Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Tears in Heaven

Would you know my name
If I saw you in heaven

Eric Clapton and Will Jennings gave us this question
When a little boy fell from a balcony window

Would it be the same
If I saw you in heaven?

No not at all there are so many worries
So many confusions when we are born as humans

Would you hold my hand
If I saw you in heaven?

As death found souls, we recognize everyone in heaven
Wrap our energy around each other

Would you help me stand
If I saw you in heaven?

We are energy when we die like butterflies
We change our core and fly

Time can bring you down, time can bend your knees
Time can break your heart, have you begging please, begging please
Beyond the door there's peace I'm sure
And I know there'll be no more tears in heaven

We have to change we have to evolve
Which is maybe why we morn when someone dies young
Because like a caterpillar they never had a chance to live to be a butterfly

Perhaps as humans no matter what stage of age we are in
We fly into the universe and love all we were supposed to
On earth. With tears in heaven.

I'll find my way through night and day
'Cause I know I just can't stay here in heaven

And after heaven there is another step I’m sure

We just have no idea 

Thursday, September 7, 2017


I’m glad I had
The time to invest
In me
I’m glad I had
The heart to touch
What no one else
I’m here to say
I didn’t fall
Rose up the vine
Magic beans into the sky
What I found was giants
And I kept growing
I see the movies
Where the bad keeps
And I wonder
How someone
Survives the Diehards
And the Armageddon’s
And I realize that’s how it feels sometimes
People fall behind
I fall behind
But the guns and the bombs
Are still blasting
All around me
I keep running through the fire
Walking barefoot
In the broken glass
I find the bad guys
And walk away

Sunday, August 20, 2017

Not a Genius

I was watching criminal minds this morning and the team turned to Dr Reid and said “You’re a genius, you figure it out."  I thought how nice to be appreciated for your smartness, rather than have it laughed it and belittled. It made me instantly think of my grade one life, where I was scolded for knowing cursive writing and using it before everyone else had a chance to learn.

There were no temper tantrums no fights no big noticeable depression for days, I remember some sadness and confusion, that I wasn’t allowed to use this new trick, but I accepted it. Teachers were adults and made the rules.

But I wonder, just a little bit, if it didn’t close me up a bit, make me feel like everyone had to excel at the same time and same pace, if somehow I was, even mildly, stunted by this information. If my need to excel scholastically was held back to make sure I didn’t learn too much without teachers advice. I wonder if I was afraid to jump ahead and learn.

Hmmm Worth thinking about and healing.

No Alibis

Today, is Sunday; laundry day. I don’t have a washer or dryer in my house or a car to get to the laundry mat. I packed up my little wheelie cart full of dirty laundry and headed a out the door. Today I got a drive to the laundry matt, usually I crawl up the hill with my cart behind me and dread the TV shows that play there.

Today the show is Criminal Minds. I sit at the counter after the washer is loaded and try to write morning pages. The show engages and scares me at the same time.  There was an episode in the second season where Frank sends Jane  wind chimes made out of human rib bones and it freaked me the fuck out, the power of the story telling, the acting, the music. I studied storytelling in many forms and this was powerful enough to break through the “I know what they’re doing there text book 1-2-3 cut and paste,” it made me terrified of windchimes for a long time and I still hate hearing them, wondering if a serial killer is around the corner watching me.

I’m the kind of girl who can watch Zero Dark Thirty and Good Fellas and not blink an eye. But I’ve been known to stand in front  of my dryer for 30 minutes watching the cloths go around to avoid the mass killing that happens on AE early Sunday morning.

Today on the marathon they had two shows that I watched one from 10-11 at the laundry mat and later, 12-1 in my house after I got home. Both were done in a way that although the violence implied was rough, what we saw and how they presented it was not too emotionally damaging and I watched both full episodes.

In my journal this morning I wrote what manipulation they used to get me to watch, every second demands I watch and feel for these characters; the FBI, the victims, and the killers.  Like a good drug you have to come back to see these people play with sex offenders and drug using murderers.

