Category Archives: Drowning

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.”

Advertisements

2 Comments

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

Drunk

Maybe I am the glass you hold and refuse to let go until you are intoxicated enough to forget.

I am the cap on oblivion, twist me off and pour..

The glass is only ever half full,
half of what you were
before..

1 Comment

Filed under Alcoholism, Broken, Chaos, creative, Death, Drowning, Enslaved, Pain, Sobriety, Sorrow

I tried to drown my sorrows but..

My sorrows won Olympic medals in the 50 meter dive, see how they come alive, with fleshed out indifference, gilded like aqueous queens, oblivious to the sun.

Leave a comment

Filed under Drowning, Humour, poetry, Sorrow, writing

Invincible

Blood rushed
Aphrodite blushed.
And the morning rain fell
outside my window.

I recall trying to hook a minnow on a line when I was about nine. My grandfather said this was what one did to lure the bigger fish one hoped to catch, they made a splash and their silver slip of fear is what drew the hungry ones near. So we gathered round and waited by the water. The white rush of waves and the violent current roaring past made it all seem so fast, but the waiting and the hunger persisted. Yet he insisted on being still. My grandfather had the patience of granite on a day of rain, which promised an arch of colour in the grey distance of the sky. Why couldn’t I be like that man? He used to hold vigil with the battalion. When his father died, they hailed him a hero of the skies and named a lake after him here in Manitoba “Lake Barthelette” He spoke broken French and then with a swift pull he filled the bucket of ice with our breakfast. I recall huddling around the fire for warmth and black tea, he always drank his tea so strong. Strength and patience were two of his greatest attributes. Up until a few years ago he was still out catching pickerel, picking wild blueberries and chanterelles, hunting a deer or a rabbit, gathering nuts and fixing something with his rough hands…

Perhaps I have that, the power of lightening bolts in my hands on rainy spring mornings, and the patience of granite as I try to silence this hunger swimming inside of me, silvery and uncatchable. The wave of loneliness overlaps the wave of ecstasy, causing a rush that pulls me under into deep places, where emerging I regain my breath as I ponder life and death before the big swell drowns out my consciousness.

Blood rushed
Aphrodite blushed.
And the morning rain fell
outside my window

I’m a helpless minnow striving to break free, blood gushing out of me as they track my metallic scent in the water, mercurial, rust coloured and dangling from a hook, this hook that holds me between life and death as the hungry world centers in with a bone-chilling calm in the midst of all this chaos. I am of the sea, of algae and long vines emerging from entwined blackness, pulling me back to the watery remembrance of a  wilderness where I was once invincible.

1 Comment

Filed under Adventure, Bleed, Chaos, Colours, Control, creative, Death, Desire, Drowning, Erotic, Feast, Fish, Freedom, Immortal, Life, Longing, Memory, Mortality, Nostalgia, Poem

What if

Power lines and the thought that I could climb.

Your hands gesticulating, motioning me back into a feathery bed of passivity.

The pillars of the bridge engulfed by the engorged red, unattainable love I felt, swirling in violent cyclones of possibility. If I stand and watch the swirl of water, like a small child who perceived herself a screaming fish, spiraling down a drain, lifeless. If your mouth could kiss away the death that overshadowed my withering frame in the halls of a consensual prison, we called work, then nocturnal birds would have never watched my mother from the post facing east, and signalled the ominous, the premonitive , what if…

What if she slept and I was the night guard keeping watch over spirits? What if I stood on the boxes in the back room of the building and tempted my fate with a rope and a crate, tied around a beam, leading somewhere I had once been before this life? What if that exacto knife hadn’t opened my arm and caused such alarm among us? What if when she slept I found bottles of Captain Morgan’s and took the keys to one of the vans in the driveway, took a hose from the industrial vacuum and shoved it methodically, one end in the tailpipe, the other in my mouth, with the doors locked and the radio playing what were meant to be the last songs I heard as I stared up at the starlit sky drinking 21 shots for every year I was alive.

What if all of this and still you took me home and held me by your side until that storm subsided? You laughed and chided my attempts at life and death until I had given all I could of blood and sex to you, and it left me in stitches.

Then a girl turned into a woman and kept walking, unconvinced by your feigned displays of love & mercy. A girl who was nothing more than a serotonin depraved burden to your artificial, feel good, polyana ways.

Climbing power lines, shirking the electricity, jumping twenty feet into nothing for you. It never ceased to  amuse, you wanted something more substantial, like semen and the demon of a vacuous tube, sucking unborn dreams away.

But what if your fingers were razorblades and your lips were a red abyss and every kiss you gave cut into me with the thirst for something deeper?

Things at which you smirked and slithered away, cowering. With the “oh Gods and what nows” when I played Anathema or Theatre of Tragedy, and you walked out of my apartment unable to bear it.

You were the amusement whose pleasure wore out on me. When you could not abide my pain or sustain my darkness.

I surged on alone deeper and deeper, further and further away from you, towards a city where a tenebrous girl flicked her blond hair and noted the sadness behind my smile, able to see more deep, able to keep shadows.

