Summing Up Someday

 

The sour tang of a Vitamin C pill clashes horrifically with dark roast coffee. My coffee is especially dark roast, if that’s even a thing, because I use exactly twice as much coffee grounds as the recommended serving on the can. This is so I can taste the bitter black liquid as it slithers down into the depths of my soul each morning.

Okay, that was a bit much.

It’s been so long since I wrote on here, I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. It was the stillness of the tree outside my living room window that did it.  The sunlight slipping through its leaves, playing peekaboo with me. Distracting my brain from its usual Sunday morning thoughts.  That’s what drew me in. I was noncommittally toying with the idea of going for a walk when the thought occurred to me. I haven’t wrote, haven’t even looked at the blog, in months.

I am chewing down Vitamin C because Sophie has a killer flu bug. Not actually killer, to clarify. There is no apocalyptic flu bug going around or anything. Not that I know of at least. Nevertheless, I can see it as it envelops our home despite my ravenous cleaning and disinfecting. I am at the point now of attempting to ward it off by pure mental willpower. The way I used to try to move pencils in math class with nothing other than the raw power of my brain. It never worked then but I suspect my brain is more powerful now, as an adult, so now I should be able to accomplish something in this department. Even if it is just that of me catching a slightly less awful strain of the bug.

The truth of it is, I cannot get sick. Not now. Before, like three weeks ago, it would have been passable to come down with a bug. We have our employee Cam who could have covered my shift at the panini factory. We would have been able to deal. In fact we have dealt with this exact scenario because I have a shit immune system and catch basically everything that goes around.

I can’t get sick anymore however. The ‘ol immune system is going to have to shape up or…Well, I guess I don’t want it to ship out, there’s no way that having no immune system would be better than have a shitty immune system. So it’s just going to have to shape up. End of story. I will start eating more vegetables and drinking more water. My mom tells me this is the answer to basically all of life’s problems. And she is typically quite knowledgeable on these types of things.

The reason I cannot get sick is because we are opening a second store location. We are aren’t doing this in the typical, hire more staff and be completely prepared for the extra work load, type of way. Oh no. We are opening a second location, continuing to run with three people and hoping to make a boat load of cash in the process. A “boat load” is an overstatement.  A gross overstatement. What we are really hoping to do is secure our business so that eventually we can hire enough staff to run the floor and Jamie and I can actually do owner stuff. Well, that’s an exaggeration too. Honestly guys, who knows what we want out of this thing. I’m pretty sure all of the glutinous flour I work with on a daily basis has begun to clog my braintubes (braintubes is most definitely a thing, despite what spellcheck, and perhaps science, tells me). All I really know is that we need to grow our business so it becomes something of value. Yeah, yeah, it is sentimentally valuable right now, but sentimentality ‘aint shit when thinking about the future. But I guess it sort of is in the grand scheme of things….But not in this scenario. Just stay with me here guys.

Still there? Awesome.

When Jamie and I dream of someday we are sitting in a mansion that we have built with our franchised panini money, sipping cocktails while I write my memoirs and he creates miniature models of specific points in history which he will display in his football field sized miniatures museum he constructed after selling the restaurant. We laugh and laugh at how difficult life used to be with memories that are hazy because if we were to really reminisce about the trials of yesteryear we would be in a constant state of manic depression.

Sometimes we dream that we build a blimp hotel and travel around the world at a brisk 60 mph while whisking our patrons off to their various destinations in aviation heaven.

Most times, however, we simply dream about simplicity. About having the ability to go on vacation with our kids without having to worry about a store to look after. We dream about taking the day off work to volunteer on a school field trip. We dream about lying in bed all day, worrying of nothing. Nothing at all.

Alas, we tried this life once, and dreamt of the life we are currently living. Which is exactly how we arrived here. So clearly we are physically unable to be happy with anything (unless it involves owning a blimp hotel). We are obsessed with the idea that there is something else out there for us to achieve. Something amazing to explore around the next bend. Perhaps, we will never learn.