I was thinking about the piece I posted yesterday and how it said that a good poet knows not only how to manipulate words and rhythms and story, but knows how to dig into your mind leaves you coming back again to read the poem and ask new questions , see images, feel feelings.

Writing is becoming more than just freefalling once or twice and getting a few good lines. Which I have been satisfied doing, but now there’s more. It’s calculated and manipulative in good ways and bad ways. It’s more than just reading it out loud after a few drafts and hope it sounds good and makes sense.

SO now, I’m obsessed with a show that is brilliantly made, and made to make me physically ill. But I want to understand how they do what they do.

I guess it’s hangovers and Criminal Minds for my Sunday mornings in the Future.  

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

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


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...

Sunday, July 23, 2017

Feed theBeast

Warning i don't eat cake.

My generation counted calories, instead of fueling ourselves. I find my self a current weekend warrior but i do walk about 40 minutes everyday.

My personal trainer and friend gave me permission to eat avacados and coconut oil as good fats are fuel. I found that adding a little to my diet along with a session with her gave me emotional and physical streangth.

Instead of taking away and burning all that i had eaten i had given myself fuel to make it through the day. I dont have the body i had in 2011 when i ran an hour a day and counted every calorie in my body, but i have the brain power and self awareness to be proud of the person I am.

Yay food

Thursday, May 4, 2017

Censor Time

I guess, I learned a lesson today. As in, everyday, one should learn a lesson. I made a poster that I thought was fine, and it was proof read by a friend, and lets just say, I didn’t pass poster school very well. I had fixed one spelling mistake but I guess I missed all the other grammar mish mashes. SO rough copies are for mess ups and if my next step is to be published, I have to really work on grammar and spelling and know that how it looks is just as important as how it sounds. People, important people, are watching me.

I went to a poetry reading and thought “I could be doing this; this could be me if I take it to the next level.” SO I’m wanting to take my words and my ideas to the next level. And that my censor doesn’t like. It says “well you’re good enough to do this, but you’re not good enough to do that." So I’m writing out my feelings and facing them. Facing the censor and saying, it might hurt a bit, but it’s time to approach this with a great sense of "needing words to look excellent as well as the ideas being excellent." Time to not take my writing for granted, and time to really do up the whole package.

Sunday, April 23, 2017

Music and Footsteps

Music is more than hitting the correct keys on the piano.
Life, for me, is more than getting up and going to work.
Music isn’t something you can just decide to take in university. 
Life isn’t something you can put on hold.

But I’ve done it all: I’ve put everything aside so I could get through the day and be happy. I’ve pushed away my dreams to make sure I had a roof over my head and food on my table. I had to learn how to calculate each step I made to make sure it was a good one. Like fingers on a piano. I’ve looked back at every step I made to see how it affected me. 

Perhaps I’ve weeded out all I can weed out and now depression just happens when it wants to happen.

I “learned” to play piano, my first two years of piano, on a “being” with a broken sound board. I loved the sounds that came out, but it didn’t sound right when I went to play at my teacher’s house. The sounds were different. SO for two years without being aware I was learning to play by making sure my hands went in the correct place at the correct time. Not by sounds and patterns and feeling.

I played my piano last night, a little"True Colours" from the glee book, and heard sounds and patterns that I had never let myself hear before. I can’t even put it into words. It’s just the magic of music.

Maybe what I need to do now, is still watch the feet, but let the feeling and the patterns come in too, just like music. Muisc and life tangle together and pull me forward. As I dream forward,

Saturday, April 22, 2017


Hello stars.

Where have you been?

The city.

No stars in the city eh?

Not many.

Quiet: hear the peepers.

It’s so quiet in the country.

So live here on wild chicken eggs and buffalo milk.

Just like that?


I have a 9-5 and a house, a gym membership…

Like normal people?


And you’re a normal person?



