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.