The other day, for example, I went out to meet a friend for lunch. I was only gone for an hour and by the time I came home Rupert had managed to chew most of the hair off one of his ears. As if he purposely gave himself a haircut he knew I would hate.
The area that I take them to is about a thirty minute walk from home. It’s in a bit of a valley, forested; very pretty. A few years ago the city installed these storm ponds in the area and fenced them (and much of the forest) off in a reclamation attempt. Which is fortunate when it’s wintertime because you wouldn’t want to be walking the dogs where all these frozen ponds are, you know?
Well as it turned out the local coyotes didn’t much care for the fencing. I guess it was in the way of their usual hunting commutes, so naturally they tore a hole right through the bottom of one of the sections. You wouldn’t really notice it unless you happened to look at it, but unfortunately for me Rupert leaves nothing unchecked and he is of course the perfect size to squeeze right through.
I see him staring at me from the other side, right by this big, and now somewhat thawing, frozen pond. Neither of us is moving, we’re at a standstill.
Me: Rupert!
(I’m yelling, of course.)
Me: Come here! Back on this side!
Rupert: *stare*
Me: I swear to god, Rupert, I will end you if you don’t come here right now.
Rupert: *wags*
I’m using my stern, warning voice, which I believe is his favourite to make a mockery of. He’s holding all the cards and he knows it. He has a very particular look on his face, and I know it all too well. It’s his I’m-such-a-devil-I-love-breaking-the-rules-and-not-listening-to-my-mom look.
I call him one more time and as I make my move toward the fence he turns and bolts like a bandit toward the pond, right onto the ice. Had this happened earlier in the week when it was still a frozen wasteland, it probably wouldn’t have been a problem. But as it’s above freezing, and the sun is shining, the centre of said pond is starting to melt. As I’m watching him run off, tail in the air, hearing his happy panting breaths as he gallops across the ice, I say out loud…. he’s gonna fall in. Seconds later I watch him disappear under the ice.
Shit.
You see, if this had happened to Buttercup (my other dog) I might not have worried so much. She is a duck toller and a true water dog. But not Rupert. He can’t swim (so far as I know). Especially in frozen water, I’m sure. The most he had ever done during summer when I took them to the river was dip his paws in.
I hauled ass over the fence like an inmate during the critical final seconds of their prison escape. At least I’d like to think so. I dropped down to the other side and ran to the edge of the pond, seeing his little head bob up and down as he splashed around, trying to get his grip on the surface ice to pull himself up. To no avail. Each time he tried the ice would break apart more and more and back under he’d go. Behind us on the other side, Buttercup had taken notice of the commotion and at the sight of her best friend trapped in the water, started panicking and running back and forth at the fence. Barking like mad. It really was one of those slow motion moments. After another failed attempt poor Rupert finally managed to get a grip on the ice with his two front paws and held himself there. Clearly he could not get out on his own. His little eyes were wide with panic as he called to me for help…
There was only one thing to do.
Off went my winter coat, my sweater, my jeans, my boots, my socks, my mitts. I was keeping eye contact with Rupert the whole time, telling him “just wait. I’ll be right there.” Thankfully no one was around to see me standing there, barefoot in the snow, in my tank top, underwear, and toque. I’m sure I looked utterly stupid. If I thought the snow was a misery under my feet, it was nothing compared to how frigid the pond was as I lowered myself in through the ice. Strong enough to hold a little dog for a time, but good luck if you’re a full grown woman.
I waded through as swiftly as I possibly could, breaking the ice apart as I went. It was bitterly cold and though it was awful to near skinny-dip in icy water, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all as I looked Rupert in the face and said “I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”
By the time I was close enough to reach him I was up to my bellybutton in freezing water. I grabbed him and squeezed him to my chest, holding him as best I could out of the water and hopefully giving him whatever body heat I might have retained. I mean how long can a little dog last in a frozen pond before he gets pneumonia? I plopped him down as we reached land and lifted myself back onto the slightly less awful snow bank.
It was a long walk back to the house, to say the least. With no car access, and no one around, there was nothing to do but dry myself off as best I could with my coat and slip my muddy frozen feet into my boots and trudge home for a well earned shower.
So that’s the story of Rupert and the frozen pond. Thanks for reading if you made it this far. And if you have a fur-baby be sure to give them an extra pat today. You never know when they might do something stupid like fall in a frozen pond.
footprints
no pen put to paper
no whisper of a farewell
no regret
only footprints
some inner dialogue
Good vs Evil brain, a conversation.
Good: I think I’ll write something today.
Evil: Are you sure that’s a good idea?
Good: Sure, why wouldn’t it be?
Evil: Are you kidding? Read your drafts! Every word written there is barf.
Good: That’s a bit harsh.
Evil: It’s the truth.
Good: Well screw you, I’ll write something anyway.
**writing**
Evil: ….. so?
Good: You’re right, this is really shitty.
Evil: You should have just listened to me to begin with.
**crying**
fin
Unveiling
Eyes unveil intrigue while
movement provides more delicious
possibilities.
Discovered. A
body writhes in regret. An
abandoned spirit gasping,
creating uncanny realities
in the mind’s eye.
Bent to the point of breaking, yet
striving for a stronger heart,
warranting delectation.
The inhalation of remarkable perfumes,
a keen nose sensing change and
sniffing ingenuity from
forgotten breezes,
long since passed.
Wake up and set skin over bone-
insulating the magmatic blood within.
Hardened to withstand vehement poisons,
equipped to tackle hazardous mountains,
and then
promenade over them-
like molehills.
Some call it red 