The stars are nice tonight

Wednesday, April 19, 2017


I guess it’s not a bad thing, just different. I’m wanted. People want me to go places, and do things, be things. I want to sit in my bed with my cats, write poems no one will ever read and watch “The Voice.” That’s what makes me happy. I haven’t got the voice on yet I can’t type and “Voice” at the same time. I have Robbie Robertson telling me How to be Clairvoyant.

Adulting is so difficult. All I want to do is eat vegan ice-cream in my pj’s and have cats, I have the cats part but vegan ice cream is soooo expensive. I usually just stick to dairy free chocolate milk for breakfast.

I’m always tossing the ball between “yes I’ll do ‘it’” and “my bed is calling.” I used to think It was lazy, and maybe it is? But It’s who I am. I get overwhelmed at loud dancy places and don’t like organizing things or entertaining. I like to write and play with my voice and hunt and peck the piano.

I used to think it was lazy, like when I was a teenager and I decided that I would be out in the world and do “whatever I wanted.” 30 years later, I realize that what my logical brain wants and what my body wants are two different things. Logically I would like to be out supporting my friends. But there’s nothing better than bed sharing my bed with a calico, and a white cat.

Adulting is so difficult. Luckily there’s a little Cave I can go to and not adult.

Tuesday, April 11, 2017


Well, yesterday was weird and full of gluten free brownies and day dreams. Today I had my brain back until like 3:00 and then I self medicated with some Mountain Dew. I became the entertainer, especially when I discovered 15 minutes before I left work that my pants had been on backwards since breakfast. It takes talent to wear a pair of pants backwards all day. I just thought I had gained a lot of weight from the brownies I had eaten the day before. Ummm Brownies

Does it matter what someone thinks of me twenty, twenty-five, thirty years later? That’s what I wondered on my way to work this morning, Our team is doing overtime so there’s no time in the morning for morning pages. SO I try to make up for it by thinking hard on the way to work. This morning I thought about the dream I had last night. 

In real life I "kept up" with everyone from the museum that I wanted to, We run into each other or leave notes on facebook etc; except one of the guys. In my dream, we met up again, twenty years later and he didn’t have any idea who I was, he hadn’t remembered me. I shrugged said "that’s ok" and walked away.

That nonchalant-ness and the processing I did over night made me think about yesterdays statement: That I wanted to look at people and say I survived. And that in a little while I’ll be a successful writer, just wait and see…

Does it matter what “they” think?  Am I still living to prove my artistic value to someone else? Or is showing myself off a way to prove what I’ve created over the last 20 years “writing myself out of depression?” 

I feel like I achieved it and am on my way to being stable and healthy.

I don’t have to worry about showing the doubters or the haters and part of me. Right now I need to just keep going and doing what I do best. Write and sing and work myself into something successful. Write myself into being and important writer to me and soon my friends.

Monday, April 10, 2017

Nathan Fillion Week

Last night I watched some TV, not “The Voice,” but a cop show, er writer show, oh well it was “Castle,” there was a story and a woman died due to a gunshot wound and then there was a murder to be solved. I loved every second.

I haven’t’ seen an episode of “Castle,” or anything else for that matter, since I moved into Duncanville, almost 5 years ago. (Apparently the show is canceled but you can still see some of it on the CTV website.) SO Sunday night, not wanting to do anything more, I curled up with my computer and watched Nathan Fillion and friends.

And my imagination was off, I wanted to meet all the boys in the show, I made this week Nathan Fillion week when people asked who he was, I told them “my boyfriend for the day.” About a year and a half ago my anti depressants were increased and I don’t want anything to do with real boys; But put them on TV for 45 minutes, give them speaking parts and guns and a hot hair do and I’m interested. I wanted to get my writing done and move to the city and get in the middle of that shit again. That fantasy that “action” and “cut;” The make up and the lights, that’s a part of me I haven’t had the power to face in years. I wanted to tell stories like that. Now it’s time to heal that part.

The ultimate way to tell stories. My mind explodes and, for a moment, forgets it has to start at the begging. The sitting, the writing the editing. But maybe I remembered where it could go and why I like to do it. Maybe TV is a drug and I’m addicted again.