I have come to the conclusion that the real key to living happy is to somehow merge these two fantasises. And this, my friends, is the meaning of life. Boom. You’re welcome. And we are trying to achieve it. The kids have begun to help us at the shop. We show them the ropes and so far, they swing from them joyously. Lars is great with customers and talks their ear off while Sophie is happy to help in the baking department when given the chance. I took them to see the new café yesterday and they both immediately began to make plans of how they would be involved in this new place.

So maybe our life is not the typical one of a growing family. Maybe we are a bit more complicated. Maybe a bit unconventional. At times I worry about the kids and I wonder if they would be happier if given a different life. I wonder if they are okay. Then I look at them. Like, really study them. They then look at me like I’m a crazy person but quickly sluff it off because I am forever doing strange things like this.

I see Sophie and her artwork. The artwork that she has honed in and made her own over hours of drawing weird and wonderful pictures from the two seater table of a sandwich shop. And I see Lars and his genuine and lovely and kind personality. His empathy and outgoing nature towards any other human being continues to astound me.

I will write little blurbs on this blog when the muse takes me and Jamie will continue to craft miniature models from the paint speckled table in our living room while we binge watch bad Netflix originals. We will take mini vacations to the mountains when the stars have aligned and we find ourselves with two consecutive days off work. We will enjoy backyard bbq’s and watch as the kids swim in the pool and scream out in unabashed joy when the water is too cold to bear. We will find joy in the time spent together, even when together is at the shop showing our children how to talk to customers and make bundt cakes.

I see the pride the kids have in our little sandwich shop when they tell perfect strangers about The Hot Wire Panini and they call it “their shop”, “their restaurant” and I realise that maybe our life isn’t cookie cutter perfect but it is our perfect. Our right now perfect. And just like all things, it will evolve and grow with us, and that will be perfect too.

 

 

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Taking Back Control

We are fastened to one another by fraying knots.

Mottled steel. I want to rid myself of you.

Shrug you off like a winter jacket on the first day of spring.

Breathe relief into the heavy air as I feel you slide away from me.

I don’t want you to be happy, I don’t think you deserve it.

But is there even a you to begin with? Are you sentient? Are you real?

Because you are not true. I know that much.

I know that you can make me feel unworthy and small.

I know that you have the power to change me.

Shift and model me into whatever your will suggests.

I know that this control you have over me is no one’s fault but my own.

I know that life would be much cleaner, much healthier without you.

You whisper insecurities in my ear then shout them to the world.

You tell me it’s not enough. Nothing I do is enough.

I reach for happiness and feel my fingertips graze atop joy’s ruffled edges. Just as quickly gone. You’ve pulled me away, back to reality. Back to misanthropy. You stunt my happiness in ways you’ll never care to know.

You will take and take and take until I am a husk.

An empty shell awaiting orders from its owner.

Because eventually you will own me. My person, my spirit, my life.

You are a festering sore upon my back. You cultivate deeper into me with each passing day. Each passing hour.

This is why I must bid you farewell dear ego. For it is no one’s fault but my own. These deep seated cries of sorrow you sow.

I cast you away from my soul, as I have so many times before.

No longer will I allow you to live at the forefront my will.

No longer will I let you inside my common sense or rational thoughts.

I will leave you stranded and wondering what happened.

Alone and desolate.

Bereft.

But how long will it last?

Alive

I am desperate. Desperate for the time and energy to be the person I know I can be if only I could muster the effort to build and grow her properly. I am exhausted. Not tired. Exhausted. Bushed from the stress that hovers over my head like undetectable clouds which rain droplets of bad news upon my exposed skin. Popping on impact they startle me into weary submission.

We as humans have this uncanny aptitude to blame others for our misfortunes. If we cannot blame our fellow human we will blame the universe. If not the universe, we blame God or Satan or the neighbour’s dog, Spot. We seem to be programmed to repel blame from ourselves, hurdling it onto one another like grenades of misery. If there is no one left to blame we simply throw our heads to the heavens and scream with self-indulgent despair, “Why Me?! Why is my life the worst?” And when we receive no answer we blame the heavens for not responding to our pleas.

