Author: leaving traces

I’m obsessed with forecasting the behaviour or conversation before it plays out. I’m obsessed with doing my best to see the good in everyone. I’m obsessed with trying new things, visiting or moving to new places – I’m obsessed with trying to live an authentic life, to speak my truth, to support and uplift those to do the same. I go through phases of being obsessed with smells – currently rose is drifting out of my diffuser and I love it!

I’m obsessed with small moments and paying attention. I’m obsessed with connecting celestial dots – finding patterns in my life and others – trying to learn the backstory which may help explain why someone does what they do. I’m obsessed with date nights, affection – a bright-eyed kid. My partners belly laugh, smile and dimples.

I’m obsessed with my eyes, my brows and the shape of my lips. So strange how we love the things others have complimented us on. I’m obsessed with those true moments of vulnerability, shown by myself and others. I literally had goosebumps drift over me at least three times in this group. I’m obsessed by seeing someone live their dream, succeed, smile and storm the stage.

Thinking of an obsession was challenging for me – this could be for a variety of reasons… A) I’m overthinking this… classic me, B) I honestly don’t feel obsessed by or to something. Do I obsessively tweeze my chin hairs and other whiskers? Clearly not, because when the sun comes out you definitely know I’m mammal.

Do I ‘olic’ anything? I used to binge drink, but that was in my twenties so it was “OK”. Then I noticed I was having a glass or two of something after work every night, wave one and wave two of the ‘rona. But then I cold turkey’d with ‘Dry July’ to prove I wasn’t hooked.

I’ve tried a couple diets before, or ‘plans’ as they cleverly disguised themselves – now sweats are my best friend thanks to the rebound.

Hmmm. Rebound. Funny that it’s a basketball term and something less forgiving in social situations. Rebound sex. Rebound eating. Blah blah.

I used to be obsessed with sports. It seems I have lost that obsession. I try to stay relatively active – you know, like that one aunt relative you see a few times a year. I go swimming, sometimes. I walk, during the week – also, not obsessed.

Is depression the kryptonite to positive obsession?

Floating. Glowing. A basket of fruit. Clementines starbursting out of my navel. Blueberry gushers furrowing my brow. Lime green lovey goo pouring from my heart. I wish news segments would be interrupted with good, wholesome programming – not a commercial for capital gain – maybe the Care Bears make a comeback with kind, loving PSA’s about meditation and heart chakras. Body break with Hal Johnson and Joanne McLeod to get you off your couch for some calisthenics.

Rainbow skittles. A giraffe in the sky. Look up… look waaaaaay up – puppets that were kind, silly, gentle and boring by today’s standards. No CGI, no explosions, or epic music – just some sense.

How about Mr. Rogers comes on to teach kids how to have conversations… with their phones off.

Tv channels. Getting off the couch to change the channel. Channeling sweetness – ripe fruit bursting with flavour and vitamins. Writing. Slouchy. Sedentary. I mostly wear sweatpants now, and I’m tending to buy clothes with money I don’t have – and almost always the wrong size – too big or too small. Some buttons hold on for dear life like it’s their full-time job – others can’t even tell if they are on duty – “Is there a body in there yet?”.

A rotting vagina. A witches cackle. I feel like a vagina doesn’t rot from lack of attention, it rots when something nasty and unwanted goes inside.

I hope my fridge is not currently a metaphor for my vagina – it’s definitely past the garden stage and has serious dumpster vibes. (The fridge, not my vagina.) One vegetable drawer got cleaned out because it has become a science experiment for turning solids to liquids.. and gases. The immediately adjacent drawer wasn’t so bad in comparison – so it wasn’t even checked. Now the slimy carrots and onions-maybe have liquified… How many times will the three members of our household open the fridge door – think to ourselves, “huhgh, what a stink”, and then close the door again while silently blaming all of the lazy losers, besides ourselves, who we live with.

I mean, who cleans one veg drawer and not the other? Our family, I guess. What utter nonsense – I used to tell my kid to stop doing things half-ass, that if he’s going to do it, to use both cheeks – full ass it!

My cleaning rituals go bit by bit, chasing one pile of mess around the house until it gets slightly smaller and I feel relatively accomplished as an adult for the day. I wonder if my house was like the Moon and zero gravity, would it stay clean?

These photos are so beautiful and profound. A tree that carved its’ own bench. A mirrored sidewalk reflecting Mindi’s essence. A mailbox over-stuffed with natural delights that they had to grow on the outside. That little red flag will forever be up.

Some kale pretending to be tall broccoli, staking its territory in the dirt. No room for baby broccoli kales just yet. When things look barren – that is a hoax. The untrained human eye and spirit sees nothing – when the creative tender soul can see it all.

The picket fence held up the sky – there was a cakey layer of rolling landscape in between.

I’m noticing I’m thinking of my partner, Buster. I think I’ve been avoiding bringing this to the forefront… and I’m guarded as I’m writing this. Did you know you can buy blue-footed booby shoes from Barclay’s partner in the Spring? Shameless friend plug! And avoidance. Lol. I have a lot of anger and judgement – I’m seeing this as targeted primarily at myself. Why am I such a witch to myself?

Speaking of witches – witches are cool, much like mermaids and sturgeons. There we go – bringing some things from 2021 forward that are worth it.

