flora cover,
warm embrace
and insatiable,
reaching up
for more;
the tree
looks down
and the
tulips, brightly
in bloom,
yellow in
their attempt
to mimic,
reach up
to greet
their old
protector and
stoic friend.
Jetlag Park, 2015
I have really neglected these posts for the past few months. I don’t have the excuse of saying I hardly have time to write or paint, but that’s summer life really, always filling the day with work and play. And of course more than a few shitty instances that have occurred since my last post have hampered some inspiration. I can see how some people like to write through the grief of saying goodbye to loved ones, but I never could do it. It brings up too much that I’d rather just push away, forget about feeling bad and move on.
So until I get my act together and start something (possibly get a few short stories going, complete a few outlines… the normal stuff that writers wish they’d do but never do until that final push of “I need to get this done” occurs), here is an oldie from earlier this year.
[Coriolanus]
With a sword in his hand
he must be strong;
With a powerful yell
he must command;
With resolve in his eye
he must be leader;
though it can’t be so.
His stride is long
but steps are faint;
his tracks are washed out,
a stomp easily forgotten
as the ground rises around
and the rain falls;
flash-floods in his wake
not of joy, the fearful
path is washed out
with his back to us
slowly, far away
and we can breathe.
His thrust is resilient,
yet it’s a glancing blow
a poisonous strike,
determined to win
can it be precise; he falters
with the sun is against him
and it twitches, one stray glare
and the blade is weakened;
dropping now, drilled to the ground
with a grip lost, it slips
slowly, down
and his hand is outstretched
as one we can ignore.
But he is only that: just a man
consumed by pride and vanity
burning away until a tunnel,
his only vision, remains as
he is human;
He is one of us
and reaching out,
never sought or seen
in a plead to be drawn in,
embraced for one last time
proved worthy and finally
accepted.
Yes, yes I know… I hardly share what’s going on with me creatively on here. I blame school, sickness (oh man…) and reaching out for publications, not too sure if they like things previously posted online or not. BUT anyways, I want to share a story for once. I may post a few poems later this week, but I opened a previous half-done story from… 2011? that I have yet to finish last night because I didn’t want it to die. Your know that feeling if you’ve tried writing before, you start something, it’s the best idea ever, and then after a little while the flame just dies out (mine just lessened for it though, switched to the back-burner for, once again, school! Enough of that though, and on with the story. I wrote it back in September with Halloween in mind, my favourite holiday. I feel a lot of people like the appeal of a darker side, something unusual, but will never harm us as it’s ‘make-believe’… or is it?
Sharing the Shadows
It’s almost time for me to go to bed. I can feel my body lean forward, and I begin to slouch as the energy built up during the day gives up its cause and dissolves into the air. It becomes harder to keep myself warm. I crave the small bed only a few feet away, to flop down like a rag doll and cuddle into the sheets for the night. It isn’t a very comfortable bed, but when the urge to sleep takes hold, anything that resembles what could be a comfortable area looks so much better than sitting in an office chair.
Something holds me back. The bedroom is a small room, only large enough for a bed, desk and dresser to fit comfortably, but the space behind the desk, behind me, is wide enough for many to stand in. And I feel as though it’s occupied.
It started a long time back as a glimpse out of the corner of my eye, a shadow that I rationalized away as my own, and that I was only being paranoid about the empty air. The cat of my house is especially sneaky as well, and creeps up on me many times throughout the day. I only notice him from these glimpses because he’s so silent. Alex is his name, named after the great Alexanders of the ages. He’s a black American cat that is barely out of his kitten year. He isn’t my own pet, but my roommate’s, though I feel as though he is the house cat. The three of us love him as our own, in all his demonized glory (what kitten isn’t a terror is something I would like to figure out).
Even Alex, normally a cuddler when one of us is alone, began to avoid the space. Throughout the day, everywhere within the small house is his territory where he marches around proudly, but at night… I don’t think that the space is mine anymore, let alone the cat’s space.
When the sun sets and the world begins to dim, the overhead light is turned on. It’s a habit, to create light when it’s still needed for anything. In this case, the burdens of a university student take over the urge to sleep and the light flickers to life for a guide to read by. This time is fine; every detail of the room is expanded and scrutinized by the fluorescent glow, and the only places left to hide are the places unseen.
Then that light becomes too much for me. The darkening of the day opens up the primal ebb to my eyes, and they requested the light be dimmed as my body gets tired. I agree, hoping to keep my eyes in shape a little while longer before the prescription eyeglasses take precedent over my normal, unsheathed vision, and turn on the dimmed lamps placed around my room. The glow from the two small lamps is very comforting and envelops the room in warmth that my body can’t feel anymore, though my mind can perceive it.
And that is where the predicament I am in now begins.