Remember when I told you I was lost? You said you would send a taxi to find me, but you fell over and nearly dropped the phone when I told you I was across the country, where I’d gone on a whim to reclaim something that never belonged to me. So she didn’t and you don’t and what does, belong to me? The names of constellations, the origin of beauty?

Or just this…what if?

1 Comment

Filed under Bleed, Chaos, Control, Death, Depression, Drowning, Fish, Freedom, Loss, Memory, Mortality, Pain, Poem, poetry, Shadow, Sorrow, Soul, Suicide, Tragedy, writing

All passion spent

They thought we might be the death of eachother. I could hardly stand to breathe without her body. We tried to abstain, I tried to keep her away, at arms length, but she couldn’t obey. One night her partner lay sleeping in his bed as she read poems to me, and something in the seriousness of her expression made me unable to resist her. We were on a cast iron bed in the adjoining room, every muscle flex caused the bed to creak. I put my hand on her mouth to silence her, but her moan escaped and awakened him. Just a look from her was enough to make me cum, the anticipation of her touch sent comets shooting through me. By the time her skin touched mine they exploded into the night like a million beams of light, blinding me with stars. Maybe it was the fear of being caught that thrilled me, or the way her eyes were etched with green flecks of brilliance and her mouth seemed carved out perfectly to fit mine. One day his relatives were visiting from America and they stepped out while she was cooking dinner, promising to return in time to eat. In their funny Chicago accents they said “dinner smells mahvelous, see you soon.” The moment they drove away I couldn’t keep my thoughts at bay. She was sitting on the sofa drinking a glass of red wine, wearing a white apron, stained with the blood of a wild animal. She leaned into me and whispered that her loins ached as she ran her hand down my leg, I felt the earth break and tremble. She took my hand and led me in the bedroom. Our screams filled the small old house as the potatoes boiled over on the stove and the windows went foggy from the steam. We lay gasping by eachother’s side as the car pulled into the driveway and we ran to make ourselves more presentable, less mangled by desire. They were so honoured to be eating a traditional, Aboriginal meal. As they commented on how delicious it was, it took all my strength not to laugh at the situation, their accents and serious faces, her messy hair and legs lined with scratches, as though she had fought and killed this massive beast alone. I always hoped we hadn’t left evidence of our passion anywhere, but if we did, they seemed to overlook it.

Another time she came to see me at the apartment where I was staying. She held the keys to her truck in her hand as she stood in the hallway explaining the situation. She was carrying crates of books from their house and lining the back room with her possessions, promising to leave, to come be with me. Her hair fell in waves down her shoulders, her tightly toned legs shone from the force of her effort, and she stood there with a slight smirk, eyes shaded from the sun. I walked up and claimed her lips, grasping her wrist I told her to stay and she chased me as I pulled her keys away. She fell on the bed, wrestling me down as she tried to pry my hand open. Her sex pushed against mine and I dropped the keys, she stared at the keys, then back at me while I kissed her. Our clothes were unnecessary restraints that kept our skin from eachother. Later as we lay covered by dew and lust, with laboured breaths suddenly we heard footsteps ascending the stairs. The door opened and we struggled to dress, it was so obvious. My brother walked in with my cousin and they found us that way, completely ravaged. The entire place breathed sex. It seemed to follow us everywhere; at all hours, in open spaces, behind bathroom doors, at the homes of relatives & friends, everywhere we went got marked by our undying passion for eachother and our inability to resist. Her hands belonged to my body and mine to hers. It took more than a decade to kill, but we outlived it. Others weren’t so fortunate.

Leave a comment

Filed under Bondage, Control, Dance, Desire, Drowning, Erotic, Infatuation, Intimacy, Longing, Love, Memory, Nostalgia, Pain, Poem, poetry, Sex, Sexuality, writing

Fish out of Water

What cycle of the moon would bring us our doom; two fish washed ashore in a forest.

The tide pool offers us a view of birds, previously hidden, but for those moments we would jump above the surface of the water.

They build nests and create something numinous beyond all seeing.

If only we could grow wings.
If only we could find our way
free from this puddle before the sun rises and dries up our dreams.

“But where then shall we go and what will we behold?” Asked the one fish of the other.

When our sadness flows in streams we will drown in the river of our selves, sink deep into the roots of the trees and then branch out to the sky and swim among the stars.

image

Leave a comment

Filed under Beauty, Bird, Death, dreams, Drowning, Fairy Tales, Fish, Forest, Freedom, Moon, Poem, Sorrow, Soul, Stars, Sun, Time, Tragedy

Barrier

Red tape, white tape, things to break and be bound by. Seal my heart away in a box, in storage where it stays, incapable of remaining any other place, but categorized under things to take out when unpacking, things to decorate this empty space.

There was a turning door that alternated between dark & light, among all the places she led me. I could not follow her in, could not let myself process the shadowy barrier I would never have the chance to cross.

Her mouth was gentle and breakable by invisible kisses, kisses stained black, white, dark, light & beautiful in their pain.

