Thursday, May 30, 2019

Initiation Tool - Drama, 'The Right to Write'




For today’s blog, I completed the Initiation Tool for the ‘Drama’ chapter from Julia Cameron’s book, The Right to Write.

The goal was to set aside one half-hour (I compiled my list on my morning commute), be comfy (I wasn’t exactly comfy), and list on a blank page, 100 things you love.

It was easier than anticipated. I could have kept going!

My loves (etc):

1.      Seedless oranges
2.      Whirligigs
3.      The smell of old books
4.      Thunder and lightning storms
5.      Postcards
6.      Prayer beads
7.      Old photographs
8.      Gord Downie
9.      Liner notes
10.  Poached eggs
11.  Hubbards, Nova Scotia
12.  My cat, Booger
13.  Daydreaming
14.  Puns!
15.  Instagram
16.  Fresh raspberries
17.  Writing short stories
18.  Palm trees
19.  Mom’s stew
20.  Leonard Cohen
21.  Playing crazy eights
22.  Sleeping in
23.  Making lists!
24.  Seafood
25.  Road trips
26.  Afghans
27.  Dad’s BBQ’d steak (miss it so much)
28.  Art galleries
29.  Belly laughs
30.  30 Rock
31.  Scarves
32.  Red wine
33.  Mix tapes/playlists
34.  Christmas trees
35.  Sex and the City
36.  Rotary phones
37.  Reading in bed
38.  Bonfires
39.  Giving
40.  Ma Familia
41.  Writing poems
42.  Cover songs
43.  The ocean
44.  Post-It notes
45.  Duran Duran
46.  Handwritten letters
47.  Nostalgia
48.  Pens!
49.  Scented candles
50.  Patio hangs
51.  California
52.  Beat Poets
53.  Cupcakes
54.  Stationary stores
55.  Music videos
56.  Coffee mugs
57.  Surprises!
58.  Patti Smith
59.  Solitude
60.  CBC
61.  Romance
62.  Babies
63.  My tribe
64.  English cucumbers
65.  Hummingbirds
66.  Brunch
67.  Sunrise
68.  Farmer’s markets
69.  Bees!
70.  Live music
71.  Old typewriters
72.  Birthday cake
73.  Tattoos
74.  Beards
75.  Sad songs
76.  Folding towels
77.  Socializing
78.  Vodka
79.  Picnics
80.  Subversive art
81.  Binge-watching TV shows
82.  Fireworks
83.  Carols Shields
84.  Gnomes!
85.  Halloween
86.  Text messages
87.  Mac n cheese
88.  Hair salons
89.  John Mayer
90.  Flirting
91.  Headphones
92.  Dinner parties
93.  Coat sweaters
94.  Libraries
95.  Cooking
96.  Vinyl records
97.  Cafes
98.  Active listening
99.  Ice-cream cones
100.                      Paris

***
If you’re so inclined, give it a try.

It’s fun and makes your heart feel good.

A great and positive way to start a gloomy Thursday.

In propinquity,
Nic



Wednesday, May 29, 2019

Saint Reta



Saint Reta

I am just going to come right out and say it; I have grandparent envy. I am bonkers envious of those who have, or, grew up with, a true grandparental presence. The way I see it, grandparents are the unconditional love machines of families. The firm roots of the tree, the fonts of knowledge and wisdom, a symbol of maturity and stability, and those whose sole purpose is to spoil a kid rotten and smother them with unqualified affection. If I were to start dating someone right now whose grandparents were still kicking, I’d make fast friends with them, hang off their every word, admire every grey hair on their wonderful heads.

Father Mine’s parents both passed before I was even thought of, before I was a twinkle in my Mama’s eye. His mother died of complications from childbirth, a fact that has always made me a little sad since he was only a small boy. She wasn’t around long enough to scold him for teaching the Nuns how to roll cigarettes in the school stairwell only to be sent home. Permanently.