The ambience of the room should be inviting, allowing me to relax, but my entire being tenses in anticipation. The shadows are undefined, spreading and reaching around the room. They claw into the small crevices that I could see easily moments before, and with the lack of decisive lighting my eyes grow weak to find their origins.
Alex is nowhere to be seen. The stuffed elephant he normally steals from under my computer monitor has vanished with him.
Over the months, the kitten wore into a mature cat, and he would stare for hours at me like a scientist studies his subjects, considering, until the energy crept back into his still-young mind and he darted off to do God only knows what. Mainly, he would bring from my room a small stuffed elephant that was about his size as a newborn, the grey, floppy ears hanging out of his mouth as the beady black eyes staring out in front of Alex’s path. He wouldn’t play with it though, only bring it to me and scurry away once I grabbed the stuffed toy out of his mouth. Curious little bugger. And an annoying one, too. That elephant is the one thing I would depend on, the one ounce of my childhood I brought with me when moving out, and the inanimate toy’s absence now pushes my fear forward.
There is something behind me. I can feel it.
I rationalize that it’s only paranoia of an empty space, and that nothing can possibly be in the house, let alone the room. I’m alone for the weekend, everyone else has left for their boyfriends, or a retreat somewhere; I’m not sure. All I know is Alex is downstairs, Adrianne and Nicki are gone, and there is something else there.
In the daytime, in the exact same position as I face the draped window and skyline painting hanging on my wall, the fear is nonexistent. On rainy, less lit days, it’s still only a room.
But at night when the darkness easily sneaks into my room, the white is there. I don’t know why it is white, I can’t even turn around to confirm that it is, but I just know.
Just as I know it’s finally starting to move closer.
Days of standing there, watching, are over.
It has been there a while. I don’t recall when exactly that I was alert to the presence, but it grew. At first, it was a small inkling that I could turn around easily, glance at the alarm clock as if that was what I was meaning to do, and continue on with studying once I reaffirmed that I was alone.
Tonight, the most I can bare to look is slightly over my shoulder. The wall next to me is barely in the light from the desk lamp, mainly engulfed in the obscure, and doesn’t offer any comfort. The lamp directly behind me does nothing to ease the panic either; it shines brightly on that side of the room and unimpeded as ever before.
I know that you’re not there, I think to myself in a calming, reassuring thought. And I know that you don’t care. This house has become less like a home with the white presence, and as soon as I knew the roommates were leaving, I became panicked with the thought of being alone this weekend. It grew, it’s powerful enough to do something, and I dread what that something could be.
Is it truly this cold in the house? The thermostat is set to a very comforting temperature from my trip before I withdrew to my room. Even it can’t push away the force of my room’s visitor.
This house isn’t a new one, I was never told how old is actually was when the three of us moved in; could it be the spirits from before our lease? Spirits can’t harm physically, or that’s what I’ve come to believe through hours of scouring the internet for any evidence of the paranormal. None of that has helped with immense sensation of the real thing.
The floor creaks so slightly that I barely catch it. It’s an unmistakable sound in this room. My breath catches as I wait for the next step.
Maybe it’s Alex?
A cat can’t make that sound, and he never has before. My mind is reasoning against logic.
My eyes desperately want to close, but I unwillingly ignore them. My body wants to curl into the covers like so many nights before, and I no longer think it’s an option. They are forced to stay open; I refuse to go down blinded by panic. Or maybe the panic holds the muscles in place. I don’t think I’ve blinked in a few minutes.
A thought grips me so quickly that I almost forget my circumstance; almost, but never enough to fully pull my attention from sensing the uninvited guest.
I know what it looks like. It’s every fear I’ve ever had, the gaping eyes and expressionless face. There’s no colour, only the white, the shadows of its features, and the black. It’s been there forever, and even with this revelation I still can’t turn.
The air moves again, and all sounds are blocked out.
My neck is cold.
All I can see is white.
I’ve overstayed the nighttime hours, and the white is here to take them back.
I’m back! But only for a little while. Lots of readings to do for the semester ahead, oh boy. BUT I had a creative streak, and offer a new poem, written about 10 minutes ago, as a gift… and a bit of a plea. It’s in response to a movie I just watched called The Whistleblower with Rachel Weisz. Very sad story, don’t watch if you can’t stomach human torturing (even though not much of it is shown on screen). I do recommend it though, very well done and really makes you wonder about the world… Anyways, onto my verse, enjoy:
(Kathryn)
Stand outside the building
and watch painfully still.
Watch the flames billow
touching and tasting the wood around
until a suitable plank
is found.
The air grows hot
from the rising fire
waves of warmth in pulses
do not turn away
a sudden swell of heat
pushes outwards
as the wooden structure slowly
collapses
built on foundation too frail
from the debris of the war.
