Ethereal Solace.

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goddammit

And after all we knew it couldn’t stay the same, I guess

Chasing lights across the sky, tracing shadows on your chest

And when you smiled,

I swore my heart skipped seven beats,

And when you laughed,

I felt like a child chasing leaves.

So here we are again and I keep trying to recall

Why I ever said before that something less could still be all

Because, sometimes I still think about the times we stayed outdoors,

In the grass we sat, we talked, we laughed, we kissed even though the rain would pour–

So like everything it had to end  ‘cause there was so much more in store

For you.

So the spring it turns to summer, and life it goes on by,

And I just wanna call you but instead I always sigh,

When you held my hand,

I think my every day was bright,

And when you stroked my hair,

I knew that everything was right.

So here we are again and I keep trying to recall

Why I ever said before that something less I’d still be all,

Sometimes I still think about the times we stayed outdoors,

In the grass, we sat, we talked, we laughed, and we kissed, as the rain would pour

But like everything it had to end ‘cause there was so much more in store

For you.

I sometimes find I’m wondering if you also think of then,

even though it’s been so long cause if not now then when?

We can’t go back, we must go on and even if we could,

Some things are just better when they’re short but sweet and good.

Because I’ll still think of times when we would rather stay outdoors,

So in the grass, I sit and laugh, and smile when rain pours,

Because even though it always hurts, there’s always more in store

For me.

Love creeps slowly

Through the words you never said,

In fingertips and glances.

It is gentle and it is patient,

And it comes like the tide,

Like the way we’ll keep turning.

Natural as seasons,

Love is like a bird,

Without coaxing or compromise,

It can choose you, but you can’t choose love.

Without caging it in,

without using force

Let love come to you.

I wrote this article for fun after reading a bunch of terrible fanfiction (which is terrible on it’s own but when they don’t know how to swear it’s worse).

My name is Alexa and I’m proficient in three languages: English, Music, and Swearing.

Profanity: She’s a hard mistress to tame as many brave writers have discovered over the course of their careers. How do you use it? Should you use it? What it all comes down to is the tastefulness of your choice of words. Swearing can be fun. It’s attention grabbing and can actually allow for a lot of creativity. Never completely discount it from your writing, but use discretion. Here are some things you should try and remember when using any expletives in your work.

- Excessive profanity is a turn off. Your mother probably told you chicks don’t dig it. It’s true, they don’t. And neither do your readers. Don’t make me wash out your mouth with soap.

- Badly placed profanity is also a no-no. If it doesn’t fit the situation and you just have an urge to stick a bad word in there, I have an even better idea for you – don’t. It seems awkward. You notice and we notice it as well. Open your window; stick your head out and just give’er. But keep that shit to yourself if it’s unnecessary. (Do you see what I just did there? ;D)

- So then you might ask ‘Well, Almighty Alexa, where do I put it?’ There are tons of options. You can absolutely open a piece with a profane word. (Ex: “Fuck.” Thought [insert generic character name here] as he [insert something generic here]) Why not? I’d keep reading. I would want to know what [insert generic character name here] was bitching about. There can be a thousand reasons that make that word just fit as the opener. Or you could build and build up to it. Sometimes even the best of characters snap and need to ream someone out and ream them out good. Sometimes it really just is unavoidable. They say the first step to recovery is good ole’ fashioned profanity to get it out of your system. Seriously. People say that. I know I do.

- If you have a character that just seems to have a personality that sometimes requires a bit of bad language (Ex: Ichigo from Bleach), just go with it. Censoring yourself through censoring them also seems a bit stilted and awkward.

- If you don’t like swearing, avoid creating characters and situations where it would be appropriate. Setting the audience up for some big talking and then letting them down with cop outs like “Dang you” and “Shoot” is just mean. Contrary to popular belief, though they are replacements they are not synonymous because the same mood is not conveyed. The audience does not get the same picture in their head as they otherwise would’ve.

- If used right, swearing can be very creative for a couple of reasons. Creating a special new swear for your character might make you more comfortable if you personally aren’t into bad words and can ultimately be more impacting in the long run. Nit Tibbles. That sounds dirty, doesn’t it? And I just came up with it in my head this very second. You could use that instead of “Damnit,” I bet. Replacements can also work, within full context though. No dangits, no shoots, no fudge. James has been known to use “What the suck?” on occasion, which is a perfect replacement. I may accept “What the fridge?” as that is both amusing and memorable.

