Sunday, August 13, 2017

Name, a Free Fall





Gave myself my own name
Frosty was enough
I never aligned with a group
That I didn’t want to leave
My badges are scars
That I gave my self
Hand through the glass
Stairs through the lip
Stars through the heart

Made myself my own friends
Sons and daughters who thought
Just like me
Loved me until they turned 16
And then turned against me
Best 16 years of my life
When I heard you yell
“Mama” In the distance

Walked through the world alone
Keep it that way at the end
Of every dinner date
I look away and look past
I held your hand
Only to let it go
Palms to the ground
Circles in the sun
Like a child

Listen to your voice
Do you have to drink
Until it can’t speak anymore
Listen to your song
Is it typed or recited
In the deepness of our sleep
Dreams tell me I can do
Not anything
But what my heart desires
I gave myself that name
Frosty



Saturday, August 12, 2017

See Through Our Hearts



There’s a little story I could tell you
About the ghosts who still live
In the basements of this town

There’s a little story about
All the rotted hearts
Displayed on the sidewalk

Walking proud and strong
With outdated ideas
That kill us All

Everywhere it’s everywhere
This darkness the fail in logic
Fail in love fail in time fail in space

So whisper like a child
Who sees the wrong in tradition
Scream as your hate is dying

There's a little story I could tell you
About healing and about seeing the truth
And the ghosts that live in this basement

Years of darkness undercover
A person a country a universe
And there's a handful who don't believe in love

Tears and tears rips and shreds 
In souls and bodies
Rest in peace 

I opened my jewelry box this morning
Found a safety pin 
I have no idea how it got there

Someone magic knew it was my time
To say to the world "I'm safe."
I believe in you I hear your scream your whisper

I know a path into the light
I believe this earth is for all peoples
All animals all life

I know a story but we must listen
We must hear close our eyes
And see through our hearts









Saturday Night Rough Drafts

I knew when the sun came up over the sea
That the day wasn’t so strong
And the rain would fall on broken souls

I knew when the sun came up over the mountain
The glue holding the broken
Would wash away and take the pain

I see the rain wash sinew away
Fall to the floor like broken diamonds
It has taken so much to crack and bleed

I knew when the sun came up over the sea
That the day wasn’t so strong

And the rain would fall into sidewalk cracks

Sunday, August 6, 2017

Independent Hermit

When I hit university, and my jobs post university; I was amazed that people had lives outside of school and work. I didn’t understand it, when I was done a day of grade school, I came home to listen to music and write.

All the people around me were hooking up, going to each other’s houses and going shopping, while I naturally did life by myself. I wasn’t invited, or if I was, I would shy away. Or people never thought to invite me “I wasn’t that type of person.”

I say this because being offered a social life was such a change in my life. When someone wants me over every night to hang out with them, in a dating or friendship situation I begin to get lost. I need to run home to write and relax and talk to my cats.

Instead of playing with people all weekend, I do meet up with friends on a Saturday morning, I like to take the weekend to find my centre, after a week of work and spending 9 hours with the hundred or so people at my work.

Friends ask me out on Sundays, but despite the whole leaving the house to do the laundry, and occasionally driving myself crazy, I won’t go out on Sundays, but I like to sit here, in my bed, and write.

So in relation to the last post I wrote, this need to be by myself, and low self esteem, people saying “oh friendships, love, just happens" was some sort of bullshit I didn’t understand and I thought everyone hated me. I didn’t realize I was just being me and people were just reacting to me being a hermit. I didn’t put it out there that I wanted to play and very few people asked. So I'm not avoiding you, I don't hate you, sometimes my world is clearer alone.


Monday, July 31, 2017

Pitty Party

You see, I have a sad. I decided, today, I made all the wrong decisions in my life. I didn’t stick with jobs and passions when I should have. I quit things when I felt that people didn’t like me. Example I haven’t sung in like two weeks, because I was sick, and because I was writing. SO I decided that maybe I shouldn’t be singing.

Without Sara there is no one to sing with, and none of my musical friends want to invite me over to sing, I decide, because they don’t like me. That means I sing the same songs to myself and the songs I was writing, I decided, weren’t good enough.

I shouldn’t have left the museum, just because it was pointed out on my first day that no one wanted me there. And I could feel it against my heart and the hotel was pushing me away and I wasn’t able to work a full time job and work for free in film and no one liked me because I couldn’t pull my weight, I decided.

