Author: leaving traces

Everything is everything. Isn’t it.

The caterpillar was the waves on the ocean. It was also a unicorn, a narwhal and a trusty steed. The caterpillar was a feather and it moved as a feather would move floating on the ocean. The spine was made of twirled wool – it is the sheep of the insects. What a brilliant metaphor for facing your fears – become the thing, or one element of the thing that you are most afraid of. If I am a part of my enemy, or my bully – I am safe.

The bird’s watching this feather move must be confused – would this disguise only work if all of the birds nearby were white – what if this was scarlet macaw territory? I can imagine their chatter…

“Hey Earl, there’s Louie again thinking he’s so clever… has he not seen us? We’re not seagulls, ya know.

Poor Louie. Let’s give him another day.”

Where do caterpillars go? Where do caterpillars dressed as feathers go? Were we watching the pre-wedding caterpillar preparation? Is this caterpillar god of all caterpillars and was that caterpillar heaven? Imagine doing a dance off with that caterpillar – why do we call it the worm? Worms don’t move like that. We should call it the caterpillar – worms taking all the credit. Now imagine sensing your meal through the bottom of your feet like a robin – instead of reading the aisle signs at the grocery store to find our meal we would walk barefoot in the grass.

Oh no. They found them. We carved them in different shapes so they wouldn’t think they were part of a collection. We knew this might happen – why did we put Steve in charge of this anyway… he never gets anything right. I wonder if anyone has begun to figure out their purpose. They are all tailored to the individual – what they were into. Looking back on humans today – you might find similar gadgets in a bedside drawer.

They’ll never fully understand these though, as these “intelligent creatures” are so simple and out of touch. They are so disconnected from their bodies and the cosmos that they have to spend years, lifetimes researching clues from the past.

Instagram. The internet. No one can go uninterrupted to truly master anything. Jack’s and Jill’s of all trades, masters of none. For us – it took only one or two words, or one or two patterns to tell a whole story filled with meaning, magic and purpose. These stars twinkle in the sky like the polish on their nails, like the dew drops on the ferns, like the feathers of a bird. Stay quiet, stay still. Stay focused and you will find what you’re looking for.

The thumb and pinky finger family. It seems as though the thumb was born first. There is a sense of wisdom and predetermined role of the thumb. The thumb hitches rides. The thumb makes us human/mammal. The thumb secures this pen as I write to you. My thumb had a very fluid motion, it took me up, around, inwards and way out. I had confidence being led by my thumb. My pinky finger however was immediately up to no good. It thought of those times it helped me pick my nose. Pinky baby wanted to get into stuff. It wiggled around my body like a little shit-disturber, just looking for mischief. I have a feeling that the pinky finger and the twinkle in someone’s eye are directly connected. I would not put my trust in my pinky finger, but it would be the life of the party. As the oldest, I relate to the responsible, boring thumb – always doing the right thing, or trying my best to. I’ve been told in a recent tarot reading that I’ve stopped having fun… well, thank you pinky finger, for showing up for me today. I will now look to you when my eyes need to twinkle and laugh a belly laugh. The pinky finger gives no fucks – show me the way dear pinky. My baby.

Next stop, inching along the floor like an inch worm – the visual of that failed attempt will surely make me laugh. Going to wait for my teenager to come home to show him my skills.

Shit Janelle. I was trying to keep my mom at bay. Not even in the margins – I really mean at bay. You know that bay over there? Not that one.. further down..

Alright. Here goes nothin’…

My mom is a narcissist… okay, I’ll be kinder – she has narcissistic tendencies. I know not to trust her actions as there is usually (statistically speaking) an underlying motive that is self-serving. She is a powerful woman. Former crown prosecutor, widowed. Twice. Independent. In control. In charge. Domineering. Her way or the highway kind of woman.

I don’t think she is capable of a sincere apology – not one that shares clarity, insight, recognition and accountability. My mother sees apologies as admissions of guilt. I always apologized to appease her, so therefore she was always right. Never in the wrong. We can’t have that. She has other ways of doing her best to show her love – seeing and receiving these, I do not need an apology in words.

I had a ‘mean girl’ from high school apologize to me years later about being a jerk. That was kind of cool as I wasn’t expecting it, and she really was a jerk. It helped me realize that maybe I hadn’t done anything wrong.

Sweet and cold. The purpose and intent was known. The beautiful image of soft plums in an ice box. This treat was premeditated; designed. To delay pleasure when life may seem at it’s worst – in the morning before coffee.

The crime is punishable no matter the tone. An apology, and act of saying “forgive me” falls flat. Every action requires/creates an equal and opposite reaction. Would you forgive me if I had poisoned the plums?

