Category Archives: Conversation

Stalemate

I don’t understand chess, I never learned it, but I do get that there are Queens and Kings and pawns, and I understand the concept of a stalemate. I think all my past relationships ended that way. “I can’t make any moves, seems like a dead-end here, you copy?” “Over and out I read you, no moves to be made, all possible moves cancelled out.” It’s like being on a two-way radio playing chess. How the hell did this happen? Fuck my life as they say. I’ve never had luck with women and I never had a real desire to learn chess. To me it seems like something old people do, like golf, golf, chess, and ballroom dancing. If I ever get that stale mate, check me off the board. I’d rather not continue, I’d rather find myself at the end with no more moves left to make and a pocket full of memories of how things used to be fun, and I’ll take those and sit in the sun with a drink and a book, and stare at hot young Greek girl’s asses by the beach in Mykonos, no wait that’s something my ex girlfriend did when I was with her in the sun on a Greek island. She told me quite frankly, as we watched a young woman walking on the beach. “she has a nice ass,” and I thought this girl sure doesn’t hold back her thoughts, but she was right, I suppose, only those things never much mattered to me, maybe when I’m really old I’ll miss being young enough to imagine waking up in a spoon position with some Greek girl’s tight ass against my pelvis, but if she’s one of those carefree bitches, I’ll feel worse rather than better, and if she’s got too much of a tortured mind to have fun, then I’ll be equally tormented, so who cares about her ass, it’s only good to look at and imagine something better. But I got her back later at the café that evening, a lovely waitress came out to serve our coffee, and as she walked away I declared “wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman so hot in my whole damn life, what a Goddess!” And my ex just looked at me and said “thanks a lot.” I aim to please I guess, but then you know, we hit that place of no going forward and no going back, and as I reflect, there was never anything for us to go forward to together, and never a reason for me to go back, except maybe to sit in the sun, on a gorgeous Greek island, and enjoy the view.

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Filed under Aegean, Alone, Break Ups, Challenge, Cleansed, Comedy, Conversation, creative, Greece, Greek, Humour, Lesbian, Loneliness, Loss, Memory, Message, Poem, poetry, Prose, Relationships, travel, writing

Feeling less alone, (on the nature of depression and butterflies)

Today I learned that the deep depression on the inner center of a human skull resembles a butterfly. Peering within, it’s as though at some time, this transitory beauty was meant to forever imprint upon us the delicate nature of a fleeting journey. Only if the skull is cremated or destroyed, does the memory of that gentle flower-seeker disappear. Within the hemisphere, the pituitary signaler of hormones, transmits chemicals to her butterfly mate, who lives innate in our throats, where the ability to speak, from time maternal, depends upon the migration of the one butterfly, straying south, and the other staying north, for without their separation, the vital energy it takes to live would cease. Such sacrificial love in nature creates brilliancy, but what’s more, it is the lack of electrical current that defines depression, as inhibitory. If this myopic view excludes further truth, it may one day be discovered that the real origin of our cranial pain, and mental suffering are related to this separation, to this lack of excitation within the neuronal center. It’s not the fact that there is a lack of stimulation, it is instead a lack of attention, a lack of response. “Soak me in serotonin, and watch me cry,” sings the butterfly. “No,” cries the other butterfly, “you are mistaken, I am that shadow, existing within the grey area, where the cloud formation never dissipates, do not think I can dissolve into elation. I journeyed once, more than a day, which in my time was forever, and I knew feeling and taste as vividly as each step one takes. Although I live in the echo from phonemes breaking, my real truth lies in the upper regions, where words form in synaptic response to thought, dark, enduring thought, which keeps my soul from dying, much like your heart beat keeps your body from flying. Through resonance and dissonance I am cocooned inside of you, always.”

The nurse sits with the patient as they discuss the power of non-verbal communication, ie; touch. “When you hold my hand,” she tells her, “I know you are there, it’s like a flower growing in my spine, I can feel it, I can sense it growing there, and though I know it will die once you let go, it helps me to feel less alone, it’s like a thousand astrocytes lighting up the dark sky inside of me.”

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Filed under Borderline, Butterfly, Conversation, creative, Death, Depression, Distance, Drowning, Identity, inspirational, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Medical, Memory, Message, Mortality, Nostalgia, Pain, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Science, Self, Shadow, Sorrow, Soul, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Women of the waters that are never still

The missing and murdered indigenous women all gathered together at the lost city of Atlantis.

“No one believes we are real,” said one to the other, “they will never try to find us here.”

“If they never believe then we are free. If they start to remember is when we have to worry.” Said another.