- Furthermore, if you’re not into creating a new swear or replacements and you’re a-okay with a little something over G rated language, phrasing can play a huge part in making expletives more interesting and acceptable. “Eat a bowl of dicks” is way more fun than “You’re a dick” and there will be no arguments about that. I know it’s more interesting. I’m a professional. “Fuck you in the trachea with a rusty blade” is also an acceptable choice.

Swearing is really for two things: expression and impact. It can be done in a humorous way, but the fact is, is that it brings a little bit of shock value to your piece, in a way. You want people to take notice and you want it to stay in the reader’s mind long after they’ve closed the web browser. Don’t overuse, don’t underuse, don’t forget that it’s okay to use. Just keep it interesting, ladies and gents. Or I’ll fucking kill you.

an addition to Fight Club.

Tyler taps his startlingly clean nails on the table.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

I examine my own, nicotine stained and scratched.

The noise is hypnotic, and I concentrate on it. I match my breathing.

I am Jack’s loss of control.

I stare down at my hand; the chemical burn still throbs dully, sometimes.

“Stop that.” Tyler narrows his eyes at me.

“Stop what?”

“Thinking. Wondering. What if-ing. Stop all of it. To explore the alternatives is to admit there is fear in your choice. It is weakness and it is exploitable.”

“Tyler, you mean to tell me that you’ve never wanted to take one step back? Never wished you’d done something else?” I shake my head. “You’re a fucking liar.”

“No. I’m a fucking dumbass. I’m a fucking screw up. But I am not a fucking liar.” We stand in silence. Tyler is right. He probably isn’t a fucking liar. He’s a concealer in order to reveal, but he is not a liar. I pour glycerin into another container. “You, however, are.” He adds.

The silence continues.

“So?”

“So? So confront me on that. Don’t shy away from the truth.” Eyes narrow further. Tyler stops what he is doing. I don’t know if I should tread more carefully but I do know I don’t want to add another chemical burn to make myself more symmetrical.

I read somewhere once that the most attractive feature of a person is their symmetry. At work for awhile I took to cropping photos in half and then copying the half left over to make a full face so I could decide whether or not it made them more attractive. I started doing it to colleagues and finally to myself. According to Science, I was this close to being attractive. I stare down into the container.

“Okay, Tyler, how am I a fucking liar?” another unknown substance added. I am afraid. I have been through hell and back and I am still afraid of this one man and his opinion. Tyler smirks and doesn’t look up from what he is doing.

“Because you won’t admit it.” Tyler Durden has the most roundabout way of getting to a point.

“Admit what?”

“Exactly! Anything! Goddamnit, you won’t admit anything. You don’t know and if you did, you still wouldn’t admit anything. You’re scared of humanity and you’re scared to be human. You’re scared of your broken routine and you wonder if you missed out on normalcy. It’s so backwards, so… broken. All this, is to fear your mistakes when they are what make us great. You’re a liar. I told you to wake up. What are you waiting for?”

Silence. More silence. I wonder if I’m concentrating symmetrically.

“So…”

“So fuck what if! ‘What if’ is to look for order where there should be none. And in the end it doesn’t make a difference. Not one. Because we have the capacity to make mistakes and we always will. That is fact, inevitable. To believe otherwise is to believe in orderliness. To give random events order is to forget what makes them great. It is letting God win.”

Tyler is right, like he usually is. I took all that I’d learned from that night – the realization – and filed it away, wanting it to come back in due time. I am adjusting. I am not ready. I don’t know anything – but I know I shouldn’t be afraid.

Don’t think, just be.

Reach up for the moon
like the stalk of rice in the field
that knows not of limits or the impossible.
Be weightless 
like the stone in the riverbed
who knows not of fear or sadness.
Don’t be the one,
with a lion mind;
trapped in a gilded cage
that was only meant for birds. 


Be Careful

Tuck me away neatly,
into that little box on that hidden shelf.
Fold me gently, make sure you’ve labelled me correctly, 
for I don’t want to be put into the box with all those things you’ll forget to remember.
I know that I won’t always be on the forefront of your mind;
or the first thing you think about every day.
I’ll sit patiently, and I won’t make a sound.
Just don’t forget where you put me. 


Maybe

On the opposite end of the bench,
you exhale smoke rings.
Clear your throat awkwardly,
do anything to avoid looking at me.
You said sorry,
I guess that makes it okay.
It can’t work out now,
according to you.
I’m optimistic.
If not now, there’s always later.
When the wings of angels molt 
and God is having a bad day -
perhaps then, when his back is turned,
and if we’re really quiet about it -
we can make it. 

