Category Archives: Shadow

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

Lost

I awake to my breath in a ghostly cloud above my head.
This white clarity blinds the city.
Unable to rest, unable to dream.
He said our people, the Anishinaabe were possibly the lost citizens of Atlantis, true Atlanteans crossing the Atlantic. Thousands of years ago the Mediterranean was more like a lake and less like an ocean. The land mass of Atlantis formed a bridge from North America to Athens Greece. My kin, the Algonquins migrated to the ancient city and throughout parts of Europe, including Britain and the East. Is it possible the whites were decendants of us? Is it possible an old seed buried deep split open and released a very ancient desire to reclaim itself? He speaks of Sakimay as a place where our people originated. This was the land of my ancestors. He speaks of the seven fires prophecy and the crystal energy our people harnessed, which led to their own downfall, the sinking of our island, the melting of the glaciers, the light that flooded in like razors on our skin and stained us with the red ink of Indians. The turtle island that sank and swam down again, lost in the reaches of time. Oh Turtle, teach us of the truth sewn in hand with the ilk of our ancient medicine, until then we are lost like a city under the sea.

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Filed under Aboriginal, Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Athens, Atlantis, Beauty, Birth, Canada, Canadian, Cree, Displacement, Earth, First Nations, Folklore, Greece, Identity, Idle No More, Indigenous, inspirational, North, Ojibwe, Past, Poem, poetry, Prose, Saulteaux, Sea, Self, Shadow, Soul, Spirit, Time, Traditions, travel, Truth, writing

Ebb & Flow

My blood origin is water but thicker than any oil. We were the people of the rapids, always following the tides in and out, as far as they could carry us in our birch bark boats. My grandfather the great Eagle spirit, who could be called on the wind at will, would carry the message of love across the rivers. My father the feathered dancer, always ran with the shadows, ran with the quick horses, wild across the prairie sky, far on towards the high hills, westward to the mountains. He caught the rapids in his veins, the eagle song rushed through him too fast, and I lost his tracks on the wind, it beat quick through his heart like that rabbit on the rails who cried from the weight of the train cutting across his leg. Love is mercurial this is what I chased. I danced with strangers who I hoped could show me deeper into what I felt behind my eyes, spirits passing by like clouds, dark over my head, deer child in storms, under cover of night, crying to the pleiades, snared beneath a thousand shooting stars, willing forward. This is who we are, these are my kin, wild on the hunt, with a scent in us that says love is of this, caught between these river rocks, these feathers, this sky. We follow that scent towards eachother like wild animals marking their journey home again, we will meet at the shore one day. My father visits me in dreams, speaks through the others, offers symbols to guide me closer to the turtle of truth who rises up towards the light. He told me of the 7 teachings, the sacred ways we follow, a path of shells. The beaver works hard to build up these twig towers of hydro electric power that allow us to connect. But the buffalo speaks of respect, tells me “we all have a gift, don’t waste yours, for if beaver did, he would grow long in the tooth and die,” and then we would have a great loss of life, a loss of light to lead us through these dark times.

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Filed under Aboriginal, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Bird, Buffalo, Canada, Canadian, creative, Earth, Environment, First Nations, Fish, Folklore, Forest, Freedom, Identity, Indigenous, inspirational, Journey, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Narrative, Ojibwe, Poem, poetry, Saulteaux, Self, Shadow, Soul, Traditions, Verse, writing

