Author: leaving traces

I am changing. Change is happening in my throat – throat lumps – coughing – causing a ruckus, a nuisance.

My mom has had a dry cough as long as I can remember – it’s like she always wants to attempt or be louder than someone else – who is usually talking.

My stress and lack of safety shows up as a lump in my throat – I remember having this feeling for months at my last job – never quite knowing who I could trust – what next step to take – becoming so light on my toes afraid from breaking eggshells, that I barely touched the ground.

Feeling and swirling through the hallways in a flighty tizzy – bumping off walls – a smokey haze… head lofty – mouth moving without fully-formed words or sound – a dreamscape or living nightmare under psychic/emotional attack for doing and not-doing, saying or not-saying, being or not-being this way – that way – or the other way…

pinball machine.

topsy turvy.

no ground to ground on.

someone barely keeping a head above water while also tossed through the clouds

The CAO told me a story of a coyote or wolf who jumped off a cliff creating the rock formation seen today –

she wanted me to make the same sacrifice.

Yesterday – what about yesterday – I drove, I wrote…

Ok – so yesterday was Sunday – my partner left to Vancouver for work. I got up, made him breakfast and turned it into a smiley face. Two hard-boiled eggs, quinoa, and freshly sliced tomatoes (vine-ripened and local) – I drizzled olive oil and balsamic reduction on the tomatoes and coated the quinoa in a greek salad vinaigrette – premade – from the bottle – I wasn’t feeling too fancy.

My honey had packed the night before, and gone to the gym – late…

He was back and it was dark – like dark, dark… and he came into my room – hovered over me.

Yes! Like a fucking psychopath… I woke up afraid for my life and thought all I said was “Fuck!”

But he told me the next morning that I had freaked out – my face turned super derpy – multiple chins exposed, squinty and furious – then I attempted to punch him like in the cartoon movies – a circular sort-of ambidextrous rotating punch as if I was peddling a bike with my hands and arms. I guess I was caught up in the covers too – so it was more a frantic flurry of sheets like a muscle spasm until I realized it was my partner.

Sigh – what a jerk. He finds stuff like that pretty funny – I find it mildly funny, after time, but also a bit dull and exhausting.

He’s always joking about everything – which I get to some degree – but guess what… it’s okay to be serious about some stuff… some times.

So… I guess that was yesterday.

I also watched a really great movie titled “The Sea Beast” and it made me want to do all this research on ancient mythical tales – and maybe connect to my Norse ancestors and ones originally from Denmark – or what, the Netherlands.

I also watched a one-season series called “god’s favourite idiot” with Melissa McCarthy and her hubby… it is really sweet and quirky and interesting.

Azhaah…oh dear… I’m sorry. That sound and pitch are repeating themselves over and over in my head.

Women dancing. Women singing. Matriarchs. The rebirth in the Western World of the Matriarchs –

I read something recently from a Cree artist, who shared, “We didn’t have equality – we had different roles in our community” – I found something interesting in there.

Deserts and flowers. Sound – percussion – faces – smiling in hardship – in persecution – the arts will resist and persist through it all – some forms become stronger – political or anti-political – which is still political.

Reframing – how do we see the world through the eyes of others – or without eyes at all – sensory – absorbing through skin – our largest and only external organ.

Absorbing – smiling. Singing. Poetry.

I started falling in love with poetry when I realized it could be seen as a rebellious act – not conforming to high-brow English formats and structures – no periods – loose punctuation – word combinations that cause friction and sparks. Sparking synapses in dormant brain spots – deep within caves of subconciousness.

The pineal gland comes to mind.

The history of the colour yellow – do you know it – It was an act of rebellion – and texts and typefaces – fonts – Helvetica and Arial – Comic Sans – Papyrus – even Wingdings for goodness sake.

There is constructed, conscious effort formed in each of the things we use – that are available to us.

This pen, this colour. Periwinkle blue – softer than what would be used in the office… a poetic balancing to interject administration.

Softness, smiles – brown and green eyes – linens and wooden beads – folded and layered – shawled and tucked.

Women – supporting women. Our family is so fragmented, so injured – invisible wounds making lightness heavy – holding us back.

Healing myself to release without throwing negative energy – takes practice – changing negative charges to neutral.

Neutral. Love. Less attachment. Fewer expectations. Asking regularly for guidance and support – from all the realms.

My New Years intentions have been and are continuing to be practiced.

Still a hurt baby in there who comes out sometimes. Release, release – breathe. Calling energy back – calling love back.