I had the honour of eulogizing Father Mine a few years back. In the wake of his passing, a story was shared that all but ripped my heart out. Grandma Myers, Clara, went off to the hospital to have a baby, my Auntie Clara, presumably named after her mother, born with Down Syndrome, an affinity for the banjo, the song ‘You Are My Sunshine’, and the biggest heart known to man. Before Grandma Myers left for hospital, she sat, with her very pregnant belly between them, and leaned forward, eye to eye with a nine-year-old Father Mine. She held his scrappy, not yet nicotine stained hands in hers and told him not to be afraid, and if he was good while she was gone, he could have a new bike like he’d been asking for. Father Mine never did get his bike. Grandma Myers never came back home. He carried that loss with him his whole life. And, when I said it aloud at his celebration of life, there was a crack in my voice, imagining him, in that tiny vignette, trusting his mother’s promise’ one I hope she made good on when they met again in Heaven.

I have it on good authority that Father Mine’s Poppa, Granddad Myers, drank a lot and was often quite a grumpy puss. Consider it, a businessman, running the local corner store and gas station, suddenly saddled with seven kids after his wife died. His eldest daughter assumed a maternal role in the household, but it was no easy feat trying to wrangle four haywire boys and two girls with special needs. Auntie Eva, born before Auntie Clara, fell sick after an operation which left her unable to care for herself. Granddad Myers refused to send them off for care, insisting they stay home and maintain their place in his family. Somehow, with all of that going on, he found the time and tenacity to get himself elected as County Councilor. On one hand, you’ve got a man turning a blind eye to his ledgers for folks who couldn’t quite pay for wares dispensed and going to bat for the community’s best interests, to the guy who frequently had too much of the hooch and spent his nights passed out cold while his crafty sons wriggled the car keys from the breast pocket of his overcoat, still covering his heaving chest. Lord knows the devilishness they got up to. I heard one story where he hopped in his jalopy to deliver a bag of groceries to a regular customer and the babooze, as Auntie Clara came to call liquor, overtook him and he drove off the main road, still dirt then, landing deep into the woods. According to my sources, it took several men and a horse to dislodge the heap of metal from the thicket of trees.

I did not have the pleasure of meeting him. He died in 1969. I was born in 1973.

I was afraid of my Mother’s father, Cam. We called him Grandpup. He didn’t darken our door all that much. I have vague memories of him visiting when I was super young. He’d have a woman on one arm and a small dog under the other. I’d run and hide in the outer basement whenever he showed up. I can’t say why I was fearful, perhaps because he was a stranger to me? I have asked several times why he was absent, why he wasn’t more present. The only thing I can decipher from the reluctant tidbits from my Mother is when her parents split up, she went to live with her Mother and her brother, my Uncle Bill, went to live with their father. I still can’t determine the dynamics. My Mother’s lips on the subject are pinched up tighter than a drawstring purse.

At one point in my late twenties, I started a very amateur quest to fill in my family tree. Even though Grandpup kept his distance, for whatever the reason, I still wanted to know more about him. I confess, I didn’t find much more other than the fact that he was in a nursing home and that he’d love to hear from me. Wide-eyed and optimistic, I put pen to paper and sent him a heartfelt note. The reply I received back was sweet and in the neatest handwriting. It turned out, by the time I reached out, he was no longer able to hold a pen himself. One of the nurses dictated his message back to me. He died shortly after our correspondence began. I attended the funeral with my Mother and Rock Star Brother. It hurt my heart in all kinds of ways I didn’t understand. I was standing there, at his casket, saying goodbye to a stranger, one I desperately wished I’d had the chance to know. I wish he had wanted to know me too.

Three out of four, and no dice.