A crowd has gathered
cheering the burning on
hollering in praise
and having a merry time
paid to watch
not paid to act.
A few stand in the background
silently gazing on
as the wind howls through the cracks
of the house
gathering force
it’s enough noise for them.
The gale becomes stronger
and smoke from the flames
is pushed out to the crowd
the hollering ones gasp
choked
as thick and toxic fumes
penetrate their lungs.
And all the while
the bystanders are silent
but internally
egging the wind on
kill the betrayers
the would-be protectors
and let us rebuild it strong.
The flames collapse and the crowd moves on
whoever is left, crawling away
in shame
the embers settle down
planks precariously leaning
supporting each other
the only way they know how.
And that’s where we come in
to lend a supporting hand
for the need is greater now
than ever before
that poorly assembled house
can never be a home.
But in the end, it’s only one
of many waiting around
the fire has moved on,
waiting to surface again
from the underground.
So it’s just one of those days where I question if I’m doing the right thing. I’ve done it before, right in the middle of a career, and started over again. But I hope this time I have found the right answer. At least for a longer while. I can’t stay in a career where every day I question if I’m really making a difference, when every step leaves me with a foul taste. Hobbies are different from passions; I’ve learned that the hard way.
Today I reached out to acting and modelling, something I haven’t done in about 10 years. I put myself out there, dipped a toe into those waters, but really I don’t want it, no matter how glorious it looks. I like my ‘dusty’ research, I like learning and the thrill of discovering something that not many others care about. It’s just one of those things everyone wishes to try because it doesn’t look so hard, it gets you recognized and successful. It’s not the success set out for my own future. I’m only 23, and it seems so early in my life, but so late at the same time. Don’t you ever get that feeling? If you only started earlier, where would you be now, or why didn’t you figure it out sooner? For a while, I felt I wasted a few years on my artistic goals only to see it was a fun hobby and maybe some extra recognition and money. Now I don’t feel that way. It was an experience, and though I may not have loved every second of it, I did enjoy it. I still paint, I still write fiction and as seen below, poetry. It’s a mode of expression, and if it leads somewhere that’s its own accord. I’m not guiding it, only giving it a voice.
Also, just found this very interesting painting that I wanted to share: Guillermo Kutica. I feel the dreary tone is fitting even though I found a light out of my musings; sometimes the dark just needs to come out.
So that’s what I’ve chosen to write about today, that instant after the seed of doubt sets in, when you are able to take a step back and say “No, that’s not right at all.” That step back was the most useful piece of advice I was ever given in art classes. If you focus for so long on one section, the whole piece is lost. To remove yourself, give the eyes a break and reevaluate after a few rejuvenating moments, and it’s all that is needed to see what you truly need to do.
(passion or disturbance)
I stray sometimes
if only to learn the truth
do I really need another route
or is it there
to test
and make a jest of me?
A perspective, desperate
needed in times of loss
faith stays in the trail I chose
and realize
it’s all I truly need.
When glory by another name
presents itself
shiny, fresh and alluring
of course I’m drawn in
like the moth to a light
a way out of darkness
when I am in the dark
the depths of my desires
of course I question
and doubt every step
dark is hard for human eyes
I can’t distinguish the ground
from the pitfalls
I need to stop this
distracting me
no matter how tempting they may be
the appeal for something new
washes over
pulled away with the tide leaving
and pushed aground later
when it’s too deep to swim.
Am I afraid?
Take the risk
draw blood on the way
I’m scarred for life
where the passion takes hold
it has hooked on
to my heart
and will never let go.
Tattoos and tattooing has become a complex idea to me. I studied for a while as a tattoo artist before I realized the field was not for me; I was happy building my own collection, but didn’t have a strong need to share them with others. Tattoos became a way for me to express myself, more than paintings or poetry or novelization as I carried it with me. And it didn’t start as a way to rebel, or go against society like most of my relatives believed.
I saw tattoos when I was about 12 or 13 as a form of art and expression. That’s what I believed at the time, and in a way that belief has carried through to my perceptions of it now. I always wanted one of my own. I wanted something outward and colourful to represent the art inside of me. And so many things in my teen years gave me a reason to create one of my own.
That’s where my first came from: a budgie in flight, about to land, with the phrase “In the Presence of Angels” held in his feet. It was kind of an homage to my first true pet, Angel, but also to show I did care about those around me and their opinions. They were my angels, and I never wanted that to change.
It sounds so sappy now, but it still resonates true. Since then, I’ve inked impulse tattoos on my legs, ones that immortalize quotes that refer to an event, and memorial tattoos. My last memorial one, a candle and rose on my foot that started as a random image, probably relates the most to my feelings about being a tattoo artist. It was a fleeting idea, one that I attempted and left to pursue bigger things, things that I felt needed my attention more than something I was only half-passionate about. That doesn’t mean I’m not planning another tattoo as I write this post as I can’t stand stopping because of one little bump in the road.