Miasma

Black treacle swan. White albino swan. Watching them from the edge of the pond, how they enter eachother like shadows. Watching them swim graceful at first and then the eventual bloody aftermath and after death, the afterbirth of their mating. Their courting is a prelude to homicide. Enter me, perpetual gaping wound that never heals, with your sword of forceful pokes and prods into my interior. It’s a wonder something uglier does not arise from the tide of her open thighs at labor station 23 on a red gurney. Patient x has given birth to the newest antichrist. It cries for more white fluid. I see the pond as ice and the birds as a nightfall of snow and the aftermath of nuclear bombing. His penis is akin to Chernobyl, all cut up and radioactive. She has ovaries like missiles where future bombs await. Shrapnel of climax that’s all we are, anticlimactic and nuclear active space travelers. Cut, snip, tie off the umbilical noose from which we are all hung, twist it hard and breech me as a newborn suicide. Legs out first, cord wrapped around my neck like a final testament. Beautiful in the winter when the northern lights play music in colour, better than a world of endless gray. This is how I’ll stay, gracefully gliding along a crystal surface of glass, where the ghosts tap tap tap to be opened like a cracked womb of gushing river blood. I whistle your purple brilliance and green resplendence into a frenzy of sky spirits that dance out from the melting miasma, the plasma in a tube mixed with opioid brilliance that filters out the white noise. Kiss me nebulous. Inject me with your love, receptors, receptors, respond. We have a code 798, clear, singe, spiral, smoke, inhale, choke, listen to that silence! It’s coated by softly falling snow and the careful circles the ice dancer makes upon our grave in figure 8s, infinity signs, lines that stretch on forever from continent to continent of loneliness.

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Filed under Malady, poetry, Sex, Shadow, Snow, Soul, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing

Kintsukuroi

I have a cracked soul that no amount of gold can fill.
Swell of childhood,
wave, water, reflection.
Propensity pouring into probable personality traits;
narcissism, histrionics, scars stricken against sulphuric self, flare in sea of black, no return from darkness.
Ears ring out like cathedral bells at the gavel fall of postured people, straight upstanding citizen I’m not.
Chaos’ child curtailing comets.
Mulch of weeds where flowers chance to bloom outward from mossy memories, in places the sun neglected. Damaged seed, uprooted,
convoluted scream shooting agony into pillow of down.
Muted madness on the surface, appearing calm, floating along like an unruptured swan.
Dusk descends like a ceramic sun on the verge of shattering.

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Filed under Abuse, Borderline, Broken, Chaos, creative, Depression, Displacement, Enslaved, Flowers, Grief, introspective, Loss, Malady, Memory, Mental Health, Poem, poetry, Repressed, Self, Shadow, Sobriety, Sorrow, Soul, Sun, Swan, Swan Song, Tragedy, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing

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?

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

Silence the Happy Crowd

(The perfect way to interrupt an alfresco dinner party at night)

There is a happy crowd seated around a table, go to each person one by one as you dance in a clockwise motion and smash their smiling faces , then take subterfuge in their pain. Suspended in silence, the previously uproarious crowd sits stunned at the table, lacking all appetite for life. This is truth. This is what people need to be awakened. If I am in amongst the laughing faces of the careless crowd, if in that gathering you catch me looking happy, then smash me too. Take your delicate hand of grace and smash it against my face. I will neither laugh nor cry. Turn down the lights, so that only the candles flicker, because shadows love fire, like moths drawn to flames. Then stand behind a screen and show them your shadow dance. Show them how you struggle to be free of yourself, because depression can feel like being locked in one’s own shadow, unable to escape into the light. And when one does escape, the light blinds them, like being burned by falsity, because the truth is not there, there are only lies & disguises to cover the shadow. You are the shadow, I am the shadow we are all shadows that get burned up by the light. Once they have understood, then emerge & appear to them unveiled, smile a bright smile, then walk away, without ever having spoken a word.

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Filed under Dance, Depression, Poem, Shadow, Silence

Darkly through a cage

Depression does not lead one to see shadows differently, if you hold up blots of black and ask what I see, I am the blot, and depression is the shadow, what I perceive is nothing; the black empty space from which all things came, and the same blackness to which all things eventually return. I see an opaque abyss of engulfment. I see the blot as a blotch, a mistake, a chasm of regret so colossal no bridge could be built to cross it. I see myself under a microscope, this sea of black encompasses my existence. You try to capture the deluge of my sadness and the result is a multitude of stains from the many blank pages I have bled out on. Your stitch work on my soul only makes my pain more tolerable to you. You want me to create a passage in my mind from which this agony will find release, the release is the agony, once that is free there is only the mind and it’s delusions of happiness. You prescribe song to a bird whose heart is muted, feed hope to one with clipped wings, fated to live her days in a cage. If I reach far enough, could I surpass the blot that keeps the sun imprisoned? But I have no ambition beyond this cold clasp of time which locks away my dreams.
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Filed under Depression, Shadow, Suicide