Author: leaving traces

A demonic hairball. Ha ha. I pictured something like Meatwad from that adult cartoon show on Comedy Network. It always came on after Robot Chicken.

A small ball of hair rummaging through alleys at night. Like a detective show – maybe wearing one of those hats.

A pink mane – a proud lion – elasti-girl hair… invisibility – how interesting that we all came up with such different ideas. Hair balls – pink manes – healing – demonic. Maybe I am secretly demonic – or not so secretly – I mean, I am a Leo – not sure about my birth chart and rising or setting stuff – or houses – or natal blah blah… but it’s almost like I’ve been hiding my full leo-ness because I’m afraid of taking up space.

FFFFF… sighing with a PH. Not much is coming to me today – scattered, a messy room… so much sentimental stuff to go through – senti-mental – yes, going mental for my memories. How does one begin to edit out memories of their life? I’m assuming all the hipsters who live in tiny homes have parents somewhere with garages and crawl spaces for all their spoiled kids’ memories.

“But mom!’ That’s my third place ribbon from my grade 3 track meet.” (It’s important to me because I’m chubby and sedentary now – so it reminds me of a time where I had fitness goals and a thin body.)

My hair is braided tightly on my head. Pulling at my scalp. Out of my face, my mom always said.

Such a pretty face. Pretty blue eyes. Chubby cheeks.

A great-uncle said I looked like Brooke Shields because of my dark, thick eyebrows.

He wasn’t creepy. Just nice. I mean they called him Uncle Buddy.

My grandpa was Bud. Real name Russell. Never knew that till I was much older.

Back of my neck – my jaw – slowly shifting into a different place – glacial pacing.

Movement. Words on a page. Exhaustion. Do I have Covid? Nah… can’t have something you don’t believe in right.

Jaw cheek. Glacial. Sediment. Jaw. Shifting. Sedimentation. Hot seat.

What to write – what comes up? Shake my body – move my body – no one calls a mountain fat.

Telling a story to despair. Writhing. Ringing. Sleeking. Slinking. Offering sweet treasures to each other. Yelling with friends. No yelling at – just yelling with. Yelling it all out. No one can be just like me. They just can’t.

Just don’t respond right away. Have fun. Prioritize having fun. Clean your room you grown child. Flit, flit, flit.

I don’t trust others as much as I trust this group.

Honestly, we could do anything together.

Yelling, screaming. Skipping to my lou… my deary. Or darling. Or darjeeling. Tea and biscuits carried across colonial highways – transoceanic commutes – transcontinental – transgender.

Transmuting and transforming. Transitory tarzan – transpiring and transposing. Trans-portation and Transylvania.

1-2-3. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Screaming. Yelling. Waking up dogs. High-pitched.

Mom texts. She’s always got to be busier than me. My jaw is tense. Opened up the jaw inside my ears. Imagine if ears could talk and jaws could listen. I think that wiggled some food around and helped me digest some things – or is it coming back up?

Brie cheese. Artichokes. Cake and pastries. My kid called me a bubble chub, or bubble gut – oh ya – bubble gut. Maybe my belly can be prayed to like Jesus – what the.. Buddha?

Scream, shout, holler and laugh. I’ve been called intense. Tenacious. Defensive and sensitive. I want my roar back – ferociously guarding the gates of hell, or my values, or my accomplishments or whatever it is – that lion poised at the entrance to a driveway – so centred, so self-assured, revered and respected.

My armpits are sweating in my shirt – the oil I rubbed on my belly smells good but my pits are taking my attention away.

I’m not here to be a shrinking violet. Sure, I’m here to be kind and compassionate but not a pushover.

Hear me roar. Hear me scream. Hear me take up space. Hear me be heard, right here.

A strawberry kiss. Squishy elbows and knee flab. Lovingly tending to ourselves. Circles and tendrils. Tickling and touching. Cold hands on soft spots. Opening a door on a kid’s bedroom – seeing them sleeping quietly. The laughter in their green eyes. I asked my kid what he thinks of my next career idea and he said, “You’re good at arguing.” I laughed.

“At home or in a professional setting?”

He starred blankly. “Both.”

I love that look in my kid’s eyes when he answers something so honestly – and doesn’t have the adult filter yet to recognize what might be funny about it.

We went for crepes. As we usually do. It’s our “thing”. Or one of our things. We get the usual, he gets the breakfast crepe with no mushrooms and no béchamel sauce – so only cheese, scrambled egg, and bacon. I get the artichoke, spinach and brie – if it’s the AM, I add scrambled eggs.

We sit there, together. Sometimes not saying much. More recently though, saying more. Or just stuff anyway – having silly conversations and enjoying each others company.

He laughs more these days – and smiles fully.

I zoomed through space on silver floating hands while eating an apple gifted by my great-grandfather.