“Yes the great spirit has made an ocean of oblivion and in all their crossings they forget..

They think their cities are real and ours is a myth.”

“Yes.” spoke the chief.
“We are safe here.”

They are distracted by the stars. The stars that died centuries ago.
The apocalypse has happened already. They just don’t know it yet.

They are all dancing together in a Matrix of dreams.

They wake up with new scars and wonder how those wounds ever healed.

“Sometimes they forget to hurt when we touch them,” spoke the child of agile deer, “and they mistake this pain for pleasure.”

The turtle will rise once more. When the time is right.

“The time is close,” spoke the hungry hawk girl. I see rust over the towers of progress, it stains their rivers and kills their fish. The white men in their polished houses laugh louder now. They laugh with terrorist eyes. And all the world is quiet in disbelief.

We are safe for now, but it won’t last. This time when they come dressed as brothers we will know the truth in that horse’s eyes.

We won’t drink the fire.

We won’t accept their dirty blankets.

We know how to keep warm. We are the keepers of the fire. We must never forget who we are, even if they have. They have all fallen asleep. When the sun rises it will be too late.

“It has already come to be,” spoke the ominous owl. It has already been written. They will burn the treaties. There is no honour in sickly pacts. They are a lost tribe.

“We have already been found what is there to search for now?” The sad squaw pleaded.

We must find ourselves here. We must honour our mother and father and give our respects to our grandfathers. One day all our relations will come together and they will lose their blindness.

Only when they have regained this vision can we be one again.

“One tribe under one sky” spoke the eager eagle.

So it is has been spoken.

They passed the peace pipe from hand to hand as they gathered around the roaring fire and danced.

You could hear the echo of their drums in the lost world where the rhythm of life was mute, their voices carried in the cries of the wild.

The forgotten ones were there and they remembered. Some of them had wolf eyes that lit a path through the dark.

You could never go hungry if you followed them.

But the eyes of the others were a deep abyss surrounding an ancient island, where they held a sacred vigil in honour of our fallen sisters

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Filed under Aboriginal, Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Atlantis, Conversation, creative, Dedication, Environment, Feminist, First Nations, Folklore, Grief, Human Rights, Identity, Idle No More, Indigenous, inspirational, Matrix, Memory, Narrative, Ojibwe, Poem, poetry, Spirit, Tragedy, travel, Truth, writing

S’agapo

Dear Mrs. L, I do and she does too, but we are careful not to let ourselves slip in front of you. Your face is kind, somewhat shy, demure, and pure. Your hands hold the wheel as though you’ve always known which turn to take, in the mad rush of seasons in a city full of malakes, recession, and malaise, your kindness is a palpable presence that one can not articulate. The many lives you guided and led into this world, a rehearsal for your own girl, who would for a time be my girl, my cat, my kitten, my angel, my baby, my sweetheart, my joy, my madness, my agony, my pleasure, my ecstacy, my hurt, my love, agape mou. Thank- you for all your quiet and generous suffering. For the kisses on the cheek, for the Christmas sweets. For the sun and the absence of it. Dear Mrs L thank you for my heaven, and thank-you for my hell. S’agapo.

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Filed under Break Ups, Broken, Conversation, creative, Dedication, Greek, Loss, Love, Malakes, Pain, Past, Poem, poetry, Rhyme, travel

Stained Thoughts

Never thought we’d dance together, the way your eyes gazed through me, leaving me to squirm self-consciously, wet from my walk in the rain. And you smiled that really dumb blonde smile, that said “blonde enough to have fun, but brunette enough to know better.”  The element of danger, the risk when I tightened my fist and you smiled the know better smile and chatted about the weather, the obvious, yes it’s wet, yes then, yes now, still. I pulled a pained face and your hand ran down my arm as I stared at the photographs on the desk, three grown children, your phone vibrating, the certainty of that gleam where I knew better this time, and I wondered how does one stay in a marriage so long, subdued. You penetrated me right through to my veins. I felt it up there on the makeshift mobile bed, spinning it’s wheels to a far away land, through the green blue heaven of your eyes, and the stillness of your lipstick silence, hiding the crease of age under beige. There in the travel clinic, with images of exotic world’s,  never ventured to, and the smell of coffee on your breath, taking me back to eleven, when I had a crush on the school librarian. Questions of where I’d planned to go, and when I might return again. From you, who vaccinated my body and contaminated my thoughts.

(About a travel clinic nurse.)

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Filed under Conversation, creative, Desire, Erotic, Fantasy, Humour, Loneliness, Longing, Needles, Poem, poetry, Sexuality