Marble

Lips of marble, 
cold and slick.
My impression will not be left,
no lingering, not a trace.
You may not even remember my name.

What’s a kiss without a little life?
Mechanical, methodical, monotonous.
If I dealt in lust the way you did,
maybe I too would be marble.

Marble, where allowing no imprints
would help me last into tomorrow.
and I could prolong the inevitable erosion of my soul.
So I could avoid being worn down.

But,
I don’t think I’d want that future.
Lacking in these, our most basic and real desires
because then I’d have no proof
that I am human.

Nobody wants to have nothing,
but to feel that all you have is nothing
is something atleast felt
and that little, painful thing
can mean everything.

Atleast then you can say you lived. 

City

A hand-me-down blanket
of light, noise, colour.
I am enfolded, enveloped within.

When I walk alone,
on a brisk winter night,
weaving through the crowds,
lost in my own anonymity,
the City seems to say
‘Don’t get lost for too long,
or I’ll have to swallow you up.’ 

Modernization

India ink sky
Black awash with orange,
Squint; flecks of blue.
I don’t remember starry nights
Or silence.
I remember
The fluorescence of streetlights reflected back
At me,
As the clouds protected the moon from you,
From change.
Noise.
The world never sleeps anymore. 


///
you were lonely, once 
so I held your hand.
Temporary release;
counterfeit love between the sheets. 

Beautiful

I went for a walk downtown
the other day.
I passed so many people,
all in a hurry;
all rushing from one thing to another.
Their faces blurred together -
a homeless man’s became a business woman’s.
And I wondered
if they knew how beautiful they were.
All the same
engaging in their own valiant struggles to
live on.
All part of this society machine.
All marching on,
towards death.


Feed the hunger.

Labyrinth of suburban sprawl
and blue collar working men;
blue collars, pale faces.
Worn
tired.
See the tired dream,
Tired of waiting.
So I’ll reach out and grab mine,
hold them tight.
Anything
to avoid turning out like them.
Worn
tired.
I think that this
is when it’s alright to be selfish.

haven’t attempted poetry since grade 12 lolol but these were fun

i was soooo emo

umm this is something that is/will be an ongoing part in a series. I think this will probably end up a short story, but I haven’t really picked an ending yet, so who knows? I’ve had this on the go for umm.. maybe almost 3 years? haha. Procrastinatorrr.

“From the disquieted mind of a recovering alcoholic.”

Do you know what my favourite memory of you is? Probably not. We never talk about shit like that.

It might seem silly, but my favourite memory happens to be of a night similar to many others. The equation starts off the same; me, my favourite liquor and the usual binge drinking I was accustomed to when you weren’t at home to monitor my “progress”. But then we factor in you coming home early.

I remember you quietly opening the bathroom door and just standing there in the doorway as I stayed knelt down in front of the toilet, emptying out the contents of my stomache. The bathroom smelled so strongly of alcohol and bile, which only made me vomit more. You took off your jacket and tossed it onto the table in the hall and, rolling up your sleeves, shuffled over to me. You sat diagonally from me, perched on the edge of the bathtub.

“Hey…” I started off. No answer, but I could feel the disappointment in your eyes drilling into me.

“You’re home earlier than I was expecting…” I half slurred, half mumbled.

“Obviously.” Was all you offered in return. We sat in silence for what seemed like hours.

“My client cancelled. Something came up… I thought we could spend the evening together…” You finally added. It was all you needed to say. I started to cry. I was so ashamed; so embarrassed. It only took a moment before you were kneeling down next to me. I felt you gently pull my hair back, out of my face. Simultaneously I tried to swallow the lump in my throat and stop myself from puking again. You rubbed my back as I continued to struggle against the sobs and the waves of nausea gripping me.

“I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry…” I remember repeating that, over and over. You kept telling me that it was alright. It was all going to be okay. I knew better, but it was nice to hear you say it anyway.

When my stomache finally felt calm again, you helped me up and let me lean on you as you cleaned my face with a warm cloth. You carried me into the living room and sat me on the couch. You eased yourself down next to me. I drifted in and out of consciousness and you simply stared at me with that far off look you sometimes get.

“You know I love you.” I managed groggily, eyes not even half open.

“That’s just the liquor talking.” You replied as you smoothed my hair again.

“Maybe. But I doubt it. I think I just puked all of it up. I don’t think there’s a drop left.”

