Lyrical Musings an emotional journey via train of thought

I Don’t Write Year-Ends Letters

December 9th, 2017

I do not write year-end letters. Yes, I receive them. I read them and smile. I send off a quick email to let the sender know that I’ve seen and appreciated their words. But I am never the sender.

If I were to write a year-end letter, I suppose I would have a lot to say about this year. I might comment on all the big plans that were brewing in my mind and how it took me months to finally bite the bullet and act on them. I would start with a mention of my trip to California, which included my first American train ride (and three more to boot), a journey across the country and days spent connecting with family members and touring a state I had never before visited.

But I do not write year-end letters.

Still, I cannot help but think that if I did, if I did, I would mention the many smaller trips within the state and without. The overnights to see concerts and movies, share laughter with friends and family and visit museums, cemeteries, and zoos. I might comment on lamentations over dessert and on walks with friends and family members who shared my same frustration at the current political climate.

Remember, I am not the type of person to write a year-end letter.

Though were I to consider such a feat, I would be remiss to mention another trip: one to view the full eclipse, a trip for which I was so excited but woefully unprepared. Yet, somehow, it still happened, and while I spent my time with viewing the solar eclipse with different company than I imagined, I was still fraught with excitement and managed to shed a tear.

You will recall that I will never write a year-end letter, of course.

Perhaps, had I such an inclination to write a letter, I might mention the joy that I experienced walking many miles, playing various games, listening to multiple podcasts, researching myriad topics, and reading more books than in any single of the previous 31 years of my life. I could recount the countless meals partaken or discuss new friends made, memories shared, and weddings participated in.

This is not a year-end letter, you will notice, but those are the types of things I would write in one.

If I sat down to type a year-end letter to mail to my loved ones, I would undoubtedly find myself struggling not to mention the difficulties that the year had lobbed in my direction, namely the passing of a dear friend and an injury that plagued me for much of the year in an attempt to further keep me down. Both succeeded, for a short while. I might pontificate on the ensuing struggles, you know, if I was doing that sort of thing.

A year-end letter from me would also have to include mention of the story that I had published at the Radvocate as I ramped up efforts to write more and publish. I might also have mentioned how I toiled (okay, perhaps not toiled) on my novel, wrote other stories (one of which took me most of a year to title), brainstormed a graphic novel, and began to plan a more serious future as a writer.

The type of writer who doesn’t pen end-of-year letters, you see.

This isn’t a year-end letter, no matter what you might think. I don’t know what the hell it is. But it’s certainly not the type of letter you write at the end of the year to recap the previous twelve months.

I wouldn’t do that.

Originally posted on Her Realm.

Cold

January 15th, 2015

It’s cold but not so cold that I can’t think about anything else. Every so often, I sit still long enough that the chill can enter my bones. It creeps it through my sleeves, the hem of my sweater. It makes its way under my skin and it seeps, ever so slowly, into my bones. I feel it. I get up, and I shake it off. Like I said, it’s not so cold.

Sometimes I have to remember that it’s not so cold. A few layers, a scar around my neck and gloves on my hand, are all I need to venture out into the real world. The air is cold enough to remind my lungs that they’re alive. The cold hits my face in a sudden rush, and I feel more alive than I do when I’m sitting inside, waiting for the cold to pass.

Perhaps it is too cold for others. I have never been any other person; although, I like to think I’ve never been the same person twice. All the mes I have been seem to enjoy the element of cold. But I often have to remind myself of the fact, force myself to get dressed and take those first few steps out into the cold.

Then, suddenly, I remember. This is what I enjoy. This is comfortable to me. This is freedom. These are my golden years. And this cold? This cold is being alive.

Safe

October 10th, 2013

She never quite felt safe. No, that wasn’t the word for it. She just always felt on. She was always analyzing the situations even as she was in the middle of them. Being around people, no matter how fun or gratifying, was always a drain on her. Like a true introvert, she needed time alone to recharge. It was during that charge that she could finally relax, let her hair down. She didn’t care how she looked after a long day or how ungraceful her movements were as she danced alone in her home.

But eventually she’d return to the world. She couldn’t be alone forever (she didn’t want to be alone, either). She’d return to the people that she called friends, to her family, to the people that she loved and who loved her, and they’d slowly drain her away. No, it was never quite safe in the real world.

It felt safe with him, though. It felt safe in his arms. She had no doubt that he accepted her unconditionally, that no matter how worn her makeup, how tired her voice or how messy her hair, that would be okay by him. It would be better than okay, she was sure. And she needed that.

She needed that in ways she hadn’t understood for years. She hadn’t felt that way with her previous partners, not even the one to whom she sworn to love until the day she died. She hadn’t felt so wholly comfortable, so utterly free. She had never quite felt so complete as when she was in his arms. The realization that the person who had been there all along was the key to a locked door she hadn’t even seen while she passed it a hundred, thousand, million times before.

