The Angle of You

I drove past the street where you lived. I had to pull over to think of you, of the way you bent and moved. Of the way you found a street that duplicated the trajectory of your thoughts.

It is crooked still. It begins or ends as an acute angle jutting from the boulevard and wends its way westward (or east, depending which end of it you are standing on). Being crooked alone is insufficient, however; it also detours around a dent, a furrow, a sleepy depression that is no longer visible save to the grass that still grows beneath the concrete. Continue reading “The Angle of You”

Guess That’s What Doorknobs Are For…

“You leave your door wide open; anything, anyone, can walk right through.”

Fitting, I suppose, as I’ve been kicking down doors my entire life. And leaving them ajar afterwards. I have been previously unburdened by my lack of forethought, concern, or restraint. I just kick it down or throw it wide—an indiscriminate invitation to whatever randomness is in position to capitalize on my behaviour. Continue reading “Guess That’s What Doorknobs Are For…”

About Last Week…

“Writer, predator; what’s the difference?”

Words hurled at me in response to words hurled at another. I did not mean to hurl them; I meant to lob them gently in honour of a woman who inspired me to reflect on the consequences of our inclinations, and it backfired.

Guess you can’t dip your fingers in someone else’s honey without them asking you to wash your hands both before and after. Fair enough, I suppose. Continue reading “About Last Week…”

Last Minute People

This is all about you, my familiar semi-stranger. The way you work.  The way you function. The way I feel after being in your space.

Notice the absence of the word we, for there is no we in either theory or action.

You are the slippage that accidently-on-purpose happens after one too many drinks; you are the prayer immediately following, the Hail-Mary petition to lower the price of such momentary carelessness. Continue reading “Last Minute People”

When the Heart Goes Awol

It’s true: my heart has gone offline again. This makes me neither cruel nor interesting, just eager for a way back in.

Should you see a woman stumbling along jiggling heart-doors at random, well, it’s probably me.

You know what I hate most about shrinks/therapists/councillors? They’re always asking how I feel about that—and that, and that, and why not that too?

Fuck you all anyway. (My seven year old ass got sent home from school for hurling that particular gem at a school councillor once—ten Hail Mary’s later and all was right in the world. There’s something to say for being Catholic–provided you’re not a little bo…oh never mind.)

My heart is a writer you know. Continue reading “When the Heart Goes Awol”

On a Lighter Note…

I have a love-hate relationship with being naked. You can take that literally and figuratively—God knows I do.

I had a deal once with a friend of mine—I get naked for photos and she includes a cat in hers. Wait—what? How did that happen?

Because—that’s how we’re each inclined and the idea of it nearly amused us to death whilst imbibing one night. Literally, I might add. She fell off the curb mid-giggle and was nearly flattened by oncoming traffic.
Continue reading “On a Lighter Note…”

We’re All Breakable in the End

It's All Breakable in the End, by Illian RainYour mask slipped.

The sinew and bone holding you together was expected; that your beautiful face doubles as a warehouse of all I do not know of you and all I never will was an obvious truth obscured by inconvenience.

It’s a breathtaking revelation because it’s true. And because I overlooked it. I can stare infinitely and search in perpetuity—soul-fingers marinated in gristle and blood, plunged into the centre of what lies beyond my reach—but it will not tell me everything. Continue reading “We’re All Breakable in the End”

Love It, Fear It, and Die Alive

Love It, Fear It, and Die Alive, by Illian RainWriting from fear and writing from love leaves similar page-scars but their internal footprints are contradistinctive. One reeks of husbandry and obligation, the other of mad exhilaration rooted in the fervor of curiosity and creation—an exalted state that occasionally strains the boundaries of duty and convention.

Fear threatens an emotional hangover while love suggests the ecstasy of a cure.

I have oftentimes written in fear, my love a dirty secret between me and the page. And the cat. And maybe a few friends too. Truthfully, the one person unaware of the depth of this love was me.
Continue reading “Love It, Fear It, and Die Alive”

Bark Like a Dog, Beg Like a Human

bark like a human beg like a dog, by Illian RainI didn’t sleep much on vacation. Disappointing, I know.

The sun rises early and to shutter the blinds is to shun the scent of the sea-breeze sweetened by earth and foliage. At bedtime I don an improvised onesie—socks over hands—to keep the mosquitoes at bay.

The morning rains are a gorgeous fury of unrequited love between cloud-cover and sun-worshippers and they insist on waking me to witness their grief. Oftentimes before sunrise. The taste of those tears is exquisite.

But most of all I do not sleep for the dogs. Continue reading “Bark Like a Dog, Beg Like a Human”

What’s In a Name? Ask Barbadians–They Know.

What's In a Name? Barbados, by Illian RainThis is a hard post to write–not because of the subject matter but because of the coconut bread/salt water/sun-drenched stupor that I am currently marinating in. No–I’m not complaining, I’m just hot to the point of feeling semi-drunk all the time, and true enough, two pints under the sun has the ability to leave me woozy.  Continue reading “What’s In a Name? Ask Barbadians–They Know.”