But if anything, I am introspective. Active in the knowledge that I have free will. I am absorbed in the lifeblood of the mundane, the everyday, the commonplace. I can see the prospect of tomorrow and how I must build on today to get to that place. I am willing to work for growth. I am freedom. Absolute uninhibited freedom. Freedom to grow. Freedom to be. Freedom to become anything despite the weariness that clings to back. Despite the setback and the obstacles. I am choice. And when I grow tired, distraught with the holdups that tarnish all hope for future days I will remind myself. I am alive.

Glass Surface

Some days my life feels like a vast ocean.

Stretching far across a skyline

That seems unending. Daunting.

Tasks pile up. Unread books

Upon a dusty shelf.

Waiting for someone to pick them up.

Waiting for someone to sort it all out for me.

And somedays it all appears to be too much.

The bulk of obligation buckles my knees.

Wobbles my feet.

I wonder somedays if I can lasso it

Into regulation.

Can I compact the monthly, weekly, daily duties

So they become attainable?

Tie them into a routine?

Neat and tidy.

While floating over this sea of responsibility

Moons passing. Water droplets detach

In skyward propulsion.

And the anxiety melts away,

Fat in a red-hot pan.

Starlight glimmers off the tasks

I once obsessed about.

Now casting perfect shadows, lengthy as the threats

Of incompletion which worried me moments before.

Handsome. Disordered. Ruffled chaos. Beautiful disaray.

Bliss peeking through slats of agitation.

Fence posts of contentment erected amid

Goals for future days.

And it occurs to me that most days,

This life-ocean seems vast and unnerving.

But it also builds dreams upon its glass surface.

Dogs are people too!

 

 

Something a little different for you today…Well, only because it is simply too funny not to share with my bloggy friends.

Sophie (my 7 year old daughter) was asked at school to draw a picture of the kindest person she knows. She drew a picture of our dog. If you look closely though you can find me in the background screaming because the kindest person Sophie knows has shit on the floor again and is attracting the flies.

Her attention to detail is as uncanny as her ability to accurately depict my exact facial expression when discovering such an event has occurred.

And is it a problem that the kindest person my kid can think of is a dog…who regularly poops the floor?

 

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Head Sloths Slowin’ Me Down

The writing stinks today.

Like a musty towel

Left too long

In the machine,

The smell

Sticking to everything

It touches.

Grey fog hugs my brain.

Fondly fondling

Recollections

Like play things.

Altering and misshaping

Past memories

Taking away all

Semblance of

Lucidity.

Head Sloths,

Lazily hang from my

Prefrontal cortex.

Resulting,

In the

Inability to care

About the production

Of new words

Becomes me.

Their giant claws

Tickle soft tissue.

Prod at the fatty

Flesh of my thoughts.

Elbow away

Inspiration.

Jabbing the muse

To distant future days.

Removing the possibility

To write well

Today.

And the words.

The words

Either

Slip away, to that

Place where

Dark clouds never

Dissipate. Unable to

Create.

Or,

The words creep out of me

Smelling cheap and decayed.

The writing stinks today.

 

Food Sharing

I can already tell that this will not be my week for gains in literary esteem. It literally took me ten minutes to write that first sentence. Yes THAT first sentence. So instead I’m going to use up my one hundred words to tell you about a little project we have going on at the shop right now.

We were inspired by a similar program created by a coffee shop out of Halifax. It is where patrons can go into the shop and purchase food tickets/tokens for those in need.

For example at The Hot Wire a coffee and a baked good ticket costs 3 dollars and a bowl of soup and a side costs 6 dollars. People who want to reach out to help those looking for a warm meal in the community can come into The Hot Wire and purchase these tickets then distribute them to any person who may need a warm meal. They may be  purchased and then dropped off at local shelters or social organisations and in turn the people wielding Hot Wire tickets may come in to redeem them at any time during regular business hours. There are no prerequisites or requirements to redeeming a ticket. Help should never be laced with judgement or suspicion. Sometimes appearance alone cannot determine the prosperity of someone.

It is easy to forget that difficult times can fall on anyone. Jamie and I are no strangers to money-stress and the constant looming fear of financial insecurity. Starting a business with virtually no money or resources was perhaps not the wisest idea when we embarked on this journey, but it was our determination and drive which pushed us forward anyways. Since then there is no doubt that the thought of near failure, one catastrophic bout of botchery, could land us in a similar position. Some months we fall over the finish line hanging on by threads and gossamers. There are periods where we do well and can catch up but then the slow months come and it is all we can do to hang on until the storm has passed. For some, the storm lasts too long and they are not able to recover from it.