I like to have stories told to me invented for me. I loved working on my novel because of the relationship between the two characters. I fell in love with their relationship but still couldn’t finish the story. Am I allowed to say I love TV shows? I’m fascinated by little 45 minute stories and the people who “tell” them. Am I allowed to succeed even further with the help of the RED PENS. AM I allowed to dig in deep and get all the feels like I do from other people’s work. YES, of course.

And my imaginary boyfriends. TV is a great place to get imaginary boyfriends.

I imagine meeting up with the people I went to school with. The ones who doubted me, the ones I felt I was struggling to survive with, the ones who weren’t sure how to take me and say “Guess what… I’m not as famous as you, But I survived . I'm still alive and I still have time...

Saturday, April 1, 2017

How can I help?

What do you do? When that quiet person in the corner, the little weird person who talks to them self, lives by themselves, and frankly you’re still not sure if either of you know each others name yet... What if your best friend comes to you and says they need to talk because everything is so bad.

With everyone, everything is different. I like people to sit with me and make sure I don’t hurt myself. I like people to laugh with me. I like people to hear me. Other than that I don’t know…OS lets think about it. 

For me, I talk about just about everything to everyone and meet once a week with the bestest I don’t work with. I do it because I don’t want to hold back something that could heal me, or  pehps I can spark something in someone else. But that’s me. I’m a story teller and a washed up actress; I still like the attention.

There are people, who although brave in many other ways are not able, for what ever reason, to approach life like you do, like I do, like other people take for granted. When I was in the city and had a birthday I begged a friend to go out to a coffee shop, she brought a friend and I was ever grateful that they took the time to listen and share with me. I was the strange awkward one, or at least that’s what it felt like.  I was so sure that in five more minutes I’d be ok and could repay them somehow in the future.

Today a layer of doubt fell away from me. I don’t consider myself pretty, because usually when I see a picture of me I’m making a face, my hair is a mess and my cloths don’t match. I looked at “girls’ night” picture from like 2011 or something. People thought I was drunk, but soaked back the cranberry juice all night. I made faces into the camera and laughed like a crazy person. I looked at that picture a few weeks ago and thought, I’m funny, I’m theatrical and I’m strange, and I come from a long line of talking to strangers.

So today in the store I sang to my groceries and talked to the girl in the check out line behind me about our cats. (She thought I was Nucking Futs.) But this is who I am supposed to be right now; Happy, I guess.

What do you need right now to smile? How can I help?

"But You Have Control." --my Mom

I’ve been there, I’ve known that it could get bad enough. In my twenties I knew that I would need a plan, and I knew when things got bad like when I would cry and cry for hours I would walk myself to the hospital and check into emerge so that I would have the medical community watch over me in case I couldn’t control myself. I wasn’t very happy in my twenties. But I had a secret weapon. The “5 Minutes” I knew If I held on, if I waited 5 more minutes I would be ok, something would change in five minutes, I would be distracted by a better life, I would work through my sadness by writing or music. I had this will to wait five minutes to know that everything would be ok.

I look now at one of the articles about Amy Bleuel, the founder of project semicolon and that she died by suicide.  For whoever needs help right now, you can contact the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741, or call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.
I wonder what if you don’t have five more minutes what if five minutes turns into five days, months years? And you don’t get that fight to live you don’t spend every waking hour playing with and analysing every single feeling to make sure it doesn’t sweep you off your feet. The young lady was 31. At thirty one I had just stopped living with my parents after a rough twenties and worked at a call centre,which was something I said I would never do.  What if I couldn’t find the joy, the temporary beauty of working in my own little work pod all by myself and then the reaching out to some of my best friends and support team ever.

I have friends, not knowing the true experience that I have had say they don’t understand how someone could kill themselves or other people, I can say I get but; I’ve never actually not waited five more minutes to get through it.