Tattooing is an art form to me, and because of my tattoos I feel so much more comfortable in my own skin. I feel I don’t need to hide anymore as my ideals are out for all to see. If they analyze the images, go for it. The little skull on my ankle? I thought he was cute. The swallow on my shoulder blade? A permanent reminder to keep moving forward and to keep exploring. They may not be the best of tattoos out there, but they’re mine. What I can’t stand is people overcompensating their positive feelings on tattoos; I get it, you kind of don’t like them, but feel the need to compliment every one you see to show you approve of their existence. Whatever.
My skin feels bare when it doesn’t have colour on it. It’s a blank canvas, just waiting to be covered. My parents probably don’t feel the best from that idea, and I most likely won’t cover a lot of my skin, but it’s still an open. If I want to have a permanent reminder in the future, I have no qualms against inking it in my skin. My tattoos show events and things that are a part of me, and though my tastes may change over time, I can’t and don’t want to change who I was at any point.
Maybe tattoos play a bigger role in my life than I thought…
I realized I have not posted on here in a while… quite a while actually. Writing terms papers does that really, too much writing on one day and BAM, don’t feel like writing anymore for the day. Hence the Metric song title as a blog title (very good song by the way, I love the songs where you like the sound, and then actually listen to the lyrics and enjoy those too). BUT I am back with a nice little poem and maybe a few thoughts somewhere in between. So this poem is a few weeks ago. I have recently began to focus on a workout now that I’m away from the barn so often, I actually need to exercise myself. I took up yoga, Vinyasa style, as it’s offered at my school. Pretty neat eh? I love it, and at the end of each class there is a meditation portion that I thoroughly enjoy. You’re not meant to think about anything in particular, but I make sure to write directly after it to have a record of that session. Sometimes I come up with great ideas, others I just feel really refreshed. But this poem was written as I was walking home from the class:
I feel the hollow
where the ribs hold up my skin
and the muscles pull them upwards
up and up
to breathe deeper
it’s obscure in there
the only light let in
from the life I need
the blood rushing around and through
I feel the vibrations
everything within is moving
sluggish, upbeat
but today it holds strong
as far as it can manage.
My toes are cold
the extremities are losing purpose
my body must be in a bad state
I feel them as numb
an odd sensation
when I can still move at will
unlike sleeping
because I have full control
if I need to be awake
in an instance I will be
and to feel the lack of reason
to feel the limbs fold in
when the most vital needs win the struggle
of circulation
chokes me.
Where does it stop
do I decide how much is needed
or will it tell me
or never stop until it is all
shut down.
Do you ever feel the sensation of just being? No focus on the world around, but only on the world running inside you. It’s magnificent; I never realized what I was taking for granted in myself. The way you breathe, the circulation of everything necessary… In this age, we’re so focused on the material, emotional feelings and such around us and I admit, I do it too. The art around me on my walls attests to that easily; the stack of clothing I just unpacked made me very happy at its presence in my hands as my own. But to step back every so often, to just feel this world without judgments, emotions or an inner dialogue really gives the chance to experience it. It’s like a next step from realizing yourself: placing yourself in the world as its not so different from the body’s rhythm. It’s too cold now to just go out an sit in a park (I don’t even know if there is a park nearby), but the few instances that I can, I just observe. In the end, it might not be the best thing to do as you do become ‘outside’ of it all but I feel it can center in a way that I have never been able to experience before. It’s great to get different views every so often, isn’t it?
Oh I need to do another post on my Halloween research, that stuff was interesting… Maybe I’ll post it tomorrow if I have the time, share my horrific and ghoulish findings 🙂
I know I’ve neglected this for a while now, but that’s the life of a student. Ah well, the Poem a Day continues off-screen, and that’s all I need sometimes. Here’s one that came to me in September, plus a painting I just finished about 20 minutes ago.
(mind over matter)
It came back again
in my most vulnerable state
my mind was relaxed
meditation, unmoving;
the grass was whispering
against my skin
the trees in the distance
swayed as the current pushed
swirls in the sky
colours moving into themselves.
Then the sky clouded over
the colours dulled to grey
the oscillation held still
and my head turned to the side.
Heartbeat jumped in surprise
it was only a few feet away
staring through a haunting gape
the holes in the face
my pulse rose
meditation destroyed
but saved when my mind kicked back.
I lifted my hand
and with the wind
through my fingers
I wiped it away
rubbed from existence
erased from my world.
I turned back to the grass
and lay down in its embrace;
I felt the needles grow higher
and overcome me completely.
‘Gone Now’, acrylic and spray paint, 2013.
Absinthe & Ink 