We may not have loads of disposable cash at this time but we do have a means to help those in need. Food Sharing is such a simple idea. As a business our costs are still being met, we are simply providing the platter for which the food will be shared over. We are the middle man of the operation, the thing that gives the subtle nudge to those who have been thinking of helping out but don’t know how to proceed forward.

If you or someone you know owns a café, eatery, hell five star restaurant, I strongly urge you to look into similar programs. It is so simple to put in place and the results could mean everything to someone who is looking for a warm meal to fill their belly.

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Aflame At Both Ends

The words have been sticky lately. Have you noticed? I haven’t been proficient in keeping up with my 100 words a day. The lack of words, the lack of creativity is causing a blockage. A brain blockage. It is the business which causes this thought constipation. The business. The thing is its own entity in our meager little lives. So large in its importance it has formed biospheres around itself. It is now our life support.

I believe the business is on some sort of brink. It feels as though there has been a slight build of expectation within it for some time now. Soon, it will explode into popularity. Well, hopefully. There is a palpable anticipatory feel to the thing as of late. This detonation of our family-run restaurant has not been without blood, sweat and tears however. It is not a simple miracle which has unfolded upon us; laying out a treasure trove of opportunity. No there has been toil.  Donkeywork and drudgery. Wedges squeezed between our loved ones over lack of time and attendance. Tears spilt over desperation. A constant fear that failure, some catastrophic blunder that will entomb us. This fear is always lingering. Tickling our consciousness as we imagine future days. Reminding us that there is no rest for the weary in the entrepreneur’s life.  Telling and retelling the tales of hardship that comes along with self employment.

Yet despite all of this anxiety up against our backs, there is still hope. An optimistic sentiment, carried close by waves of determination and willpower alone. It is always there, though sometimes only a faint whisper behind the realities of owning and operating a local business in this time of box stores and free delivery with orders over ten dollars.

So yes, the words have been sticky as a result. They cling to the side of my tongue each morning as I attempt to spit them onto a blank page. They dangle from my subconscious at the most inopportune times, retracting and fastening securely to some inoperable place once the opportunity to expel them presents itself.

This is not to say my love affair with these words each morning is through. At this point, the writing cannot be touched. It has become too important, too essential to sanity. It has become an anchor that steadies against high tide. So despite the sentences sticking to that somewhere place I cannot seem to reach, I will keep on pulling them out piece by piece. Fragments of thoughts and dreams waylaid to this screen perhaps one day—when time and creativity is once again on my side—to be made whole again.

The You’s of Yesterday and Tomorrow

Once upon a lifetime, you were never tired. Minutes passed by like molasses through a sieve; long lasting and bittersweet.  You didn’t know that one day the easiness, the jovial adventures of youth would flit away like tissue paper pieces caught in a windstorm. Altering and shifting ever so slightly so you wouldn’t detect the change until years later. You didn’t know that life was so delicate. So defining.

You were wet cheeked and waiting for trouble. You had faith. Not confidence, more of a conviction for the unthoughtful standards which surrounded you.

You were beautiful. Fresh faced, energetic—never dog-tired and dragging your body from A to B as you do now. You were filled with lifeblood. You exuded it through tiny pores upon your glistening skin.

You were oh so positive. Dappled envy and the want for material goods had not yet sullied your go-getter attitude. You bled eagerness.

You look back on these days not with bitterness but an unbidden appreciation.

Because despite how able and animated you once were, you decide as you sit and sip coffee this early morning that you wouldn’t trade it back. You quite enjoy the person who writes these words today. You now have the confidence to take this realisation and lay it out, spread it along the various nooks and crannies of your life, let all the past and future you’s see it.

Life is defining, and the actions of the past have prepared you, primed your inner and outer self to be melded and shaped into a future person. Days, years, lifetimes past have initiated the process and it is your job to continue the construction until there is nothing left to construct.

Bad Poetry

How many bad poems does it take to craft the one?