I came home and hid in a place where if people didn’t like me I didn’t care. It was just me. And now me and my cats. It just seems like everything I do is not good enough. The music isn’t good enough to take me outside of my livingroom, yes it makes me feel like a million bucks, but I’m alone. The writing keeps being rejected by publishers and myself and I think If nobody likes me: Why am I doing it?

I’m writing it because I have to, because it’s how I process, it’s how I figure out myself but if there were another way, a relationship where I wasn’t alone, would I still keep writing down my every thought my every feeling?

Well that’s a pitty party… I’ll bring the crying clowns. The point is those feelings are still alive in my heart. I still want to quit, like I did when I was twenty. Maybe I need to fight a little harder. Say it doesn’t matter if anyone who is any good thinks I suck, I still have to jump forward and do what I love.


I realized today that we watched tv and did homework when we were little. It’s been a hard habit to break. Writing was my way out. Writing is still my way out of being alone. Of nobody liking me.


Sunday, July 30, 2017

Dinner


I have a new life. I say “maybe in this life, I’m the only one who comes to dinner.”

There was this one time I had dinner with The Queen , who brought Her King. Her hair was full of baby birds that demanded to be fed and she would feed herself a fork of pasta and flavored tofu and slip her well manicured fingers into her purse where she had a collection of worms, the kind you find in the garden when you are pulling out the weeds. She would feed them to the baby birds in her hair.

“They’re my babies” said the childless woman: some blamed her rigidity, some blamed her husband’s ability to perform.

“They’re her babies,” he said, and smiled as if it was the most grotesque act that could ever be performed. I never once wondered, until I left the table, where all the bird poop went.

I had dinner once with the daughter of my soul. We sat at a long table with each place setting set meticulously, vanilla candles burning in the day light. She was so far away that I saw more clouds than I did of her. We talked words that could only be mumbled in the centre of a dream and I tried to write her poetry but my hands were broken and I tried to show her love, all the emotion did was become trapped inside my heart.



I became stressed and woke up ready to go back to sleep and dream a better life. But the alarm clock was going off and I needed to start my day after the queen with the birds. The daughter I fell though the clouds for, and woke up, and lost.

Perhaps I’m the only one who really came to breakfast that morning. Perhaps I’m the only one who sat beside me and talked to me through the night.


“There, there darling,” I say, “you’ll be ok, no one will understand your Prozac induced sleep, so deal with it now. Before you have to step outside the door into a world of real people who hear the words you say and take them to mean something else. 


Saturday, July 29, 2017

Bones is my Therapy

Perhaps I’ve forgotten how to be in love with writing. Perhaps when I left DAL I left the love I had for theatre and creativity behind and closed off my love like “Bones” closed off her love for her father. Perhaps I’m in an emotional tangled up relationship with writing, a sick relationship that has pounded me down for twenty years.

Perhaps getting me a tv and letting me only write when I want to not banging myself over the head for every second I’m not writing is letting me fall back in love with writing. Perhaps when university became a loveless piece of shit in my life I closed everything down. From relationships to creativity. I turned it all off and decided that it wasn’t worth doing it going forward.

My creativity became enslaved and I couldn’t sit down and write like I wanted to because everything needed to be edited and put into acts and compared to all the pieces we studied. When for me creativity was an act of the heart the world speaking to me. The world speaking through me. I couldn’t do it anymore I lost my passion who knew it would take 20 years to get back something that took three years to steal and rob from me.

I was thinking about people who have been abused and raped and the dreams that I have: their intensity their emotion their reality the reliving of a moment over and over again. If that had happened to me I would be dead inside, in shock inside unable to move or function.
I get like that just with the stressful things that were in my life.

Maybe I haven’t really tried, haven’t really fallen in love and felt a broken heat for a person. But my university life was so traumatic and not what I thought it was going to be that it broke my heart in more ways than a real person could.

In the past two weeks I’ve been healing the scars from the last twenty years, reaching out to people who were really there for me and explaining how thankful I was to have them and trying to find a way to bring all my friends together in the present show pictures of me in all stages of life tell stories and feel and heal.



I can’t force myself to be in a romantic relationship I can’t force myself to read a book. I can only ponder along until I find out what heals me and moves me forward. In love and or indigestion.

There will be more to come...