Fictive

Fictive

You had a penchant for archaic insults

I artlessly and wholly without confident poise

contracted the invectives and resourcefully

worked them into hymns about you being good.

It was no minor requisite to be close to your heated side

a ravening need that marked the preferment of the watershed.

It is accurate that we were the strangest of bedfellows

passing through a shroud mistaken for a liar’s length of love.

Your selfish motive made every bewitching second fictive

my countenance fell as you broke away one lazy limb at a time.

Eithering dreams?

I carefully contemplated the weight of it all

your inconceivable forgery incited acts of vehemence

like my vandalising covers of romance novels

like my making friends with unfortunates

like my meditating on the hurried expiration of your face.

I assembled the artifacts of our wasted days

I wrote the nights down into the slowest of pages

the most downhearted attempt to fill the silence

to forget the strong current of your sideways beauty

and the sound of your voice singing slightly out of tune.

I walk with pilgrim’s progress as if I might accrue joy to replace placated despair

still there is this nagging feeling that my insides do not belong to me

either a complicated cautionary anecdote or a reluctant compromise to forget.

A single act of make-believe depleted my patience for the strains of love.

Fictive.
Indicative.
Vindictive.

Eithering dreams?

**

A friend challenged me to a writing exercise just now, using the word 'fictive'.  Curled up with some tea, a warm sweater, a half empty box of tissue to keep my runny nose clean and the new Carleton Stone record spinning, I wrote.  Well, I typed.  Same thing I suppose.  In a fresh word document, the word 'fictive' became the title and a poem came.  I pondered prose but I didn't resist what came.  If a poem materializes I never mind too much.  I got lost in the music and banged out this poem, untouched, in about 40 minutes.  Boy, after only really writing my homage to PSH, it felt good to flex the creative muscles and get a poem down.  I am *still* pondering the lives of Alf and Josh.  I *will* get it started, I promise.  

But for tonight, an exercise, which in my mind is better than no writing at all, even if it's just foppy gloop.  It's writing, words, from me.  That counts.

Two more work days and it'll be time for a blast to the past via a Platinum Blonde show.  I hope my sniffles and sneezes had expired by then.  I've really been looking forward to the show.  Fingers crossed.

Time to top up my tea and recline.

In propinquity,

Nic

Beautiful Helplessness

Beautiful Helplessness

I am not willing to accept the world is without a man

of unfathomable range & a remarkable inventory of art

I wonder if he let himself be surprised by his grandeur

the kind that broke through the noise to quiet our cores

I imagine him falling upwards in beautiful helplessness

his endangered spirit held hostage by an addict’s bargain

measuring a severe distance from celluloid to Heaven

a banal romance expressively trenchant & lastly ruinous

I am not willing to accept the world is without a man

who delivered a tiny fraction of what he was meant to do

to touch the marvelous depths of every breathing thing

to tabulate immaculate perception through artful elations

I imagine me rescuing him from a tremendous darkness

to return his pensive stare & wicked smirk & muted orange

hue back to the refuge of earth & oceans & sooty city streets

a valiant response to his urgent audience in profound mourning

I am not willing to accept the world is without a man

whose efforts leave me inconsolable & arrowed in the heart

yet fortified in my creative disposition & ambling toward ecstasy

the trajectory of his brilliance was boundless & commanding

it projected an upside down reflection to be staunchly revered

I am not willing to accept the world is without a monumental man

& just how his absence will be calibrated is yet to be determined

those of us drowsy flowers left behind bend in the sad music on the wind

bankrupt of the currency lost in a single drought of one incomplete story

I am not willing to accept the world is without a man who smoldered

until his last breath shattered him into a billion pieces of silver star-lite

**

Philip Seymour Hoffman's death had a grave effect on me.  He has long been one of my favorite actors and I have always appreciated his creative process, his work ethic and his incredible body of work. When I learned he had passed, I began a long homage to him by way of watching and completing my collection of his films.  My tribute via this film festival has been an incredibly inspiring and at the same time a gut-wrenching experience.  He is commanding in every single scene he has ever done, whether he has a cameo, does a voice-over, is a supporting actor or the lead.  He makes you take notice, he demands your undivided attention, he envelopes you.  It is surreal that he has expired.  It is unbelievable that we will deprived of his cinematic genius forever.  The above poem may be trite and cliche and somewhat elementary but not since Heath Ledger's death has any actor's passing touched me so deeply and caused my heart to ache.

I love Philip Seymour Hoffman, I always have, I always will.  This, my tiny eulogy to a man worth so much more than a few pithy words in a poor poem by an amateur.

In propinquity,

Nic

We Say Goodbye in Circles

We Say Goodbye in Circles

Lancaster,

It is always a day of constant rain and a solid refrain of roaring thunder.  It is always the same when I try to walk away from you.  I am bound by my practical wisdom to flee, surveying the exit and then feeling the expected sensation of the driveway gravel grinding into the arches of my feet through my flat summer shoes, trying to run so that when we say goodbye we do not say it in circles.  It is a pattern, a tearful farewell perpetuated by old ghosts that permit us to move in a slow circular motion from an almost ending and guilelessly back to the beginning.  It is a sequence of changes that veer us back into our original position.  It is time to break the cycle.  Time to set our burdens free.