Finally, we come to my Mother’s mother, Reta, or Nan, as we came to know and … er … love her. At some point in my youthful existence, I believed her to be elegantly refined, even glamourous. Smelling of soft talc and White Shoulders perfume. She was a tiny woman with a kind smile, not a hair out of place. In fact, not a trinket on her dresser was out of place; an OCD my Biggest Little Sister inherited. Nan lived with Uncle Bill in Fall River for a lot of years. I loved when we’d drive out to visit. She’d greet us with a smirk and chewy finger sandwiches. I remember being infatuated with a spinning wheel in my Aunt Laverne’s kitchen and/or entry way and feeling bashful because I thought my cousins Brenda and Sherry were so beautiful. I was in awe of them.  Aunt Lavern too. She was a teacher and with my affinity for writing, even as a runt, I wanted to be as poised and as sophisticated as she. In those days, I loved checking the mail around Easter and my birthday. There’d always be a card from the Fall River address with ‘Love, Nan’ scratched inside and a crisp five-dollar bill, prefaced with a phone call later in the day where she’d say, “I know it’s not much. Don’t waste it on candy!” As if!

The older I got, the surlier she seemed. Sometimes she’d come and stay with us in Cow Bay. At first, it was fun having her around. My Mother would putter while Nan knitted. But, come bath time, she’d take the reins and I dreaded it. I’d pour my pudgy self into the tub, try and hide as much of my porky self as possible with Avon Bubble Bath. I was self-conscious for a bazillion reasons as a fat kid. I also had hard white buds of psoriasis on my elbows. Then, I had no clue what it was, but I was enormously embarrassed by it I would always hide it with longer sleeves. I had to succumb to more than my fair share of Pillsbury pokes, I didn’t need anyone pointing out additional imperfections. Nan, who didn’t have a clue what the psoriasis was either, would plunk her skinny rump on the side of the tub, take up the pumice stone and scrub at the bumps until they were raw and almost bleeding. Let’s review, put it into perspective for a moment, shall we? Pumice is formed when hot lava mixes with water and hardens, forming a porous and abrasive stone perfect for sloughing away dry skin. To be clear, I did not have dry skin. But psoriasis. When one uses a pumice stone, one is meant to soak the calloused skin in warm water, wet the stone, and gently rub in circles until the dead skin falls away. How not to use a pumice stone? Dunk a deranged looking elbow into sudsy water, grab the stone dry, and scrub side to side. Picture Cinderella, mad as a hatter at her evil stepsisters, scrubbing away at a filthy floor. That was Nan, the pumice stone, and my elbows, “Child, you are scurvy! You need to keep yourself clean!” Folks, the trauma is real. I’ll have you know that the points of my adult elbows tingled and burned while writing this.

This is redonkulously embarrassing but when I was a kid, I had a poop problem. I can’t tell you why or when it started, but, when the urge struck, I held it. Refused to go.  I remember once Father Mine took me and my Way Cooler Big Sister to visit Aunt Helen’s ceramic shop. When they were ready to leave home, I was contemplating a number two. They rushed me and I did not want to miss seeing my Aunt Helen or ceramics, so I held it. Good and tight. And, when the feeling subsided a little, I rushed out and jumped in the car with them. It was a mistake. My tummy ached and roared the whole visit. We were there forever. And, the whole time we were, I was consumed by thoughts of not having to poop. Finally, we piled back into the car to go home. I was anxious, the desire to push was great. I stood up in the back of the car, leaning up against the middle of the front seat, my bum cheeks squeezed as if my life depended on it. Father Mine sped up. He hit a bump. I wasn’t prepared. And then it happened, I soiled myself. It felt like a whole head of cauliflower in my summer shorts. The stench was immediate. I bawled my eyes out. Father Mine reprimanded me for holding it. It was a scene. It took me forever to recover.

A similar incident happened with Nan. I was stretched out on the living-room floor watching TV with the family dog, a poodle terrier, Boots. I was engrossed in whatever was on. I, at the same time, really need to poop. Nan must have been eyeing me, sitting on the chesterfield, knitting. I remember it like it was yesterday. I stifled a grunt, squeezed my bum at the same time my legs were crossed. It was like Fort Knox up in there, nothing was coming out any time soon. That is, until Nan, took her slender slippered foot, nudged me hard on the arse and told me to get the hell to the bathroom and use it. She startled me. I let go. More cauliflower. She sent me to bed with no supper. My Mother couldn’t even save me.