We cannot get beyond the dusty smell of death in all the old places we stay.

I see a flutter of butterflies carrying stars to the river, to drop them deep in the murky silence & the gush of waves.

Some day I will drown in stars.

Some day I’ll rise silver & moonstruck, to hold her in my arms and stay in a place where my heart is still and my body never defies me.

image

Leave a comment

Filed under Beauty, Death, Displacement, Drowning, Freedom, Longing, Loss, Love, Moon, Poem, poetry, Sorrow, Soul, Stars, writing

Vacant

Tracing circles in a backward motion, creating spirals between the darkness and light. Erasing the lines that connect our hearts, those same lines that separate our bodies. I should have known in the first breath so that I would not need to stifle the last. Your plane is always bound for foreign places, tickets and stopovers, none of which include me in their destination. I was a slave to the clock and I would have worked until my heart stopped beating as long as it brought me to your door. I lay here with an open window on the night, wind blows into an empty room allowing enough air so that I can breathe a breath that belongs to me and me alone. I grieve a million stars. I swallow an entire continent and digest it slow, it comes up in my throat and lingers there, provoking earthquakes, body tremors. I think I’ll lay here swallowing clouds and oceans, I think my veins are the Great lakes that twist into the Atlantic far on the other side and my arms are the great divide between here and there, between this and nothing, I am bleeding currents, I am flooding cities, this is Venice, or the lost Atlantis we will never recover, this is the death of a lover. The meals we won’t share on the terrace overlooking the Acropolis, the amazing sun setting over the island that has forgotten our silhouettes under the tall palms. The ancient pulse of stone and the emergence of night blossoms will never welcome us together anymore. What I am remains on the tracks where the train carried us home, it never finds its way again, it never inhabits the same perfume of our two souls. One is a breeze passing through a station where the other does not exist to feel it. We are light posts on separate streets in different worlds. Sometimes the same girl wanders in our shadow as if she remembers something and then she keeps walking until she forgets to care whether it is dark or light or if the moon even shines anymore, because none of it matters, none of it ever mattered. I once dreamt I bought a ticket and boarded a plane and when I arrived the sign hanging over the city read “Vacant but for our dreams. Empty but for our memories. ” This is life, this is the welcome we all receive at the beginning and end of our journey and this is also what we carry inside us, everywhere we go and with everyone we meet. The same sad urgency of our departure and the unexpected joy of our arrival.

Leave a comment

July 12, 2014 · 7:17 pm

Pareidolia

Plaster on the wall- where someone botched their attempt at perfection, that was all I could see, some crooked agency trying to cut corners, but in truth, the further I contemplated it, the more it began to make sense. The lady who was the caretaker of this building was Greek, a woman from Greece, whose family came here in search of a better life when she was just a girl, long before she lost her spirit. In ancient times her ancestors were masters of such creation, their strong but graceful Hellenic hands, carved many a masterpiece from simple white stone, into works of marvellous beauty, but somewhere along the way, hope gets drowned. It took a day like today for me to be able to have seen through her eyes, and to realize the mistake was not a mistake at all. In her frenzy to repair the spot on the wall, and to ready the apartment for new tenants, she had not consciously known what she was creating, for how could she? I have recently returned from my first trip to Greece. I spent two months in her homeland, and she would have loved to have heard all about it. She would have loved to try the many treats I brought back, and to have seen the souvenirs- a rare rock shaped like a tiny temple, found on an island, off the Aegean sea, and honey coloured like amber, with golden remnants of the sun sinking in it; but nature swallowed her under, because somewhere along the way, we all drown, and lately I have been contemplating such a fate. These days had passed with me trying to resurface. I had eaten only the most simple remnants of what could be found in this empty place, and I had not had a cigarette in days, and when I am without a cigarette, my nerves are like wires that get singed from lack of power, lack of fire, lack of vitality. I stared at the spot on the wall in a state of despondency and weakness. It’s interesting how our own suffering can put us in touch with that of the world. I can’t imagine what it must be like for people who never lack anything, but especially those who always have somewhere peaceful to sleep, and something to fill the void inside of them. I have always known lack, but it had been some time since we were acquainted. As I stared at this blotchy mess of plaster, this spot on the wall; an image stood out, an image of a frail woman, holding out her hands, the woman has her head down and her hands out, in a humble gesture, perhaps she is walking in alignment with the spirit, as opposed to the multitude of others here on earth, who are so deeply disconnected. What strikes me most is that she reminds me of a woman I love, a woman I traveled so many miles across the world to be with, and who I am now so distant from, she is frail like her, and her profile is strikingly similar, and isn’t it strange that such beauty can arise out of such a mess, as a careless spot on the wall, and that most people would view it as a mistake, and never see the real beauty in it? It takes suffering to elicit empathy and a keen vision of the world, but it also takes suffering to wake us up to the true depths of beauty, which we are all drowning in.

LADYONWALL

Leave a comment

Filed under creative, dreams, Drowning, Greek, inspirational, introspective, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing