Sunday, February 21, 2010
I used to do this thing where I have someone stand before and I reach my arm as far as it could go. My closed hand would hover an inch away from their face, and I'd tell them to be as still as possible. I'd throw my fist at them over and over and miss them perfectly. Never once have I punched someone in the face from this act.
I have a cigar, a gift from Cuba from a friend, that I have been sitting on for a while now. I keep it hidden in a fake cigar box (McSweeney's 19th issue) for a time of celebration. The fact it still rests in that box, with the odor of Cuban tobacco seeping into the pages that fill the box, I wonder when such a time for cigar victory will be mine. When will I grasp the day, and call it my own. When will I look at my past with a grin knowing little of the harder times, the sadder times, the nothing-really-going-on times? When will I forget this little person I am today, when will I leave this plane of existence for another? When will evolution be not a thought or idea, but a means of living?
I see a face or two a day, that brings me to thoughts of possibilities. I ask myself if I am strong enough, if my foundation is still well held, and if my soul has enough calcium. I want to be that person who is a double figure before me, with all my thoughts as a separate vessel. I want that image to float before me, as I carry on, trying to reach what is there.
And where quotes are said,
"I'd rather chase an illusion than my own shadow."
Sunday, February 14, 2010
stranger or friend,
or perhaps relative.
Today, at 1pm, I'll be doing a reading of one of my short stories. It will be one for the occasion of Valentines, and I hope to see you there. There are many others doing their thing there too, and they're a whole lot more lovelier and grander, so please see them too!
1241 Bloor Street West,
And here's a list of the others, Amanda Rataj, Matthew E. Duffy, Thom Gill, Adam Harnest, Devon Sioui, Nathan Cyprys, Yuula Benivolski, Felicity Williams, Brooke Manning, Maya Postepski, Sabarah Pilon, Elaine Kelly, Elise Victoria Louise, Angela Sweeting, Taiha Peron, Stefan Berg, Allie Hughes, Andie Clifford, and Craig Currie.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Flood the basement where I dwell. Fill my ears with cotton. I say, you say, I write, you read. Stop in your steps, sink your feet into your shoes like feet on a beach the tide eats away. Remember when things were good, remember memories so far and so foreign. I call you, flutter and fall, dusty and wore, a face of the times; of times long gone. I linger on a song; a feeling, a goose pimple on a flat rough surface. I examine my skin, you once were smooth, a baby before the scratches. Time after time, all is the same, new faces come, old faces they turn, and what is fresh is fragments and gestures of historical figures, cave-drawings, doodles and Rorschach. Tie down for now, and a moment is made, a memory is filled, and is lost. Flutter, fly, dusty wings of a house fill with memories.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
If Only All Your Faces Were Pies, I'd Eat Them All Up
There is something absolutely beautiful in all of us. A character that makes us individuals, and in our time together learn the traits of others; with some we keep and others we leave behind. Over and over we become something closer to our history. Of all those we have known, their surfaces have scratched ours, and we have scratched theirs. They have rocked our very core, they have danced with our feet, taught us how to smile, and showed us how to live, and perhaps even to love. We are only examples of each other, picked and studied; fragments of everything and everyone, and what comes from all of this human wine-tasting is who we are.
Let's get back to who we are.
Try to pace your walk with a stranger, try to keep ahead of them by a step or two (as not to look like a creep that follows from closely behind), and keep them close. Slowly let them catch up to you, and walk with them for a while. Look around you ever so slightly and look at the faces of everyone in your sight; see them seeing you and your stranger as one, as something, and then look down to your feet, and look at the feet next to yours, and see if you are hitting the ground at the same time as them. Left, right. Left, right. Left, right (repeat).
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
I can't wrap myself around this, the field is bare, and the summer is long gone. Pity is a fool I forgot to call friend, and sequels are making their comeback this time of the year. I called her Josephine, she called me Waitz, and how I know of her name is a ringing of something that truly once was. I'm the dog that knows where his past is buried, but chooses not to go digging for that hole. There's a shimmer of who I am, who I once thought I was, and who was known as Waitz, and today; I sit on the fat of my belly, sick to tell a tale of forgotten love.
She asks me if he still lives, if I've seen him around, and I tell her, as cool as sharks playing a game of fortune, no. Don't get too close, I have teeth you know.