It is your estimation that our bond is profound and irreversible, it is what you always say, how you ensnare me, convince me to stay.  You, who would rather foster something that is an old delusion and me, who would prefer to sever the tattered ties, mend the broken pieces and advance.  I no longer wish to meditate on perdition and set my sights on something more idyllic and peaceful instead of re-using old romantic tenements to convince ourselves we belong.

We belonged once.  But, we are nothing more than a short story.  A well versed poem even.  A history lesson at best.  My spirit is not arranged in such a way that I can pretend.  I do not wish to be immortalized in an orbiting, prosaic picture of what people perceive love to be.

I wish to make my departure soft and civil.  Let me run, in a straight line, in the weather.  Let us not circle the drain and let what goodness we’ve spun expire in vain.  I wish not to emaciate you on the inside as you’ve so crudely suggested, I wish not to harm you. I wish you well, I wish you love and I wish you contentment.  And more, I wish the very same for myself.  I desire it.  I need it.  These are things you can no longer provide, not because you are not every bit as lovely as you always were but because I am every bit as different as I ever was. 

You were a good companion.  A good friend.  And I promise you that I will regard you fondly when I take pause every now and then and look over my shoulder.  Your footprint in my sand is immeasurable and not without warm value. 

This goodbye is a straight line.  Linear and clean, honest.   Be well and be happy, I will follow suit, on another path diverging in a different direction.

With kindness,

Ursula

**

I had a hard time sleeping early this morning so I did a writing exercise off the cuff, based on the line that is the title.  I wrote for about fifteen minutes and this was the result.  I suppose I am missing Imelda and Brucha just a little to have it come out in letter form.  I was missing my creative self and my pile of notes is growing but my actual work continues to suffer.  It felt good, even if what I wrote in my sleepy haze is poopy, to write.  I've been a terrible blogger this month, I hope it is a fleeting thing.  I have to make sure it is.

Happy frozen Sunday.

In propinquity,

Nic

If I Should Fall Behind

I have been unusually neglectful of The Paper Teapot of late.  My work life, private life and sleep deprivation are preventing me from being my best self, my creative self.  I even sat down the other night with a glass of wine and attempted to write a poem that has been nagging me since I was in the thick of the crowd at the Blue Rodeo concert (which was amazing!).  I tried working it out and ended up writing another new poem that reading it back now I see is absolute trash.  It seems I have lost my groove again.  Darn.  The timing couldn’t be worse with two characters waiting in the wings.  They aren’t talking to me I think because I am not fully present and am instead distracted by those pesky things called numbers and details and worry for a family member.  I haven’t been sleeping well but I do try keep busy and productive in other ways even though I’m not creating: reading, letter/postcard writing/concerts/artist dates.

I have some things to do today but later my goal is to reconstruct the sucky poem to make it something worth posting.  I was successful in acquiring some new stationary that is fun and I can’t wait to use it all up so there’s an excuse to go buy more.  I found Duly Noted again after they moved from Quinpool Road downtown to Brenton Street.  That is a good thing!  I also bought a new pen and it was used on a giant pile of mail anxiously awaiting the mail man tomorrow.  It was a peaceful thing, amassing that pile, destined for a few special mailboxes.

Friday night I ended a rather long work week with an excellent triple bill of rock ‘n’ roll at the Seahorse Tavern:  The Navy Brats, Adam Baldwin Band and Gloryhound.  I was content to be in the underground, sweating out the week’s toxins with a gaggle of rock-heads.  My ears were happy to be full of noise other than ringing phones and my self-loathing while trying dearly not to make mistakes while learning new tasks.  The Navy Brats in particular were outstanding.  Organic, from the gut, honest rock fodder.  I loved them and will keep my eyes open for any future shows to attend.  I really loved watching Adam Baldwin whip the crowd into shape with his set.  I also loved looking around and watching faces in the crowd belting out the lyrics of his original material that can be found on his recently released ep.  And then there was Gloryhoud, back home after working on their new record on the west coast.  We are always happy to have them home to rock us and they never disappoint.  I fell into my bed content and filled up with the goodness that comes from a solid rock event.  Music is a good healer.

Oh and I almost forgot.  I ordered myself some fun business-like cards for writing last night.  My uber talented photographer friend Shelley Wyman (be sure to google her and peek at her work) posted on Facebook about her order and hers were stunning.  She designed her own but I opted for a design that was available on the site for my first try and will work on something else for the next time.  I ordered a pack of 50 with a few different designs.  They contain my contact info and blog website.  You know they do come in handy when you meet someone who is also an artist.  It happened to me one night when I was at The Carleton.  I got talking to someone at the bar and either of us had anything appropriate to swap and instead wrote website addresses on bar napkins.  This will rectify that issue.  I thought about it then, making business-like cards and Shelley’s post kicked my arse to get ‘er done.  Now I wait patiently for my order to arrive in the mail.  Pleased as punch and look forward to seeing them.

I have blogs to catch up on, a poem to fix and a new story to write plus a handwritten review for Ruthie since she sent me a copy of her latest work.  I look forward to tucking in and offering my thoughts much like she did with Town & Country.  I felt so proud of my efforts on that story after reading her response.  I am happy the work resonated and I also love that my circle are seeing themselves in the women I wrote about.  They grew upward from the love, influence and impact my friends have on me.  Friends are electric and should be celebrated, the true friends that find their way to you.  They are the reason magic exists and that is worth putting into words.  Even if it is through the worlds and wisdoms of fictional characters. 

Coffee is gone, CD has long since ended.  Time for me to face this Sunday and make it matter.

In propinquity,

Nic