The one that will stick to you. Stick to your reader,

Sweet and aromatic like the air of a bakery

Early in the morning.

How many bad poems must bleed

From the fingertips of those who yearn to write romantically?

Those who crave to produce one piece of the verse

Which will evolve into something universal; carried over millennia

Brisk and untouchable on the invisible airstreams of literary fervour.

Ejected thoughts sinking skyward.

How many lines must be toiled over?

Ripped from the mind. Scoured at as though it were a dirty dish

That had been left to scab. Removing the crust. Picking away the bad.

Bad poetry is everywhere.

These pages are filled with it. Brimming and busting at the seams

Unsuccessful imagery.

Flat blows of ornamental language.

Bad poetry is the way we text and speak

The way we move through society. Bad poetry is universal and always.

How many bad poems does it take to craft the one? And who chooses which is which anyways?

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something new

Usually staring at this blank page frustrates me. The white glare bites into my retinas and reminds me that I still have so much to do, so much to learn. So much to write. It prompts me to call to mind everything that I so desperately long for in this life but that right now seems too far away. Like island dots upon a water-logged horizon.

Not this morning though. This morning it feels good to have a blank page in front of me. Invisible eddies of possibility twirl into my brain and out through these fingers. The possibility motivates me. Moves me to find time, write more, seek limbs and jump. Freefall into something untried and terrifying.

This blank screen reminds me that the more I write the easier it becomes to fill up the hollow spaces. To remove the glare that tries to stop me with its distracting radiance. The words feed each other, they gain sustenance with each thought, each idea that unfolds upon this screen.

 

 

Now, it seems,

I am indebted to this screen.

There is a time bomb inside

Of me.

Long-sufferingly,

Waiting to KA-BLOOOEY!

I am a fiend

For the literary.

Unseen and weary

Unable to glean

What need be

From my brain activity.

Although agreeing

To keep positivity

Close

Unwavering.

Trying to seek out

The answers

Inwardly.

Then expelling them

Unceremoniously

To this screen.

How it should be.

 

It has been a few days since I’ve written. The other responsibilities of life and work have usurped my brain and time was not on my side. It seems to me now, after a break like this, it takes a while to warm up my brain. Like a good stretch sesh before a run, I must work out the kinks of inactivity.

Right now, looking at the glowing white screen simply gives me good feelings. I am here. I am writing. Thoughts flow over this page like brown and orange fallen leaves in autumn. Allowing regrowth. And tomorrow something new.

post birthday brain drain followed by an insanely busy weekend

My brain is foggy this morning from too many birthday beers the night before. A to-do list hangs in the corner of my mind. Out of reach. The words and their meanings blurred from the remaining wisps of yesterday’s joviality. I’m not ready to come back to reality.

But like most necessary things, reality forces its way inside. Jostling the recent past’s fun and games out of my head as though it was cattle being steered away from danger by melodic humanoid voices. And once again I find myself readying for new adventures.

This weekend The Hot Wire has been invited to the Alberta Food and Beverage Expo. We participated last year and it was a blast. Although last year we had twice the help. This year challenges have arose because there is never simplicity when it comes to the life of restauranteering. But like everything else, we have divided our tasks and conquered accordingly. Hopefully.

It doesn’t help that my head feels like ten thousand dish pit rags have been shoved in through the ear canals and must remain to stew there forevermore, but alas, that is the price I pay for birthday shenanigans.

I don’t want to stop writing this morning. The moment I stop is the moment I must begin the list. The list I still cannot seem to focus on and nail down to a concrete plan of action. The moment I stop pounding keys is the moment that it all becomes the now, the, I’ve got to get shit done right now. The moment I stop letting the words fall onto the page is the moment I must stop slurping down coffee in a warm living room and traverse my way out into the cold and snow.

I suspect it will be like most things and I will be dreading the next 48 hours for as long as possible. But as they happen, as they pass by me like a fast-action replay it will not seem menacing at all. The list will get done, the prepping and packing will commence, the set up will fly by, the people will eat and we will survive. And likely, have a whole lot of fun while doing it all.

Because if we aren’t enjoying even the challenging things, what are we doing anyways?

