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Showing posts from December, 2013

And So On And So Forth And Auld Lang Syne

Kate's the kinda girl that wants to be resolved. She makes plans, writes resolutions, uses all caps all the time and emoticons inappropriately. Anything to create shape and direction in her life. She does this at the beginning of every new year like clockwork. It never pans out. The best laid plans, blah blah blabbity blah. This year she's starting early. She's got a whole week. More than enough time to manifest a life changing program which will culminate in a grand celebration on New Year's Eve. She'll gather up some gal pals, build a beach side bonfire; they'll drown themselves in stories of what once was, lay out dreams of what will be. Consume copious amounts of the home made Baileys she has no business drinking, all the while committing themselves to brand-spanking new vows to Make Things Happen. Time to shake out the old, ring in the new, wipe the slate clean. Tabula rasa. Just like last year. And the year before that. And so on and so forth and

Survival Of The Fittest

The end of days. The calm before the storm. Hard to forsee what could be coming; In the interim she's storing up, making do, preparing for the worst, hoping for the best Battening down the hatches. A long, hard push of concerted focus, strong and steady, no rest, no respite until the storm hits. Then all bets are off. No matter how prepared she thinks she is, there's no way to brace for the unknown. Not really. There are recommendations, protocol, the best of good intentions laid out before her but really She does not now how this will go down. When disaster strikes only then will she see what she's made of. What we are all made of. Survival of the fittest, who's to say. Right now she's lighting fires. For warmth, for whimsy, for whatever he left behind that she can get her hands on. She will burn it all up, an offer to the gods circling, threatening to tear this house down, rip it from it's foundations, leaving it's skeleton exposed. A rat

There But For The Grace Of

He sends her naked shots of himself in various poses.  A cowboy hat.  A duck faced selfie.  Three day stubble on his somewhat defined chest.  She's stopped opening his texts, changed her settings so that they don't flagrantly expose her to public curiosity while in transit.  All of this is unsolicited.  They bought a house, Grey and Ashleigh. His girlfriend of almost two years. The latest development in the ongoing saga of will he or won't he.  Lucy knows that when the cock shots reappear Grey's experiencing an existential crisis; Relationship woes of a sexual nature. Hardwired to wander, a child of the affair, son of a libidinous creature. As sure as the mooon's pull on tides, he gracelessly self destructs.  There was a time Lucy took the bait but she's learned:  Never step in the same river twice.  Their last friendly coffee talk had Grey musing over the battle of his rapaciousness versus his girlfriend's lack of sexua

This Could Be Home

Stacey isn't sure if she actually knows the woman. I mean, she thinks she does; the way the woman smiles at her and nods, like they are old forgotten friends who once shared intimate tales of lives lost and dreams forgotten. A melancholy, forgiving knowing. It is that specific. A radiating beam of I See You streaming full blast in Stacey's direction. Of course, Stacey's default is a reflexive mile-wide smile. Full body warmth emanates from her every iota. She has to stop herself from running in for a bear hug as she suddenly realizes they may have never met. In fact, this middle aged black gypsy woman with her headscarf tied in an elaborate fashion singing scat versions of christmas carols perched in a director's chair at the bottom of the subway stairs could be a complete stranger. These moments are the hardest for Stacey to comprehend. Her body vibrates, her intuition takes over her intellectual reasoning and she acts impulsively. Stop. Breathe. Step ba

A Lack Of Empathy

Seven, eight, nine sneezes in a row. It's becoming painfully orgasmic and the woman sitting next to her just got up and shifted seats, throwing Connie the most withering stare. It's the chocolate. Really good dark chocolate makes her sneeze. Repeatedly. Generally not this uncontrollably- three seems to be the magic number- so now she's wondering what the hell was in the bag of leftover chocolate chips she bought from the bulk store because this is insane. Peter used to make fun of her, taunting her with incredible hand poured organic chocolate squares that he'd flaunt in front of her like a carrot on a stick. His idea of foreplay. Get her all worked up then giggle wildly when she was tearing up and  sneezing a fit. Painfully uncomfortable. Connie never understood Peter's sense of humour and that was a major nail in their relationship's coffin. You're too sensitive, he'd say; so dramatic, so intense. His detached, emotionally disengaged observ

Fire and Wine

One by one they went away. She stopped reading his messages, left emails unopened, dumped files, deleted histories. Pictures, videos, playlists, all gone. Wipe the heart drive clean. It's taken months, almost a year, really. Now she doesn't roll over at 4 am half asleep and grab the phone charging on the shelf above her head. She's letting go by blowing things up. Just short of annihilating- it's not in her nature to leave without a trace. In this day and age she knows that's an impossibility. She will always exist in some form, some code, some file, texts, download, screen grabs, half opened bottle of hairspray in the corner of the back shelf. She's eradicated any visible trace of them together. Contact lists, addresses, important dates, favourite links, wish lists, all of it wiped clean. Slowly she's getting herself back. The coffee shop on 4th two blocks west of her, once their, apartment is returning to the rotation. As is the regular Wednesday night mee

Fade To Black

Digging in the dirt, rooting round for a lost, what...he can't remember. This happens now. Freqently. A dropped thought, a shift in focus and then gone. Like a breeze he feels as it blows past him, turning his head, changing direction, altering the landscape. Erasing it now, more than before. It started with minor blips and pauses, words perched on the tip of his tongue, voiceless, gears turning slowly, tumbling into place. Relief. The pause is longer now, the losses greater. Gaps wide enough to fall into and too deep to climb out of. His walls are papered with post its; directives, reminders, statements, questions. Lots of questions. Pictures paint a map to follow but he's shrinking, a diminishing point of focus, a pupil contracting. Blinders on, narrowing the path so that eventually he will disappear completely, what once was will fade to black.

Seeking Direction

Living in between the lines Kaleigh gets lost. She's always been directionally challenged, lacking any internal compass. Some would say morally as well. Free spirited. Impulsive. A simple walk round the block can end up with her miles from home, an unexpected urban adventure. Somewhere along the line it became her credo, with a little help from Chet Baker: Let's Get Lost. Her inability to stay the course defines her. Lost jobs, failed marriages, wandering eyes. Gets her in trouble time and time again. Fall down six times get up seven, preferably facing the opposite way, in someone else's sphere. Eventually she'll get so turned around, mired in the maze of wanderlustful reactionary decisions that she will find herself down under, so far from home that the road back disappears. Paths erode. Life alters course randomly in unexpected, unanticipated ways. Middle age set in and Kaleigh's stuck in stasis spinning in circles, no longer impelled by a desire to explore. Life,

Too Much Information

Beth finds it hard to reconcile that she was ever that self absorbed. She knows she was, absolutely; it just manifested differently then. This young woman standing in front of Beth, shoulder to shoulder with her two girlfriends, none of whom make eye contact with each other, fascinates her. The trio speak too loudly, orating really for anyone within earshot. They simultaneously relay their exchange onto their smartphones, a running commentary of their emotional vital signs. They project confidence, an aloofness completely centred in themselves. The thought of their behaviour being seen as entitled or righteously indignant is beyond the scope of their imaginations. They were raised this way. They live out loud online. Every thought, every feeling and impulse, is documented and declared a monumental event. Life Changing. The banal becomes extraordinary simply by pressing enter. Preaching to their choir, a bombardment of Too Much Information. The young women eat, drink, sleep, cavort, imp