There is one incredibly important lesson I learned from her and that was tolerance of my fellow man. My Way Cooler Big Sister had a friend in Junior High, her name was Juanita. She was a smooth-skinned African Canadian and I was smitten. Her eyes were big and the darkest of browns, her afro impressive and kempt. She dressed like my Way Cooler Big Sister, jeans with a matching jacket, t-shirt, and runners. She sat for dinner this one evening while Nan was visiting. My Mother called everyone to the table. We all settled in for eats. Nan scanned the table and locked her eyes on our guest. She then threw her stare at my Mother and abruptly refused to eat at the table and spat, “I’ll take dinner in my room.” She said something else too that I can’t repeat here. My Way Cooler Big Sister and her beautiful friend left the table, plates still steaming, my Way Cooler Big Sister cursed toward the hallway Nan traveled down. The rest of us left ate in deafening silence.

I was oblivious at the time but in later years it was explained she left the table because Juanita wasn’t white. It devastated me. To admit my little ol’ Nan was so intolerant. I wish now I knew the reasons why. Where it came from. Her experiences. How the prejudice germinated in her. I wish I had asked her a million questions later in life, when I was mature and curious. I have never, in my whole life, considered the difference in the color of someone’s skin to mean anything less being human. In the case of Juanita, she was so strikingly beautiful, and she had this child-like laugh, I was obsessed with her awesomeness, not that she didn’t look like me, but with her person. Nan’s predisposition did not stick to my Mother and she did not pass it down to me. Quite the opposite. I am grateful for that. It’s a scary thing to witness. To admit.

Despite it all, I loved Nan. With all my heart.  I was eager to please her, which I discovered was no easy task. But, in her later years, when I was attending Junior High, she came to live with us. A meeker version of her curt self. Senior. Frail. She required constant oxygen and attention. She could never be left home alone. We had to make alterations to our house. She couldn’t climb stairs often or well. She’d come downstairs firs thing in the morning and go back up at bedtime. We built a bathroom for her in our back closet to accommodate her that still garners closet jokes, as in coming out of, to this day. She had a glider rocker that she positioned in the corner of our kitchen so she could be front and center of all the action, she was stoic but nosey. She’d sit, always with a coat sweater over her slight shoulders, gliding back and forth in quick juts on her rocker, watching, listening with her bleeping hearing aids, ready to dispense opinion.

My most favorite memory of that time is as follows. We had just finished dinner. Nan, was of course, rocking quickly to and fro in her chair. I was sitting at the kitchen table, still picking. My Mother and Way Cooler Big Sister were busy cleaning up the stove and piling dishes for washing. It was a calm, typical kitchen scene for us. My Mother, while chattering away, leaned into the bottom corner cupboard to put something away. Way Cooler Big Sister, unaware of just how close she was to her, knocked her wide hip into my Mother’s behind and shoved her head and shoulders square into the cupboard. She got stuck. Of course, we all stopped breathing for two point five seconds until my Mother yelped for help to get unstuck. My Way Cooler Big Sister, while pissing her pants laughing, yanked her out, like ripping off a band-aid. But my Nan, I had never seen her laugh so hard in my entire life. The woman who violently scraped my elbows off, who made me shit my pants, tainted a perfectly lovely meal with racism, was roaring with abandon. My Mother didn’t have time to be mad at my Way Cooler Big Sister because she was on her knees laughing at Nan laughing. I know it had to be a good feeling for her. Nan was tough on her while she was in her care. In Nan’s eyes, my Mother couldn’t do anything right. Like if Nan said, “Bring me home the sun”, my Mother would, and then Nan would lose her marbles and say, “I told you to bring me home the MOON! Do you ever listen?!” Nan’s requests were so specific, and my Mother be damned if she dared return home with what was entreated, to the letter. It made me sad for my Mother. She turned herself inside out for Nan. So, in that instant of authentic mirth, we were all just women, sharing a moment. A moment to be remembered forever.