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Thirty Two Years

It’s official! I have lived for thirty two years. I have had thirty two years worth of adventures. Thirty two years of learning and growing. How little time it feels like when placed up against the worldwide scope of things. Yet it simultaneously is lifespans and magnificent. I am a world wrapped up into thirty two years of memory, hope for the future, and a simple beautiful existence. And I am in awe to see what the next thirty two years has in store.

I woke up this morning thinking that I would take the morning off writing. I would laze in the living room sipping coffee and surfing Facebook. I would luxuriate and not worry over the realm of words which long to break free from my brain.  I would revel in the nothingness of the morning. The nothing things.

But as it is, the mind does not work as such. After having written (nearly) every morning for almost two months now it seems that I cannot simply turn it off. The words sneak into my fingers and leak outwards like ink from a wizened pen.

This morning as I tried to relax I discovered that the most comforting thing of all is to allow the sentences to form, the ideas to arrange themselves and then simply freefall down the literary rabbit hole.

Little did I know that these past few months have provided me with the greatest birthday gift of all; a renewed and uninhibited love for creating. What a wonderful gift to give oneself.

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Building a Woman

She is unsure.

The warm embrace of

Confidence neglects her

Like a child left

To scream alone

In a forlorn room.

Long stretched shadows

Dance over silver walls

While creaking corners

Remind her of

A separateness

She can’t control.

She is nervous.

Apprehensive to pursue

The Great Adventure

Awaiting,

Just outside the swinging door.

Edgy and fretful

Of all

She does not know.

Sullied over stupidity

Endlessly worried about

Looking dumb.

Never knowing

If she

Is

Good enough.

But,

She is curious.

Despite all of these

Misgivings.

She yearns to unearth

The well of potential

Which runs

Like spring water

Cool and clear and calming

Just outside her grasp.

Reaching, stretching.

Liquid quenching

A thirsty tongue.

And now,

She is hydrated

Tenacious

In her resolve

She will press onwards.

Outwards in a quest

For knowledge.

For experience.

For skills she

Looks to receive

To be

The maker of

Many things.

For the passion

She aims to release

Upon the world.

And

After long last,

She is ready.

The Place Behind The Words

I woke up this morning wanting to write warmly to you. I had half of a poem written when I realized that I was just placing words together. There was no truth behind them. No feeling being drug up from the depths of my gut. No passion in that place that exists behind the words.

Because there is such a place. It is a dark hole that is never ending. It is the thing which touches us when reading a beautiful piece of poetry or sticks fervently to the side of our brains long after we’ve fallen into a gripping story.

It is the place of lost worlds and forgotten wonders. It is the reason we crave the written word; why we long to read and write the stories of the mind.

It is a beautiful, terrifying, astounding space. A stretched tunnel with many off-shoots. A cosmic forest. A cavernous fissure upon earth’s surface. It is an infinite thing only because our imaginations are unbounded and limitless. It is as abundant as our confidence in it.

This magical place is the writer’s ambition. It is the reader’s refuge. It is the place where creator and consumer meet. It is the endgame and the inauguration alike.

And it is my advice to you as the reader, as the writer, as the taster of literature and the ejector of words to find this place and vow to live there contentedly each time you delve into the stories and poetry and the words which are meant to be read by wanting minds.

INsomnia

 

 

He rests his weary mind. Sleep no longer comes easy to him. Not after the crash. 6 treacherous months of sleepless nights, of sleepwalking days. Of the two an unbroken knot of repetitiveness.  A constant state of sameness. Moonlight is bellowing through the slits of double sided fabric hanging on the windowpane. Ethereal particles of light catch his eyes, reminding him he is alone in this world. He wants to put his brain on pause. Bolt close the thinking parts and shut off his eyes. He wants to turn it all off. A warm tendril of breath. A tepid wisp of air across his lightly gowned chest. Whispering voices. “Hang in there.” “We love you.” “Come back to us.” If only he could. If only he could sleep.

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Conquest – a micro fiction

Great round globes of metal

(Or something that is quite similar)

Hang in the air, lifeless.

Still.

Magnificent silver oranges awaiting

To shed their peels.