The nostalgia of a sturgeon’s tail – the fuckery of a mermaid’s stare.

The strings along my neck wrap around ribs creating a tense stringy pulling sensation. It feels like taught rubber bands that if you cut would recoil with a zing. You know those police gun pouches that look kind of S&M’y, that go over cops arms and back to hold hidden guns…? That’s kind of where my stringy sinew is.

When I looked at the object – it is a card with a sheep on it whose wool is in a heart-shape and fluffy pink. It reminded me to soften my heart. I have been so concerned about guarding my heart that I honestly feel like it is pulling all of my tendons, veins, fascia, muscles and even bones to collapse in around it. Like a big magnet collecting everything but the kitchen sink.

Dog limbo. A doggie abacus. Red Rover.

There’s enough room for all of us.

Wrong way. Backwards. Peddle peddle peddle.

Oh there we go, haha – got it!

Fall in line, fall in line.

Fluffy footsteps.

A worm looks up and without seeing believes there is a giant centipede above. Dancing maybe – or at least swaying.

I had to take a picture of my sweet dog after seeing this. He is curled by the bed where I write.

Silent. Loyal. Silly. Kind. What a guy. A very handsome Haida.

Twirl twirl, I gotta pee..brb.. can’t hold it any longer – why am I still writing…

Back – still writing. The landlords are super loud – are they arguing or talking?

They own a ‘Vancouver Special’.

Heavier on the top than down below. I’m very tired. This pen is nice.

Balding is funny – being above average height grants me the delightful pleasure of spotting baldness up close and from afar – maybe before the “baldee” even feels the first draft.

Remember my sweet dog? He just farted. I haven’t eaten garlic pepperoni sticks in a while but I imagine this smell/taste is pretty close.

No shame in the game. My farts are pretty loud – you know, like when you live be the sea and the fog rolls in – fog horns were premised on my farts.

I make royalties. I’m a rich bitch.

Croak. Lost. Cherry tomato wine. Blackberry soup. Slurped like syrup. Pouring down your throat. Coating all sides.

Numbing the words as they gurgle upwards.

Sugar dumplings and sweet potato pies.

Rows of vines and shrubs – rolling hills.

Living somewhere where the baa-ing sheep stir up noise complaints.

Curtains on the window. Looking down. Hiding behind the window panes of love.

Caged. Birds. Thorns. Gnarly protruding roots. What if we didn’t have skin surrounding our tendons?

We’d all look pretty similar I guess. Maybe we would sheer sheep to make fleecy onesies to warm our inside-outsides.

Worms in dirt. Twirling. Writhing. Forward or backward. Wriggling – squiggling.

Tree frogs and snakes.

Slumped shoulders. Sunshine. Sparkling wine. A lightness.

Dry earth. A babbling brook. I’ve never met a Brooke that didn’t babble.

Don’t even get me started on Amanda.

I don’t care.

Knee cap jelly fish. Kelp that grows around and clings to a rock at the bottom of the sea. Are we all floating knee caps and the flow writing is our connective container.

A jellyfish tentacle reaches out to taste a sea anemone. But it is the anemone that turns out to be an enemy.

Family IMAX viewings. Laughter with my kiddo. We had an amazing chat – no, deep talk, on the ferry yesterday.

I’m slowly realizing how to be grateful for anger and big symphonic conflict.

Rather than the calm before the storm, it is the calm after. What do we do with those precious 48 hours after yelling, after mistreating each other. After our wounds are cut open and oozing again at the surface.

We find new ways. Different approaches. New language.

What cadence. What tone. What sequence of words will break our old patterns.

We healed some big silences yesterday.

The sky was dark. The ferry was nearly empty.

We sat face-to-face and muddled through our childhood wounds, old and new.

My kid is an incredible soul.

There’s nothing like the apathetic and loving look from your teenager.

He holds back his laughter. His dimples muddy.

(Look at my stepmom, dancing like a fool in the ferry line-up.

Who is she? Is she OK? Like, in the head?)

I know down the road he will cherish at least pieces of my nonsense.

I know this because, this is what I hold onto with my dad, Bob, my Grandpa…

Even my mom who is still here.

The goofiness.

Buckle up, my friends. Here we go.

First of all there are no such things as mermen – these are made-up so that men feel included in the mermaid story.

If I was a mermaid – I would be a trickster – I would comb my hair, grown long to attract a mate and show them how feminine and luscious I was. From afar, with the sun in their eyes, they would be smitten – saying “Ahoy!” to their other seamen and steering their ship full speed ahead to the small outcropping I sat upon.

As they came closer though, they wouldn’t find me… the ocean would bellow up, winds gust more gustily and white caps would surround them.

The next thing they would see are large tentacles grabbing at their boat, tearing down the mast, puncturing the sides – in all their fear and panic they would notice these tentacles were made of finely woven fibres, like human hair.

The men would shriek and yell – and just when the time was right and the ugliest, bro-iest of the seamen looked overboard – he would see my beautiful face, glistening mermaid body and luscious hair – although he would now understand that the hair kraken taking down his ship and men was not rooted at the top of my head – but it came from between my legs.

These rapey fucktards were being lost at sea by the pubic hairs on my vagina.