So for those of you who depended on Amy and said “If she could do it I could do it.” Look now to yourself and say “I’ve done it and I’ll do it for five more minutes.” I’ll face every fear I’ll reach out to my friends and I’ll sort all this out. One moment at a time. And if you’re like me at 29 and the only thing to do is move home with your parents and you can’t move home with your parents, reach out to one more person. This will be your secret weapon. I have five minutes, You have the whole world reach out to one person and just say hi.”

Friday, March 24, 2017

Ah ha A Fire

I see the fire burn in my heart
But there’s no one else here
Who sees like I do
No one who wants to hold
On to life and cheat death
But wait
Am I
So afraid of death that I’ve decided not to live.
Well lets change this shit up
Lets not be afraid to live even if it means
Dying in the end
Don’t succumb to a death
Before it’s time
Stand up and look the lion
Deep in the eyes and tell her
You’ve got a few more years
To dance and sing and
‘cause that’s

What I’m going to do 

Sunday, January 29, 2017

send my love

I had to stop peaking at facebook today. I don’t read the newspaper or listen to the radio or have a tv but I’d probably cancel my “prescription” if I did. The world got to much for me to handle, there were marches over basic human rights and angry people and sad people and people not being treated like people.

SO I sat and cried last night. And today I took myself off facebook, I didn’t cancel my account or anything crazy, but I’m cutting back on coffee (again) and stopping the influx of news from the states.

There’s a pull right now, to stay informed vs stay sane. To be there to help people, and take care of myself, I’ve had one anxiety/exhaustion attack this week and a cry fit last night. 

Which means I also have to watch what I’m eating again because something could be sneaking in there.

Anyway, this morning I took my journal to the “Laundry Basket” where I do my laundry and wrote for an hour. I never write in my journal there, I usually end up watching the laundry go around or an episode of criminal minds, I enjoy the watching the laundry more than the TV.

I soon started to smile and laugh to myself. I was writing myself little jokes and laughing inside. I may not be doing improve or acting funny all the time but when push comes to push I can still make myself laugh. It’s not easy to do right now, what is happening next door is affecting real people and isn’t funny.

But I’m still here whispering in my ear taking up the funny.

With a little bit of writing and resting I feel better, and ready to take on the week ahead. Ready to admit openly when something doesn’t work for me and ready to bow out of conversations I would love to take part in but would leave me empty inside.

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

Tim Curry is my Spirit Animal

It’s Tuesday night I should be at Zumba. But last night after a little bit of exercise I started shaking, I had already eaten supper but I topped off my night with some pasta and seemed to settle down again.

Tonight I decided to stay home. I had trouble staying awake after the alarm went off this morning. And work was not focused and I felt weird.

There’s a bunch of things

I got a rejection letter for my poetry last night and in the letter included a lot of great information. Like any large amount of great information, I have to process it. It has to run through my body a few days and I have to decide what I take and use and how much. It also puts me in my place a bit, telling me my poetry, or whatever it is, needs more work and editing.

I’m exercising and eating differently and perhaps this has an affect on the large amount of medication I’m on. Maybe it needs to be managed a bit differently. So I’m going to call the DR in the morning and see if that is something I need to worry about.

All this Donald Trump shit is giving me nightmares; I’m arguing a women’s right to her body in my sleep.

I’ve been busy the last couple weeks and maybe it just got to me today. Maybe I just needed to sit down and write and work shit out, so here I am

We Have a curse jar at work and that has been causing me anxiety. You just can’t replace the word asshole with poop head it doesn’t work. I calmed down a bit when I closed my own jar of collected change.

I don’t make much money and that affects me a lot too.

Last night I decided I just wasn’t good enough to go anywhere. Not good enough to make much money, not good enough to be a real singer, not good enough to be a real poet/writer.

SO that’s what I have to work with perhaps it’s a salad of all of it put together. And I just needed to relax.

I feel like it’s a Tim Curry day. When I can relate to every face every character he has created and understand the wildness in his eyes.