And she didn’t think that he had any idea that he was the only key that fit, that he opened a door to freedom. He had no idea that that by holding her tight he was releasing her of all her worries and fears. He was clueless, perhaps, like all men are. Maybe that’s what made it all work in the end. She wasn’t quite sure.

All she knew is that she felt safe with him.

What are you supposed to be?

November 15th, 2012

It’s that feeling, the drop in the pit of your stomach like you’re on a roller coaster, but this is no ride. It’s more like slamming on the breaks after racing down a steep hill, hoping that you’ll stop in time before you hit that deer–and that the guy behind you will stop in time before hitting you. It’s the catch in your throat because you know you want to cry, but you can’t. You just can’t. You can’t do anything because you’re not supposed to feel like this. Life wasn’t supposed to feel like this, but it does.

And you wonder how you got to this point. How did any of us get here? Why didn’t anyone mention that it was going to be like this?

“And, oh, by the way, nothing about being an adult makes sense. The real world is completely fucked up. There’s nothing you can do about it. It doesn’t get better or easier.”

But here you are in the really, really real world, and it really, really sucks. You’ve got that sinking feeling because the worst possible thing that can be happening right now is happened, has happened, will happened. It’s like someone punched you in the gut and the pain won’t go away. It.just.won’t.stop.

How do they expect you to function with any semblance of a human being when it feels like this every.God.damned.day? How are you supposed to reach your potential and make a difference? Find happiness? Start a family? Change the world?

Just who are you to do any of that? What did you do to deserve this real world stuff in the first place?

Nothing. It’s never anything. Just nothing.

I need your help!

January 4th, 2008

There is a local haiku contest going on and I’d like to participate. Entrants can send up to 4 haiku. Please review the haiku here and vote for your favourite!

Also, one more haiku for your enjoyment and consideration:

“All you need is love”
The Beatles sang years ago
Today it’s still true

Haiku

May 7th, 2007

I wrote the majority of these at work out of boredom in a matter of minutes. I think I have a knack for this sort of thing. I always found myself able to be formulaically creative and that is exactly what haiku is.

curled up in a ball
fluffy love in orange and white
purring in content

darkened lips and eyes
cynical and beautiful
so this is gothic

he died on the cross
for our immoral lifestyle
how can you forget?

picture perfect scene
of deep blues and curly q’s
my little sister

descended from space
destructive yet cute and blue
who doesn’t love stitch?

vocal cords are stretched
emitting a perfect note
angles sing along

she appears again
blushing red and short of breath
wonder where she’s been?

ink stains on paper
art, some say but I don’t see
I’ll stick to portraits

symphonies will play
works of beloved Mozart
he will go unmatched

green boughs bend downward
reaching to the ground below
too many winters

a young bride looks up
as her young groom says “I do”
will this be the one?

the pursuit of love
neverending fairytale
I don’t believe it

the wind blows my hair
across my eyes and I don’t
see you standing there

mother used to say
men chased their little white balls
she never liked golf

distant shores do call
my heart yearns for them once more
so very far away

white tipped waves rise up
and crash down upon the beach
devastatingly

hot summer nights are for
sleepless lovers embracing
one another’s heart

a story of love
triumphing over evil
reunited souls

three years, seven days
six hours, forty one nights
until I am free

roaming hands across
the landscape of my body
all of me is yours

ladies of the world
with hearts and minds both broken
you will love again

green eyes peering out
onto a cold gruesome world
does hope yet exist?

bubbles rising up
to roll across the surface
time to add noodles

thunder claps above
an ominous sign that he
is coming for us

hearts beating as one
while we lie together here
love is such a rush

dark hair falls astray
as a charming smile disarms
will you marry me?

polar bears will drown
as ice continues to melt
global warming: death

thunder and lightning
crashing and striking as two
lovers orgasm

moistened flesh awaits
sensed heightened to the max
touch me with your love

A^2

December 8th, 2006

dear world,
has it really been so long since ink graced paper? since fingers tapped keys in a pattern of linguistics – words falling after each other to form sentences, almost as if by themselves. have i neglected you this long out of my own so-called lack of inspiration or has it been fear keeping me from meeting you eye to eye once again?

can i not write as well if there is a smile upon my lips rather than tears streaming down my face – salty streams burning my flesh – and a knot within my throat upon which I choke? is it really so necessary that i be tragic or merely perceive myself as being so in order for words and phrases to lay themselves out in my mind in an emotionally charged pattern of speech?

or do i simply feel no need to shout it to the world now that i see life as worth living? could i honestly forsake myself so? do i have it within myself to cut my successes so short? so overlook all that i have gained rather than which i have lost and can do without?