3 days. 7 days. 10.

Clear skies one day

The next mere slivers of blue

To be seen through rounded

Pewter worlds sprinkled skyward.

As though they had been there

Always.

Now we are the crazed insects

Tiny and insignificant

Dazed by fear

While patiently offering

Our fate for a few more minutes of life.

Pulling tiny pieces of existence off

Future days, wrapped up tight and safe

In these unfamiliar entities

Casting shadows earthbound.

They appear unwearyingly satisfied

To silence

While the weak (though once thought to be victors)

sweat cold sleet

Over goose pimpled flesh

On the inescapable ground below.

Collecting brain-frizz and releasing it.

Admittedly I am a brain-frizz collector. Days stretch by where I have no desire to learn or grow, to read or even write. These are the times when I sit on my phone frying my thoughts with Facebook nonsense and addictive games with bright colors and flashing lights. If I listen just right I could probably hear the sizzle of each brain cell as my endorphins run rampant from reaching a high score. Like yolk hitting a hot pan.

Sometimes it just is too much. The worries that accompany the everyday, the stress of tomorrow, the constant angst that comes with being a business owner. Sometimes everything stacks up so high that not even a good book can show me sanctuary. Sometimes turning the brain off and mindlessly looking at hilarious memes or carelessly stacking colorful blocks to reach a goal is just what I need to get past the hump I find in front of me. Sometimes I just need a pause.

But look, I can clearly see that the continuation of this practice would be insanely unhealthy. I’m not so naive to think that ostriching this shit is going to make any of my mental or emotional baggage disappear. If anything I am just hoping to stack it up up and away like the little blocks I stack in the phone games. This method is unreasonable at best. At worst it is completely delusional. And lets be honest delusion and I go together like spaghetti and meatballs. Or corn and a husk. Or a lava lamp and the goopy “lava” that is inside of it.

The worst part is now. Right now. This precise moment when I realise that I have to stop hiding away from everything. I must confront my stress. I must challenge my worries about the future. I must put down the phone with the Facebook and the games and the other distractions that make life so easy to forget about and I must go out in the world and live.

So I have roughly three hundred unfinished writing projects on my laptop right now and I suppose this is as good of place as any to get started. The realisation that I cannot live on pause for the rest of my life may be a tough one to take but once I fling myself out of it and get back on track I do not regret it. Because it feels good to try again.

Maybe sometimes we all just need a little pause to appreciate the hard work we put into this life.

Seriously you guys, gah! 

You guys, this is Penny. 

She is visiting us for a couple of days while my brother and his family are visiting. I’m pretty sure she is a tiny adorable bear despite everyone else telling me she is a St. Bernard. 

Whatever she is, she’s friggen adorable. 

I’m sure you can understand why I am not able to focus on any serious writing while I have this thing in my midst. 

Funny Fans

I once wrote silly stories. Laugh out loud stories. Stories that could make a reader giggle uncontrollably while the other occupants in the room looked at them as though they were crazy. I use to have a system that worked about 90 percent of the time when attempting to come up with the funny stuff. The rule was this; if it makes me smile it will make others laugh. You never think you are as funny as you actually are so this theory worked well most of the time.

Somewhere between all of the life and the work and the worries and the achievement the funniness has slipped away. It seems that one day I had it and the next day it was gone. Like ice in a glass on a hot day it has melted into me. Forever melding with the other writing things. The seemingly more essential things. Literary guise. Strong metaphors and slick sentences.

The thing is, funny is difficult. Especially funny writing. It is not an easy feat to make a person laugh but also make them think, wow, that was a well written piece—this is a rarity on its own. To throw funny on top of that!? Pure genius. I don’t know how well written my funny pieces were becasue usually when I look back upon my older work I think of it as awful dribble. But my mom tells me it was damn funny, so that must count for something.

I don’t think funny is completely lost to me. Well, at least I hope it isn’t. It may take some work getting her back and on page but I am confident that I can do it. It will be an interesting experiment to mesh the hints of hilarity that I once sprinkled so generously throughout my work with my now more ripened writing style.

Tell me, who are some great authors you know of that have mastered the art of funny? Drop me a comment so I can do a little research in my quest!