Through steel window frames with concrete foundations the blackberry vines twisted shaping and contorting my view out onto the street.

Coming back from Japan and Costa Rica especially – I sat in my room alone and cried for days. It is true that where we go shapes us, and upon returning “home” it confronts us and saddens us deeply about who we were, who we are, and who we’re suppose to be.

How quickly we mold like goo back into the role previously played by us for our family.

My closet had mirrored doors. I painted my closet lime green and pink – looking back – it was awful. I painted an accent wall school bus yellow. The carpet was an almost royal blue. How did I ever fall asleep?

Sliding doors opened onto a cobbley pebbled balcony that wrapped the entire side of the house. I never really went out there – I had a fear of the sides of my house. I had a fear of the rec room, the furnace room, the whole basement. My room was in the basement. I had seen an image of a man in red plaid in the furnace room when we first moved there.

Calling up my fears yet not hiding them with words. An onion may get chopped if it decides to take over.

Well, my heart is here – it has big love, yet she is fearful too. Back to those safe spaces – or the veneer smile that reflected safe spaces in prismatic triangle shards around you, behind you, cloaking you – so you felt safe at least to your skin level – but something in your core was always calling out.

My mom and sister are bullies – I’ve learned to find my safety elsewhere.. at least for the most part. I can stir too much cayenne into the family soup too – so I’ve decided to leave the spoon on the counter and let the last stir sift and sort out the chunks to let them settle where they may.

I say this now – but the heart’s boundaries tend to soften and squish with empathy or maybe sympathy – which is, I think, used as another tool for selfishness and avoidance.

I can’t wait to move out of this house. It is my mother’s. Well, she bought it as an ‘investment property’ when I, my partner and our kid (and dog) got fucked around by a skeezy landlord who only wanted a few months rent before they put the house on the market in Spring.

We paid their mortgage and started our new life, the first days as a family in a ticking time bomb.

So, my mom to the rescue – purchased a new construction townhome for us to live in. Most people are shocked at her generosity – however, as a skilled daughter of hers with 36 plus years of lived experience, I know this comes at a cost.

Auntie claimed. Natalie Goldberg read my mind. As I was adding background juice for the characters in my short story I was so worried that there was no way I could add the imagery and details as I had with some of the scenes already on the page. If I add more details about fishing and trawling will this disinterest some readers? If I say some real shit and use words like fuck and pussy will the stale old white arts council even consider publishing it?

Also – how do I add the painful parts without reliving the painful parts – I mean a pube Kraken flips the script on shameful, self-loathing sexual assault and uses fiction as the vehicle through which to share and process and observe rather than be overwhelmed by.

I’ve got a boat name – The Rusty Clam – thanks Kristina for the nudge – and thanks to each of you for the feedback. A little girl inside me is learning to flip the script on constructive criticism – as a very generous act rather than one that might open old wounds, inflict new harms, and silence the voice wanting to be heard.

I guess I’m learning about safe spaces. I never really understood the nuance of this before – but am seeing that in safe spaces I won’t be judged, I won’t be abandoned, I won’t be emotionally abused. I will show up again and so will you. Time and again – maybe in slightly different ways as we evolve on the rainbow rollercoaster of life – but whether we’re riding the same rainbow or different ones – facing forwards, backwards, or hanging from the roof racks – we will pop in and out at all the right moments.

Zombies eat brains to seek new knowledge. Panther cats still pounce playfully and wag their tails.

Laughing and crying and rocking and falling off the couch. Preach girl. Live your best life. I am fucking here for it.

Panther cats and panther pussies. Pussies and pansies are shouted from mouth’s of vermin as they are digested deliberately by snakes and mammo-reptiles.

Stomach acid turns their words to gurgles and spits and coughs, but they don’t learn, not even in these moments near death, so close to their descent into hell; H – E – double hockey stick – easy tough guy – those nasty words might taste bitter one day.

Their narcissism, their ego frames everything like a backlit silhouette of a pussycat doll on a truck’s mudflap. What a place to place a ‘beautiful, perfect’ woman – flapping like loose lips picking up mud and rain on the surface of highways.

Yes, it’s me thinking these thoughts – what does that have to say? This rollercoaster is as random and joyful as the intro to this writing. Why so srys… spelled SRYS – with a cat-face backdrop somewhere.

Nonsense is sense and makes all the sense.

Let’s go play. My dog always shows me this – he’s always looking at me with adorably questioning eyes – like, “Is it playtime yet?”

“How bout now?”

“Look, here’s my toy – see, play?”

I throw it to his bed a few times.

This is something that could be sensual – to undress in a room is very intimate

the heart can be guarded so by the rain undressing it – it could be a metaphor for peeling back layers of the heart.