You continued to absentmindedly smooth my hair before looking up to the roof.

“I wish I could believe that.”

It smelled of fire and new life, the day we buried my stepmother. My Father and I took a walk around the park near the cemetery, still in our good suits. It was halfway between the light and dark, and the clouds sat suspended in the lighting of the dusk, perpetually frozen, perpetually perfect. “Curious,” my Father said, to nobody in particular. “What is?” I asked. He didn’t reply, as was his custom, so we walked on in silence, as was ours.

My Father showed all the physical signs of grieving. He was frailer, thinner than when my stepmother was alive. But emotionally, it seemed, he was the same man. If he was sad, you’d never know it. He was still withdrawn but good natured, thoughtful but with a good sense of humour. Although I had seen it before, I still found it hard to accept that it was his way of grieving. It had seemed to empty to me, at the time. It still did. Though I finally knew better.

When my Mother left us. That was the last time I’d seen him like this.

I was young, so young, but I knew it was for good, when she’d walked out our front door.

I was 7 years old when she left. I trailed her around the house the whole morning, as she gathered her favourite things; plate of china here, an ornament from my grandparents there. All the while she sang in her not quite pitch perfect, but sweet dulcet tone. She picked me up and swung me around, smiling and laughing and pulling me in so our noses touched.

“I love you, Dylan.”  She said quietly. And I believed her. She had meant it, in one way or another.

“Love you, mama.” I had said back, and I had meant it.  I stared into her dark blue eyes and the world grew still for a moment. Then she laughed and broke the spell over both of us. I grinned and she gave me a kiss on the forehead and placed me back down on the floor of her room.

I sat myself down quietly to watch as she prepared the finishing touches. She checked her makeup for the third or fourth time before putting it away, and then she sprayed herself with a little perfume.

“Mommy’s going to leave this here so you can always have her scent even when she’s away, okay?” I nodded gravely.

She zipped up her suitcases and held them in one hand as she extended the other one out to me.

“Walk Mommy to the door, sweetheart.”

“Okay.” So I did. I walked my Mom to the door the day that she left my Father and I.

I think even she believed that she’d come back one day. For a while we got post cards and the odd phone call. And every time we did, my Father looked alive. He held out for a long time after she left. Because it was stretched out over a long period, so were the changes in my Father. He acted the same but he was slowly wasting away and as I got older over this period, I began to resent him for never showing any outward emotions towards my Mother. While I grew up and grew rebellious and wanted more, he offered less and less.  More answers, more attention, always met with what felt like indifference.

I wanted him to feel what I felt and it enraged me that he seemed to feel nothing at all. I should’ve noticed that all the physical change was the manifestation of his grief. That it was destroying him in such a literal way.  But I was young and stupid, so I didn’t. For years after, we lived in the same house but in different worlds.

My Dad tried his best to do whatever I asked of him but it wasn’t enough because I didn’t see it. Because of his silence through it all, I took it to be acquiescence, or a peace offering. I never took his actions or gifts as an offer of love, or even thanks because I meant so much to him through it all. I always took them as face value, shallow and meaningless, like I felt I was to him.

I acted out wherever I could, as often as I could. I attracted and was attracted to the wrong kinds of people for a myriad of wrong reasons. One of the things I remember most is that look he would give me when he came to bail me out of various sticky situations – it was always one of understanding. Never anger, never disappointment - only a look of seeming solidarity, even apology.

I was almost an adult when he met Maureen. She was plain and kind, with a motherly quality that I sorely missed and had needed for so long. I was indifferent to her, like I was about anyone my father met. They were all the same, I told myself, over and over, and they’d never stay. And they usually didn’t. So I couldn’t see, it at first, those subtle changes that told me that yes, this was for good.

My Dad slowly filled with a quiet and intense love. While I had been the love that kept him tethered to reality, my eventual stepmother filled the void that I never could. My Father’s eyes were lighter; the sorrow had ebbed away to make room for joy. And I saw it in his smile. Throughout my youth  after  my Mother left, when he had smiled, he knew his smile had to count for two, so though they were always sincere, they were always deeply sorrowful. Finally, my Father could smile for himself.

“Do you want to head home, Dad?”

I asked, as we rounded the corner and came into view of the cemetery, once again. My Father looked thoughtfully towards the little mound in the corner that marked the spot where my stepmother was.

“Yes. Let’s go home.” He said as he looked at me. And he smiled a sad smile just for him.

 It was okay – because this time he was ready.