perhaps s.o.m.e.d.a.y
though whether that day is today, i do not know
i will feel the need overtake me once more
raging in, powerful and deep
threatening my own internal combustion
able to steal the very breath from my lips
and self preservation will drive me
to release it all onto paper
or text onto screen
and my chest will rise and fall once again
cavernous and silent as all returns to normal
the moment passed
the emotion absorbing back into vein
like nutrients to a soul
feeding once more
building up that torrential downpour
of feelings-over-which-i-have-no-control
which will once more beg for release
and i will have no choice
but to acquiesce

mind :: numb

July 7th, 2006

the night is calm with darkness
the air is heavy with grief
and the homeless man in the park knows
soon he’ll have to find shelter
’cause the weather’s getting colder and
tonight may be the night he freezes
some punk teenagers drive by
laughing and shouting obsceneties at the frail man
they never knew the pain, always have mommy and daddy
to line their clouds with silver – money, cars, and naivete
it’s what makes the world go ’round don’t you know
the homeless man curls up on the bench
beneath the old oak tree
it was the same when he was a child visiting with his father
his father killed in the accident – his mother the whore
who abandoned him nobody knew his story – nobody cared to ask
just as well he’d always think each night
before falling into those dreadful sleeps of nightmares
he was always alone but tonight was worse
it was a bitter, biting cold chilling him to the bone
his old army jacket was worn to the last threads
and he knew soon the time would come
to find shelter lest he freeze tonight
[sometimes he’d like to freeze]

August 25th, 2005

Aldetheiss sat on the park bench, dark hair cascading down her shoulders and around her arms which hugged her legs, pulled up to her chest. She was obvliously to the paint which was beginning to chip and peel beneath her. She was not oblivious, however, to the people frolicking around her, the bigs singing in the trees, and the sounds of city life outside of the park. Before she might have thought of it all as air wave pollution, noise, but not now. Aldetheiss had a new view on the world, she thought, as she watched a group of boys playing football a ways away. A darkhair boy tackled another one with lighter hair, who was much smaller built; she held her breath expecting the smaller boy to say or do something to initiate a scuffle, or at least appear angry but after a few friend slaps on the back, the boys were back to playing their game. While people might be a little preoccupied with themselves, it wasn’t because of their egos or ignorance, rather it was simply existance, survival, however different it might be from Darwin’s definition. Man could no longer build his own house from the trees outside and fish or hunt to support his family, while his wife tended to her garden and watched the children. Life was much more complicated and as such, so was surival. Survival meant education to obtain a career in order to earn money and in that way provide for one’s family. survival sometimes depended upon social status and celebrity. An outsider might mistake this for greed or something more sinful than that, but all it really is, is survival. From the distance, one might mark this as disregard for mankind or selfishness, but in her short time among humans, Aldetheiss had come to realize that most were kindhearted and would help out another soul if it was in their power to do so. Besides, when one dedicated one’s life to helping others but in return sacrificed one’s own life, it all too often wound up in lessening the value of everyone’s life. Only by being the best one could be, could one help others and this was certainly not greedy nor selfish. Sure, some humans were greedy, selfish, vile, corrupt and all around evil, but you can’t judge the whole by the actions of a minority. Aldetheiss knew that prisons and other institutions were full of criminals “serving their time” but she speculated that many of those peple fell into those lifestyles for lack of anything else to do or anywhere else to turn. Were everyone given a better chance, had they stumbled upon better luck or had they someone to teach them right from wrong in the first place, these places wouldn’t be quite so populated. Unfortunately, after many of those poor souls would be released, a majority of them would wind right back up in the “slammer”; once behaviour like that becomes second nature, it would be difficult to try to change, Aldetheiss surmised. Still, the majority would good and kind souled, willing to help out others, even if it wasn’t just for the sake of being good. Aldetheiss had seen just as many return wallets and she had seen purse thieves. There were those who lived by the cliche “fingers keepers” but there were also men and women who were eager to return others’ possessions and, in times of need, families and communities pulled together to help eachother cope and survive. As Aldetheiss gazed out at the park, she saw a young couple walking hand in hand, pushing a stroller. He smiled at her as she looked lovingly down at the babe who, Aldetheiss imagined, grinned and cooed at the attention. No, it was not noise pollution or corruption which Aldetheiss saw now, it was life and life was well worth living she thought.

Physical Endurance

June 7th, 2004

The air is thick and heavy with the intoxicating scent of flowers, -ias and -ies whose names I’ve never much cared to learn. I feel the sweat running down my face, coats already beading upon my skin and no matter how hard I try, a wipe with my hand will not make me feel any less sticky, nor any more hygienic. Each breathe feels as though I’m trying to inhale more water than air, and the clothing mats to my skin as I keep walking. The air is still, not a car in sight, and the only sounds are my laboured breaths, rhythmic and shallow. My thoughts reverberate off the walls of my head, occasionally something distracting me back into reality. Whatever I last consumed isn’t sitting well in the pit of my stomach, and the last 5 miles are catching up with me; my feet want out of this predicament.

Next Page »