I picture the before sequence in an act of love-making

maybe with foggy, dim lighting

very cinematic

the connection between two people,

between their bodies

one slowly climbing forward onto another

an intensity in their eyes –

eyes locked with each other

purpose and intention

in each movement

damp skin

brown skin

olive skin

smooth and strong

and gentle and firm

skin

the eyes

trust

kindness

fire

some lust, but not too much that it becomes aggressive

fingertips that dance across bodyparts

all senses are heightened –

no…

touch is heightened

seeing out and through the eyes takes a back seat

Darkness –

a knowledge of each others bodies

hands reaching out to feel, to caress, to care – for,

to pull closer

bodies pressed together

sweat kissing chest and breast

cold, goosebumps

hairs on end

warmth, hearts beating

love for each other

love for this moment

to see and be seen

my partner

my love

connected across multiple lifetimes

his eyes – he loves me – the guard is down when he laughs at something I do

something I do without even knowing that it is something worth noticing –

something to be remembered

he mocks me

mimics me

repeats what I did or said in his best impression

I look confused and cute – ha! because I love when he looks at me like that.

You know that feeling of looking into someone’s eyes and it’s like you can picture them right in this moment as you would have seen them at age three or five or six.

That childlike twinkle,

softness, innocence.

All shields come down in those flickers of moments.

The smile, the dimples,

the eyes, the forehead, the eyebrows,

the cheeks.

My honey talks into my neck sometimes and it gets muffled by my hair

but he just keeps going –

because the seriousness is funny when all I hear is “muffle muffle mumble blah”

and feel his jaw moving on my shoulder.

I am the Amazonian woman to his sturdy groundedness.

Heels, height, posture, shapes of bodies,

curving and fitting into each other

walking side-by-side

arms around each other

laughing and moving

like in a three-legged race.

My honey is my jokester – well a jokester…

he used to ask if my giggle-box was fixed…

he makes light of many situations…

those who think this is just “silly” really don’t understand the depth, wisdom, and acute perception that it takes to be this way

to exist as this breath of fresh air.

I used to be much more like this before my dad passed away in 2013. Then it was like adulthood hit me like a semi-truck or freight train… taxes, papers, administrative duties, at work, in life.

My humour and lightness though was as much, if not more, of a coping mechanism and performance – rather than an authentic expression of who I am, or was….

et cetera et cetera

blah blah

becoming ones true self sure can be isolating…

A dear friend is pulling away from me – as an HSP, I can feel it.

It seems she’d rather be an objective bystander or distant observer than a main character at this time.

I invited him over for a play date when I was in grade one. He brought his toy sword and we rearranged the couches in the living room so we could jump from cushion to cushion as he “rescued me” from my sister, the evil dragon. LOL!

She used to get so mad at me because as the older sister, when my friends came over, if she wanted to join in, I would always make her play the villainess or really stale parts.

She has always been a fiery redhead so she would always catch on, and have some sort of defiant fit mid-play.

Anyway – my crush. His name was Raphael. I’m not sure I really liked much about him except for maybe I found out he liked me – and at the age of six – that’s all it really takes I guess.

I do remember him gifting me with a ring (from the dentist) and a leather belt – which I can only assume was stolen from his mom’s closet.

I remember this being quite a big deal in my Grade 1/2 split – quite the commotion when I was asked to look in my cubby at recess.

So now here’s where it gets interesting – as a kid, teeny tiny, like younger than ten – I had crushes on fictional characters – like cartoons.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was one of my favourite shows. I had the bedspread, the pj’s, a few figurines, and a sweet TMNT watch.

These colours were 90’s delightful – black background with neon greens, and oranges, and a teeny bit of pink.

My favourite ninja turtle was Raphael – with the red eye-mask bandana superhero thing.

Now why was Raphael my favourite?

Is it because he liked pizza? Naw.. they all liked pizza.

Was it his personality? The cranky, silent type… probably a bit of that.

But I think it was much more simply that my favourite colour was red.

So there was the root of my crush… my favourite colour is red, I watch TMNT, Raphael wears red, this equals my crush on him… I have a boy in my class named Raphael… he reminds me of TMNT.. and red. He must be the boy of my dreams.

I remember calling his house a few times – and then I feel like his mom called my mom and told me to stop calling. LOL!

Can you imagine being on the receiving end of a six-year-old calling your house to talk to your six-year-old… and then having to call their parents! Ha!

I have no idea what I could have been calling to talk about. Probably something about TMNT or my little sister having a poopy diaper.

That poopy diaper is part of another story where I recorded songs on my Fischer Price tape recorder and I got in trouble because I was singing about how much I hated my sister and how she loved smelling her poopy diaper as a pastime.

The next crush I can’t tie the dots to as sequentially – and yet, it was another cartoon…

Did you ever see the Robin Hood cartoon… where Robin Hood is a fox… like a literal animal fox.. and obviously as a six-year-old he was a total fox to me.

I’d like to think I was attracted to his character, but more likely it was his teeth and his tail.