Trusting the Universe or Creator or Spirit or/and intuition.

Peter Poppy plucks a petal placed on pavement.

Petals plucked from pavement with perceived pasts and presents.

Present.

Placed poppies powerfully protrude upward puncturing asphalt permanence.

Power to the poppy.

Petals. Placement. Peace.

Layered landscapes – sedimentary layers of landscape stratified by time and context and human constructs – silted and cemented pounded pavement.

Vines and roots twist down between the sedimentary layers of peace and war and laughter and singing and play and violence and attack and abuse and assault and family and love and friendship and beauty and hatred and sunshine and storms and Spanish and Picts and language and Indigeneity and colonization and

and

and…

the invisible to the human eye will always reveal itself – are we ready to see it? If we aren’t ready – it is not there for us – it is only there – to exist – for itself – for the wind, the rain and the sun…

as if to say, “Hey Cosmic parents – I have grown from seed up through the Earth, up through this crack in concrete – to breathe life into the air – to show you that with even the smallest amount of tenderness – the enoughness amount of soil, water, air, and sun – that I can become – for you – to thank you for the enoughness to bring me to life.”

Then my petals will fall here, so softly yet with sharp, bold contrast against the black asphalt – that a human shall notice me – and she will find joy and mystery and sparks of curiosity in my tender ferociousness – that she will know – that she is me and I am her and we are each other.

As a seed – I knew her and now she is able to know me.

Is the horizon always at eye level.

Scan. Scan. Scan.

Ladybugs on striped shirts. Flower gifts on walks – strawberries from the patio for breakfast. Dog sniffs. Sun bathing, basking, glowing.

Went for a natural glow-up today. Bakery bites, small dairy-free lattes and a windy, warm, wonderful walk to the beach.

Energy shifts. Healing abandonment wounds – healing rejection wounds. Still hurts but try to take time and space to breathe.

Reflexology – she told me I am doing a lot of big work of letting things go but was still being cautious of what I let in. That was two days ago – so have been practicing openness and receptivity/receiving.

What comes next… so many amazing things… a settled assurance or re-assurance in myself – in my body – in all of the things I am capable of doing…

A settledness – a nesting – a new form of flight – a launching – untethering from old ways old patterns – not chords bound and stretched so taught that they snap back in an aggressive or regressive manner… more like a hot air balloon floating diagonally upward and with this new movement the small twinkling, glistening spiders’ webs gently detach as softly and gracefully as a bubble bursting in the sun.

This lifting – this levity comes with a few stones in my basket – to keep me grounded and here. now.

He would bring me home-cooked meals made by his big round Croatian mama. He was the most nourishing booty call.

A few years younger than me and smitten. He told me the first time he saw me that I looked like a boy all bundled up in my winter clothes from head to toe.

I liked that he like that – didn’t need to girly-girl it up for him.

He was my snack all throughout my masters.

He would come with energy, delicious home-cooked meals and a pretty great cock.

My mattress was on the floor and their was a blocked fireplace I used as a bedframe mantle – let’s just say, in my 20’s I would use that as a place to hook my toes.

Sweaty, loud. Fun – hot. Passionate – roommates fucking sometimes three couples at a time – loud ass slaps – laughs – whispered voices.

Ambulance sirens – people yelling outside.

///

I met him at the Croatian Café on campus. He was tall and kinda skinny with brown, or green eyes.

I would go there often – at first for the food – and then for some eye candy and flirting.

I always hung out with my gay friends and they would talk and talk about how hot he was – and how I should tap that. Lol.

I had a bit of game back then… so after frequent enough visits – we started hanging out off-campus.

It was the most nourishing booty call. He would always bring a bounty of chickpea salads, and lasagna, and a warm potato something with cheese and we would eat and fuck and eat and fuck and sometimes cuddle – but rarely – I wasn’t into that. He fit perfectly into my hectic graduate studies life.

///

Chickpeas and cock.

Young twenty-something cock.

Writing this three times makes me feel like I’m cheating on my partner, who is taking me on a date night tonight by the way.

Ok – anyway – cock. Haha.

The way he looked at me.

The twinkle in his eyes. He loved my body – inside and out.

He would come over a few times a week and we would exercise.

All the positions – the classics – on top, underneath, from behind – on our sides – holy shit I actually miss that crazy wild 20’s sex – up against the wall – smacking of the ass –

two or three times – sort of being quiet for roommates but not really caring – laughing, sweating, fucking, talking, eating, fucking – ok see ya – I have work to do or I’m going out with friends – I had a pretty great life in Toronto.

