Writing by hand by the glow of a monitor like it’s Christmas morning—sitting in darkness, shoulders hunched and leaning forward, comforted by the effort to draw heat from a feeble, single light source.
Sweetly, softly stoned, my monitor is my holiday now. That and the music, a beautiful distraction from lumps in throats and hearts in pieces.
One song, one song on rotation, the obsessive’s quest for healing. Continue reading “Sometime in August”
“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…”
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”
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…”
Writing 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”
“I lost my sense of poetry”, you said.
You didn’t say that, actually—you said “I lost my poetry”, upon which I fell to my knees in search of your riddles.
But I found nothing, for it was your sense of the poetic that was misplaced and not your words. Yes, there is a difference, and no, I would not have otherwise knelt in your favour.
Your words however…your words…
I would descend to the underworld, basket in hand, to salvage the drippings from your tongue. Pieces of you—once severed—should not be left to rot, forgotten. And I would retrieve not just your musings or the arms that commit brilliance to paper but the arms attached to a heart fuller and more generous than I am accustomed to. Continue reading ““I Lost My Poetry.” (No, You Fucking Didn’t…)”
I’m posting one day and one and a half hours after my appointed time. My inner child is keening in a puddle of tears while the rest of me is standing by, arms crossed, more or less sneering ‘suck it up, sweetheart’.
First time ever—but no guarantees it’s the last. Continue reading “Words in Context”
Maybe I’m already a fucking radio—maybe there is no if where I reside—where anyone with the inclination to play capture the flag with written words resides.
We—the so-called normally functioning humans—receive and transmit on the regular, consciously or otherwise. We—transcribers of fellow primates on souls, free of the burden of sound.
Knowingly, blindly, or un-awaredly we counter incoming vibrations with dismissal or reciprocity, an esoteric response that either blossoms or disappears into the night along with effluence and dreams. Continue reading “If I Were a Radio”
I want to visit Kate Bush’s England. Tolkien’s England. The England the Irish rarely deign to perceive.
C.S Lewis’s England–even though he was Irish.
Set me under the ivy, leave me there, with the green and the grey. And something good to read. I am tired of confusion and fatigued by hatred. Just leave me there with the foliage still blossoming despite the snow. Continue reading “Under the Ivy”
I’ve been asked why I encourage other people to write regardless of training or background.
I do it for selfish reasons—one of those reasons is curiosity. Another is personal need—I need other people’s words in my life.
Reading and writing are doorways into worlds at once more honest and more poetic than moments hardened to habit by unlit fires. Words are abundant yet retain their value; cyphers and letters left lying about transmogrify into rabbit holes worth falling into, not the least because sometimes it’s the hardest falls that save your life. Continue reading “Words Matter. Maybe Even Yours.”