My Nan was not a perfect person. She was deeply flawed and that’s okay. I remember her, in her last days, before she passed. She was so tired. I’d check on her, in her bedroom next to mine, on the days she couldn’t do the stairs. She’d sometimes take my hand in her soft palm, her knuckles bent from arthritis, “You’re a good girl. Stay that way.” It was a grave improvement from the time I came home for lunch with my friend the asthmatic and Nan said, “It’s too bad you aren’t pretty like she is.” As in, blonde and thin.

I didn’t make it to the hospital on the to visit before she passed away. It’s a tiny regret I carry with me on my life’s journey. Wherever she is now, I hope she knows I wasn’t lousy in the elbows and that I adored despite our ethical differences and personal hygiene practices.

Ain’t no saint, Reta. But I loved her just the same.

***

It seems these little pieces of creative non-fiction are becoming something of a series. I can’t wait to see what idea comes next!

If you have Nannies and Grampies in your life, hug them for me.

In propinquity,
Nic



Friday, May 24, 2019

Everything in My Heart



Everything in My Heart

Time travel, it is indeed possible. Perhaps not courtesy of a plutonium-powered DeLorean, quantum mechanics or wormholes but the simplest act of turning on the radio, adjusting your FM dial. Music is an instant time machine; I know this to be true. For example, every time I hear Corey Hart’s ‘Never Surrender’, I am instantly transported back in time, to a warm sunny day in the mid-eighties, one I spent with my Rock Star Brother.

It should be noted, that as a dumpy young girl, I idolized the padded-shoulder blazer off my Rock Star Brother, convinced he’d walked straight out of the pages of 16 Magazine instead of being born of our Mother’s loins. In my day-dreamy phase/haze, he was just as famous as Ah-Ha and my favorites, Duran Duran.

One fortuitous afternoon (for me anyway), my Rock Star Brother pulled into our newly paved driveway where moments before I’d wiped out hard on my friend’s BMX bike. My Mother was chuffed, tending my scraped knee with a bloody tissue and rubbing alcohol. “You have a perfectly nice bicycle with a banana seat and those tassels you wanted, why do you have to go racing around on Allan’s bike?” I lied and told her the banana seat hurt my ho-ha. The truth was, my pal Allan’s bike was faster, easier to fly over a make-shift ramp and didn’t make me look like a wuss. I had plenty of image problems as a blob and his bike boosted my self-esteem. It’s true, I did ask for the pastel tassels. I thought I wanted a banana seat until I took a rip on a BMX. My Mother, at her wits end with me, pawned me off on my Rock Star Brother. He protested at first, just a little, citing very important band errands as the reason I wouldn’t be able to tag along.  I stood there between them, short and stout, I shrugged and started off with my bad knee back out the side door, dejected. If I’m being honest, part of me was profoundly crushed. My Other Big Brother had always refused to take me to the races with him despite my begging to go. It didn’t feel unusual to be told no but it twisted up my heart like a pretzel all the same. Another part of me was relieved. My Rock Star Brother was a larger than life figure. I was in complete awe of him and that made me somewhat shy which I’m sure came off as standoffish back then. God only knows. I was always mum around him because I was at a loss for words in the presence of his abundant coolness. I never wanted him to think I was a big dough head. Even though I was.

I can’t tell you why he changed his mind, but he hung out of the side door and called to me as I was about to climb back on the BMX for further injury. “If you’re coming with me, go get ready!” He startled me. I stood there, wide-eyed, like an imbecile, staring at him, the bike leaning toward the asphalt almost fell out of my hand. There was a long awkward pause. I clued in eventually that I was going to be heading out with my Rock Star Brother to do very important band errands. “Well, are you coming?” I dropped that bike quicker than a hot potato and ran like a bat out of hell in the house to tidy frumpy self.