Any who

The only time I’ve appreciated that term.

Any who – the vegetarian owl.

Any who – the fish who drowned in its first race.

Any who – the toothless alligator.

A spider with no web.

A snake without scales.

Weightless hippos are the anywhos as they swim in water.

My kid has one more day of school until summer break. His love language is teasing me – he offered up a hug to my mom when she was here for a visit – but he and I don’t do hugs – well, sheesh – I absolutely would – but he shakes his finger ‘no, no, no’ – and tries not to burst out laughing at my overly dramatic and shocked blank stare – he’s seen it before, so it doesn’t phase him.

He’s going to be heading up to Haida Gwaii to spend time with his mom for July.

I’m trying not to think about it I guess – lol – such a softy.

He’s a little shit as teenagers are, but he is such a kind, funny, honest, thoughtful dude.

He was texting me from his math class today saying they were done all their work and were just sitting there doing nothing – expecting me or his dad to pick him up early so he could, in his words, ‘clean the kitchen’ – his dad and I both laughed.

Although I didn’t grow fetus kiddo in my butt – or wherever babies grow – he and I have a fiercely strong connection.

He keeps me conscious – as a parent, as a human, as a role model, as a friend – my mistakes, our mistakes are addressed and talked about in some fashion… then we bring light back to these mucky spaces.

We golf. We joke. We cook supper. He shows me, almost daily, how big his muscles are getting – trying to get all the shadows and muscle dents and bumps like his dad.

Hmm… summer… kid-free July – happy/not happy.. Whistler – course planning. Teaching. Working. Sunning.. blah blah… Barclay say something.. to to to dee dah.. out.

Friendships. Ships. Sails. Sailing away. Maybe they will last but change – become more spacious – like covid protocols – a physical and social distancing.

Last – the end of first – or anything that is other than first – second can be last and third – going nowhere fast.

Lasting – what really, truly lasts – those things that are invisible – the intangible things that we cannot necessarily name – those are lasting – well beyond brick and mortar buildings, even trees and species… the intangibles – like love – love lasts – I guess hate might also – but hate can be dissolved and love can fade – or shift or evolve – really, what are the qualities of love – we’ve all heard of love languages by now – so we can see the outcomes of our love – the practices of love… what happens to that love with space? With distance… is the love still there but lacks the tangible, touchiness of it all – or does it soften and weaken – like a heartbeat losing strength – not tended too enough – dropping, quieting, drifting away slowly…

a small thread like a spider’s web cast on a breath of wind.

“Stop licking me you knob!

You just sucked on a stick of butter like it was a popsicle and now me!

Can’t you see I have a second degree sunburn – adding a buttery topping will only encourage the burn deeper under my skin!

I can’t believe you keep a mini-fridge in your janitors closet filled with sticks of butter and lemonade.

What kind of freak show are you running here?”

He could hear her speaking expletives at him but he couldn’t resist – he had a thing, a tantalizing taste for sweaty, sunscreen-coated shoulders – especially warm ones baked under the hot sun.

The school where he worked hadn’t received any government funding in over six years – he ran the school store, first aid office, and café out of his janitor’s closet.

The one thing he couldn’t keep contained in his closet though was his outlandish and highly inappropriate tastes – like a craving, an insatiable craving a pregnant woman might have – for pickles dipped in chocolate – or ice cream sprinkled with dirt.

His tastes were more personal though, like – attached to a person. Crispy chicken shoulders of a sun-baked lady – sweaty eyebrows and any collection of all sorts of things ground up under fingernails – hot sauce after gardening was in his top three for texture, flavour, and means of extraction.

He was lucky he had found her. Online – of course – an unpaid site where anything and everything can be found. He had first seen her on plenty-of-fish – but knew she would make a great companion after the response he received to his craigslist ad.

It read, “Very male custodian with strong jaw looking for very female to participate in precarious palate-teasers of unknown and likely never-before-tried combinations. Please reply with your favourite flavours only.”

Her response,

” 1 – Twisted chameleon candies coated in cheese whiz and stardust.

2 – Scalloped potatoes left in the sun with a dash of marmite.

3 – Roasted snails, roast squash, and uncooked baby carrots.”

They met after work one day at the local market that sold odds and ends and out-of-the-box treats.

Chocolate-covered crickets and raw octopus tentacles on sticks.

There was a station where you could dunk frozen condiments in an array of dustings.

Her favourite of the day was a ketchup popsicle in seagrass flakes.