//

Feminism. Canadian identity. Harper 2008. Trudeau present. Neither gifts. No remorse. No accountability. There is so much we can do – apologies waste time and more often serve those apologizing rather than those on the receiving end. Forgive me for my sins, so I can feel better. How does me feeling better benefit you? Shall I buy you fresh plums? Shall I freeze them for you? Would this repayment of my selfishness suffice? How often can I get away with an apology? Five times a week? Ten times in a lifetime? Canadians are known for saying sorry because there is so much to hide. The freezer is empty and the plums are dried.

Diaphragm. Lips. Penetration. Consent. These sensations and forms that showed themselves in my mind have so many similarities. I’m noticing a want to make the group laugh – is this flow writing or my people pleasing nature learned from childhood. I guess I hope to bring others joy – every life contains suffering… (sigh).

I honestly had humorous moments during this prompt – wondering if the connection to the tension or sensation in our throats shows clues about our pelvic floors and vice versa – is that why they are both called lips? I seem to be overthinking this one – caught up, a bit lost.

Aggression – a lot of aggressive images came to my mind also – primarily with unwanted penetration – through words and actions into my mind as well as between my legs. Pelvic floor – I’ve heard of this. I picture a pelvic floor much like an empty living room – hard wood, nicks and marks from past furniture, dents and dust. There are large windows there too, and someone sitting on the floor.

(unedited)

I did not want to walk up the steps. Why would one want to be bitten by a dirty house with pearly whites? Did you notice the green olympic rings in the driveway? Did you see the slumped baby racoon at the entryway? Is this house a metaphor for what happens when we pay careful attention to one aspect of our lives and neglect the rest?

“Hey look at me! See my pearly whites?”

Don’t look any closer though. It’s nasty over there.

I wonder what happened at the paint store that day…

Customer: “Hi, I’m painting my house. Want to give it a fresh new look.

Employee: “OK. What are you thinking?”

Customer: “Have you ever left pepto-bismal in your fridge too long?”

Employee: “Oh yes- I know the perfect swatch. We call it pepto-dismal. Sold out in the early ’90’s.”

This house depresses me. It’s like where college dreams go to die. Easier to laugh it off than do the work.

Dystopia. Apocalypse. Dawn of the Dead. Ordinary Life. Muted, dusty, stained and mundane.

Also, love the paradox – the house has a blemish on it’s third eye.

(unedited) A spinning top. My late Dad. Feet like pegs – square, distinct, “clumsy”, – yet everything above the surface is smooth and round. We aren’t meant to notice the body – dressed in neutrals. We are meant to notice the shiny, bright colours – as in our lives. Over here! Look at the birdie! Can we pay attention to the nuances of neutrals, when things gradiate… gradients and blend.

By contrast – let’s cry. I’ve been crying a lot this week. September 14 was the 8 year anniversary of my dad’s passing. You know that gut-wrenching void of hollowness in your stomach…? your abdominals? Like somehow your shoulders are so heavy and curved down and inward, weighing on a hollow center. Breathe. Feel. Lean. Ahh…crying. Since I’ve been off work I’ve been able to cry.

Let’s go back to the spinning. The abstraction. The veil. Removing this veil through writing and sharing is so healing. Oh by the way, my dad is here you know. He told me so. That’s pretty cool, as he was my cheerleader in life -> every kid needs the unwavering support and presence of someone in their life like that. Red and yellow – much like the dress, those were my sister’s and my favourite colours. My dad knew that.

(unedited)

Reverberation. Percussion. Reminds me of a metalshop masters show I was just watching. The finalists had to use found instruments to create a new/unknown instrument. My fingertips reminded me of the innerworkings of a piano – the weirdly shaped parts that strike the strings..? chords..? I’m not of the musical variety.

My fingernails can feel. What the heck? Just like with my hair – I’ve never thought too much about my fingernails’ experience of the world. It was funny though, as soon as I tapped them upside down on my desk, I knew they absolutely did not like that. When I gently use my fingertips to tap my fingernails – it was not a like or dislike response, but a sense of curiosity. Tomorrow at my cafe breakfast, I wonder how many people will look at me perplexed as to why it seems I have found some kind of magic recipe for life in the gentle tapping of my fingernails.

Why nails? Is there a similarity to construction, connection and carpentry that my fingernails innately know?

Alright, calm down. Getting too meta over here. I like my fingernails and that’s that.

(unedited)

I miss Paris. I miss France. North American’s think they are so clever with their craft beers and locally roasted coffees, but nothing beats a small cafe from Europe. Or $3 wine from the grocery store that blows all “local” aromas out of the water. My netflix line-up is filled with series and films directed overseas. This pandemic is taking a toll. My privilege lifestyle is inconvenienced. I am depressed. Ships. Waters. Turquoise oceans. Travel agents. Red and white.

*stage notes* pause for family interruption. They got the schedule wrong. Surprise. Surprise. I’m quick to judge.

Bring me a baguette with buerre avec sel de mer. Sea salt butter on a fresh baguette every morning from the local boulangerie is a dream. Now I’m a stepmom. My culture is family life. TV. The couch. Radio on in the car. What the fuck is that?! It’s just noise.