I brushed my dark feral mullet, then my teeth, checked for whiteheads on my chin in the mirror, changed from stretchy shorts to stretchy pants, pulled a stiff white cotton t-shirt over my head that made me look like a saltine cracker box, square and blunt. Those were the days of training bras and I was borderline mortified that the only t-shirt I had clean that fit, aka covered my chub, also revealed the seams of what my Way Cooler Big Sister jokingly referred to as an over the shoulder boulder holder. It took me two point five seconds to get ready and another two point five to muster the courage to open the bathroom door, leave the house and go with him. I was terrified of making a fool of myself. I wanted him to think I was at least marginally cool enough to tote around for his very important band errands.

With the sun shining and my heart in my mouth, I climbed in the gold Pontiac station wagon, better known as the band wagon, settled myself on the front bench seat, clicked my seat belt secure and took a deep breath. It should be noted that I was smiling like a brute. All the windows were already rolled down so when we started out the earnest wind whirled through the vehicle while a lone microphone stand clunked and rolled around in the empty back. I found myself squinting as we made our way into town from Cow Bay. He told me to reach into the glove compartment and see if a spare set of sunglasses might be inside. I was in luck. I pushed the too-big frames on my face and suddenly I was a rock star too.

We came to a full stop at traffic lights and that’s when he switched the radio on. He manually checked all the stations unsatisfied with what he heard. He ducked into the mall and left the car humming, I waited for him still buckled into the bench seat daring my feet to hit the filthy floor; Rock Star Brother came out after what felt like eons, with a record store bag. I vetoed his Rush purchase on the spot but was agreeable to the Corey Hart cassette. While he drove, I ripped the cellophane from around the clear plastic case, squeaky at its hinges, inhaling the fresh scent of the glossy liner notes, and popped the tape into the deck.

Rock Star Brother drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel through the first few upbeat tracks, primarily built on jangly synthesizers layered with surly vocals. But, a few songs into the tape lived a soaring power ballad called ‘Never Surrender’, its lyrics suffused with the positive message to self-empower. I didn’t know that then, but it served as the perfect soundtrack to rolling around the city doing very important band errands with a very important person. While Corey Hart crooned with a little perseverance you can get things done/without the blind adherence that has conquered some, I rested my chin on the car door and watched houses and streets and beautifully manicured lawns roll by, the sting of the hot sun on my face, a warm breeze through my stupid hair, and my Rock Star Brother’s familiar voice singing with the radio.

We stopped at a random house. Random to me anyway. I sat vigil with Corey Hart while Rock Star brother dropped things off. Once he made is way through the front door, I re-wound the song and sang clumsily along. The next place we landed was Music Stop. While he was in there doing God knows what, bartering, paying, begging, or borrowing, I re-wound the song and listened to it again. If he noticed he never mentioned it. Rock Star Brother hurled a heavy amplifier into the back of the Pontiac and then handed me two oranges. “Peel these for us while I drive, wha’?” I dug into the thick skin of the citrus and removed it in one long piece. I gave the first one to him, evenly halved on a super suspect McDonald’s napkin from the glove compartment I spied when I dug out the glasses. He set it in his lap and popped the wedges in his mouth as he drove. I peeled mine and wondered how the holy heck he managed to get oranges at a music store. I was too nervous to ask. I chewed on the orange slices nervously, worried that my acne would explode. They didn’t call me pizza face for nothing. I envied my Rock Star Brother, his perfectly tanned cheekbones, his dirty blonde tresses, his pale colored eyes; not to mention his natural ability to carry a tune and play a guitar. Beauty and the Beast rollin’ and I was not the Beauty in the tableau. I never did quite catch up to his loveliness. Or his coolness. Always a little worried I wasn’t worthy. I certainly didn’t feel worthy doing very important band errands, but I did feel lucky to be along for the ride with him.