Monday, January 16, 2017

Dream Froward

Last night there was another dream about the past. About making it to work, to the hotel, on time. It’s stressful and although I don’t know how to stop dreaming about the past- cold (tofu) turkey; I can look forward in my waking hours.

I’ve always wanted to have dreams of the future, but am plagued with memories of the past, past jobs, past feelings, past activities. I have spent the last 20 years exploring my past, trying to understand it, trying to heal it.

I don’t think I need to do that anymore. I can stop focusing on the past and look to the future. Stop looking and listing all the things in the past that hurt, that worked, that didn’t work, and focus on the future.

Make a list of things that I want to do, want to be, want to go, want to work at how I want to live the rest of my life. It makes sense I can’t see forward, while looking back so far.

There are lists and pictures, wishes and dreams of places I want to go and the person I want to be. I’m ready to go forward.

That’s part of the emotional contract of today to look ahead.

Monday, January 9, 2017


SO let’s see if I can get this all down, it’s sort of a mix of anger and disappointment in the human race, right now. I guess it starts with hero making. The Golden Globes were on last night for hours and hours; Rich people, beautiful surroundings who take hours to dress up really nice, and wear lots of make up. Ok I saw the pictures today and some of them missed their pretty mark—just sayin.

I don’t have a TV, I can’t handle main stream shows anymore because I’ve started to think for myself, not be spoon fed my life goals by Netflix and Hallmark Chanel. Vogue and Chatelaine are not my bibles never were.

But here’s hours of a selected people, giving themselves awards for playing a role on TV, in the movies that they make millions in the process of doing it. I doubt this year I’ll make it over the poverty line, their dresses cost more than I make a year. That’s a reality I live with, not pretty dresses and who is wearing a shoe that is too small for their foot on “that night.”

You know that people are scrambling in places around the world for the right to live. Aleppo is all but gone from the news. Standing rock is still there, on facebook anyway. Canada Just said yes to pipelines and no to saying the word fart in the house of commons. I don’t see how in this day in age, after all it’s been 74 years, why we maintain the same habits and do the same things without deducting how different the world is from the time we started.

I guess what I see is the people suffering, and being killed, people rushing into to save them and we have to turn on our tv and see Michael Keaton not know the difference between the two main movies staring black actors and actresses. Hidden Figures, not Hidden Fences.

DO we want to do this any more, do we want to buy into this anymore? DO you want to spend collectively, billions of dollars on an industry that currently isn’t even relevant? Or do went want to spend our money on people and lives, animals and the planet, education and basic health.

In my small little world, a war veteran just killed three generations of women, the day after he was turned away at the mental health department of the local hospital. I’m sorry, and who won for best actress? Did Carrie Fisher die of a heart attack? Yes, she’s my princess too, but so were these people to their family and friends. We know why Carrie and Debbie Died, lets spend this time and money figuring out why an ex soldier came out of a bathroom in an airport killing random strangers. Let’s figure out why men violently rape and kill their wives, mothers, daughters and sons etc. And how we can stop it. 

I’ve been tangled up in the mental health system since I started puberty, started getting prescribed pain killers in high school and so on, I know what’s it like to think it can’t get any worse and be turned away at the hospital. I know this system and the understanding of mental health needs to be studied and understood far beyond anything that my Dr’s were able to handle or throw the wrong anti depressants at.

But do tell me what Billy Bob said when he got awarded his globe, because really it doesn’t matter to me anymore.

The reason I use The Globes as an example is all I wanted to do as a Child was be on the TV and be in the movies. I even have a theatre degree I wanted it so bad. Now, wham, things have changed.

I want the world to see and process what is relevant. That rather than arguing over whether what is happening and Aleppo is really happening and making a movie about Bosnia and the sex trade of woman. We do more than watch the movie. and start making sure Dr’s and teachers and PHD’s are getting recognized and we can spend another hour without people suffering on our door steps.

I wanted to focus on the animals in this piece, but man, we can't even look after wives and mothers, let alone care how badly your steak was torchered getting to the table. Oh Jimmy Fallons Prompter didn't work, le sigh.