Category Archives: writing

hello again

To the girls we were in our past lives.

To our egos in the alternate reality.

And the the ones here, on earth, who keep my secrets.

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lionheart

Image

growing up my brother had a stuffed Care Bear called Brave Heart. he took it with him everywhere. in fact, i would wagger a guess it’s still with him even today.

or at least propped up on his childhood bed at my parents house.

i’ve been thinking about the term “lionheart” lately. namely because the radio keeps playing Of Monsters and Men and i can’t get the lyrics “You’re the King and I’m a lionheart” out of my head.

i’ve been trying to conjure up all the courage i can muster these days, and failing miserably. my reserves have been depleted. outwardly i can fake it for others, but inside i’ve been feeling paralyzed. as though any decision i make — even if it is the right one — will be wrong.

it’s exhausting being alone through it all too.

perhaps i need to dig out my own Brave Heart from the back of my closet (her name was Rainbow, a small stuffed bear with suspenders) and remind myself of a simpler time when i felt fearless. if only for nostalgia sake.

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i can see the words you’re screaming in the frost

one of the first things i did in my university dorm room was hang coloured twinkle lights from the ceiling.

to this day, some of my favourite memories are of that year. mostly in the winter when we’d gather on the window sill, or huddle into my tiny single bed and look out at the freshly fallen snow, talking well into the wee hours of the morning about nothing and everything. ours was the biggest room, so it was a natural gathering place. a room with a view.

whenever it’s the first snowfall of the year, i think about that year and midnight snowball fights. too drunk, or happy, to feel the cold night air. time stood still in the silence of it all.

i think that’s what i miss the most, the silence. the silence you can only appreciate when you’re being loud.

now everything is loud, but through external forces.

work. expectations. the grocery list. bills. life.

it gets so loud, piling worlds on top of each other, not to mention the promises.

i want the silence to scream through.

even then, i’m not sure you’d listen.

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but the lips are mumbling and my face lies in your lap

Years ago I read Kafka’s Letters to Milena, which I implore you to read if you’re a fan of his writing.

I woke up this morning, with plans to pen a few letters. As I was getting to the end of the first one, about sign my name and write xo, a line of Kafka’s started circling around my head. While I was searching out the exact phrasing, I came across this page, which gives you a taste of selected letters if you’re interested. Yet the line I was looking for is below, and also expanded on in the page I’ve linked.

Writing letters is actually an intercourse with ghosts, and by no means just the ghost of the addressee but also with one’s own ghost, which secretly evolves inside the letter one is writing…Written kisses don’t reach their destination, rather they are drunk on the way by the ghosts…The ghosts won’t starve, but we will perish.

Those last two lines especially always resonated with me.

What do you think? And do you still write letters? I find myself writing more “note length” letters these days.

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raw

One of the main goals in my writing class is producing a lot of raw material.

We do this through a variety of exercises; writing in condensed periods than taking that material and turning it into something else. Last night at the end of class, we wrote for five minutes and then took the first two lines from what we had just written, and re wrote the on-top of a fresh sheet of paper and passed it to the person to our left.

The goal being they would write the next line, and it would then get passed around the circle until we ended up with our original lines. The hardest part of this exercise (next to reading people’s handwriting) was not the pace, it was trying to fit into the other persons style.

Here’s what I ended up with at the end (first two lines are mine), and I’m now supposed to rework this into a full piece.

Not sure where all the “balance” mentions were coming from. Time to edit.

I’ll post what I rework it into next week.

***

yet nothing truly tangible to sink my teeth into

tangerine dream me something bright and real

a contrast of adherence, support and balance

an act of balance in an unreal world

teeth in tangerine: sour note slips, splits the airwaves

there is the ubiquitous foot carnage but

balance

my arms are open – fit into them something of blazen red, continuous in its reach – solid like a dream

it’s when i wake up, the hard physical labour begins, hand over hand as i reel the dream in

i see a flicker of a picture and i smell wet floor board

i drag it closer to me and fin only brown and red.

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hurry up, we’re dreaming

What’s the first creative moment you remember?

She asked, leaning forward clasping her hands under her chin, a bemused smile stretched across her lips.

I kept seeing the Cheshire Cat and envisioned a fluffy tail dancing in the background.

I looked around the room and everyone seemed to be staring at the same invisible spot. Equally stumped by the question.

My first memory is certainly not my first creative moment. Although there is something poetic about running away from home at the age of three and having your Grandmother chase you with a wooden spoon. I made it all the way to the railway tracks, at least 10 blocks away from our house before I was dragged back and to the hospital, where my brother had just been born.

The first time I wrote that story out in full detail, was the first time I knew I wanted to be a writer.

Does that count?

Or would it be the first time I made art on my own; ceramic finger puppets. The most practical thing ever. Way better than a pet rock. Although equally dense.

Or what about the made up figure skating routines, the first play I performed in.

The, the…

This is going to take some time. I’ll get back to you.

What about you, what’s the first creative moment you remember?

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from the mixed up files of organized chaos

Hasn’t it been stated that the desk space a person occupies reflects their state of mind? Well, I’ve always said I operate under a bit of organized chaos.

Dale planted the seed in my mind with his post on where he writes (in the most uncluttered space I’ve ever seen!) and I thought about doing this post from home but I also do a lot of writing at work – so I figured I’d do it from both. He also included a sample of handwriting. I posted a scribbled picture of a paper from my work to-do notebook from a few weeks back.

My slanted ceiling office/desk at work – not to dissimilar to my home space; tea, cds, blanket capes…

I use to have really nice handwriting, but computers have ruined me. Note my to-do list has a to-do list.

This is where I write from at home – the living room. I’d say roughly 95% of the time I’m penning stuff from here. It’s a comfy couch, what can I say.

So, where do you write?

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