There was a bit of distance between Music Stop and our next destination. I rewound the tape so many times I didn’t realize there was another soaring power ballad, ‘Everything in My Heart’. Somehow, he knew every single word and sang them beautifully, even better in my humble opinion, then Corey Hart himself. I sat with my little adolescent heart swelling under my stiff cotton t-shirt, my eyes like moons, listening, desperately wanting to chime in. At that moment, and on many occasions after, everything in my heart, beat for my Rock Star Brother, beat with love and pride and admiration.

We had one last stop to make that day. My Rock Star Brother had to pick up his Lead Singer. All six foot million of him folded in half to squeeze himself into the back seat. Compared to the sleekness of our driver, Lead Singer looked as though he’d just rolled out of bed. It was after three in the afternoon. “Man, I just woke up! Let’s rock ‘n’ roll!” He tapped his hands quickly on the back of the bench seat, playfully tousled my mullet and growled, “Hey little sister what have you done …” I blushed ten shades of red.

Rock Star Brother and Lead Singer disappeared into the basement when we got back to Cow Bay. Eventually, the other band members arrived, and band practice commenced. Unbeknownst to my chauffeur, I snuck back out to the station wagon, ejected the tape from the car stereo, put it right into my Walkman Father Mine had just bought me. I rewound and fast-forwarded to listen to those two soaring power ballads a thousand times over stole away in my room. I listened to every note and nuance and recalled every second, I spent with my Rock Star Brother doing very important band errands.

My Mother came to call me for supper and asked me how my day had been. I told her it was the best day of my life. I’ve had so many amazing days with my Rock Start Brother since, but I don’t think he ever knew just how much spending any time at all together meant. Perhaps he still doesn’t. I hope he does.

With a little perseverance you can get things done

***

A wee piece of creative non-fiction about my Rock Star Brother.

I love you.

In propinquity,
Nic





Thursday, May 23, 2019

In Full Conscience and Joy



In Full Conscience and Joy

It is, with full conscience and joy, I stride into the trifling yet requisite possible present. I praise the old language of prayer for the prospect. A trembling romance haunted the deepest depths, no clarion hymns coincided with the exalting launch or crippling conclusion; only a somber dirge likened. Then come, the subtlest melodiousness arose, it ceased the mournful chorus. And, without any signs of miracle, the cutting rumblings collected themselves, spiraled into permanent exile, so the sweetness of living could be recalled. Defunct Lover swallowed down with pleasure. Voracious thief. An attempt to deliberately abolish a living woman. A living woman, who aspired to chance the fullness of love, gravely misled in lieu.

Nothing left, nary a memento. So long it was, to remain caught in the unrequited rustle of aloneness, bare subject to the din of hunger and thirst for affections lost.  Entreated to stubborn dreams of the future despite an ebbing hand, the withdraw of a wanton gaze. So long it took, to recall how to adequately articulate the syllables required to illuminate the darkest of things.

It is, with full conscience and joy, I stretch myself across a penciled page, to erase the dusky body of disappointment, to take back the firmament, everything in between, ink it there, bold marks of freedom, contentment re-imagined.

It is, with full conscience and joy, I sliver the past with an open heart, wide eyes, raised chin, walk into the quavering unknown to discover a new bliss.

A brief awaiting, underway.

A new world, exposed.

Full conscience.

Abundant joy.

***

Last night, on the way to Halifax to see Ria Mae, I scribbled my way through this sort of prose poem. I considered breaking the lines apart, but it looked prettier this way, in paragraphs. I don’t know about you, but for me, it packs more of a punch in prose form. I mean, it may not pack much of anything for you at all, but it certainly was fun to write.

What’s more, it feels good to hear the rusty wheels in my brain turning. Perhaps all the reading I’ve been doing oiled them? No matter, any day I write something, anything, is a good day. Today is another good day. Go me!

I can tell you with great certainty, I’d give anything to be out on an artist date right now. But alas, the 9 to 5 calls. Writing is my passion, but I still have to pay the bills.

In propinquity,
Nic