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i don't remember 6

I don’t remember being 6, I remember being 5 and I remember 7 But I don’t remember being 6, I think I was just 5 twice, because maybe I had gone around the sun 6 times  but it felt more like 5 + 1.  and I remember 8 I remember 8 and some days I wish I didn’t.  I think I was always going to end up like this. someone who counts age by the degree and atrophy of my soul, not the trips around the sun. Because I’ve felt old for far longer than I’ve been it, and I’m not old yet not really I remember 18 really well, remember that it bled into 19 like cheep paint and that I hadn’t felt that alive since I was 5.  I remember 20, and 21, and 22 God I remember 22 like it was my best friend  and I never forgot the names of my two best friends from my first day in kindergarten.  Even though its been close to decades since last I saw or heard tale of them. I hope they’re well. I remember far more than I give credit to. I still see the faces those I was in private s
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I am not as I once was

I am not as I once was. I took some time to read back some pieces, all dated before the day my grandfather died, and one thing appears clear to me; I am not as I once was. In some ways I think I’ve become a poorer writer but a better speaker. Words I’d never have dared speak before come tumbling out of my mouth uninhibited. While the language of my finger tips appears stunted, threaded with hesitation. Like the words I speak hold as much weight as the ones I write, and now the balance is broken. I’m not sure I like it.   My relationships are better for it, I get to the point much more quickly now. But I fear my thinking and therefore writing has taken a hit. Or maybe that’s just grief. I’m not sure. But what I do know is that more honesty has flown from my mouth than ever before and I can’t quite remember how I used to keep it all to myself. Maybe I wasn’t meant to. Maybe these things were always meant to be spoken. Maybe I just have less to write because I already said it. I’m not s
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deserts wide and inspirations deep

I go through fits of fervent inspirations, and spans of waning deserts. I’m in a place of having to write down what feels like every second thought. While it feels like an interruption it is also an invitation. An invitation to see what might be found outside my little fixed routine. That maybe once I finish this next project I won’t simply shrivel up from lack of creative notion and expression.   I’ve written down much, as of late, in my long lived note filled with half finished thoughts,  beginnings and endings. Both things to return to and things to remember for another time. Because that ‘such a time as this’ seems to come around often, has a retuning quality about it. Always braced for the next gust of ‘take me away from here.’ Because I live inside of ‘how long till I leave,’ leaves a dust about my shoulders it does.  So, as what feels to be a new form of normal, my inner poet tries everyday to be the one centre of stage. It’s a bit invasive, but I let it because I spent a lo
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to cost you

It needs to cost you something. The creativity, it needs to cost you. Otherwise all you’re doing is taking the edge off.   I spent the first 19 years of my life in desperate attempt to communicate, anything and everything. My heart and my mind, form and colour were my first languages and it made speaking hard. I previously wrote that if no-one ever bothered to teach me English I would have found a way to speak through pictures and the visual, imagery. I stand by that, it was my first language.  Somewhere along the way, between 18 and 19, I found writing. Not that I hadn’t ever written before that, but not like this. Even today, as I sit here trying to communicate about communicating I’m having a hard time finding the exact words. But I found the words that finally conveyed all that was occurring inside.  Where 22 bled into 23 I started writing my first novel, and it cost me something. I had been a dancer, a painter, even tested my pipes at the choir, but none of them cost me what
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dream of water

 ~ I dream of open waters, closed streams and lake-like expanses. In the waking hours of my day I long for the water, for its calm sounding   and honest convictions.  The trees walk beside me in this concrete cage, followed me into the brink.  Go home wild there is no place for you here, though I fear I will not survive  without you here.  The walls do not hold me, not as the grassy plain or meadows deep.  Windy airs give way to longing, reminding me of all I’ve lost all I stand to gain, all I can not hold.  This place was not made for me nor I it, I desire after a leaving.  For the days hold teasing winds grazing my nose, trying it’s very best to take me away, to bring me home.  I dream of water, hold hands with branches,  and await a return to whence I came. 
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home is nowhere

Home is everywhere,  so home is nowhere.  I was born of two nations,  three cultures,  and have a made home of all places.  It’s the crux, the beauty and the curse. The confounding, the comforting, and the end point of it all. I have made, found, home in too many places, so home has become no place.  There is the place I live, where rest my head and eat my breakfast. And there is the place I run to, to keep my heart, and make sense of my mind. They are not the same.  Have not been for some time. May not overlap in the rest of my, lifetime.  Yet it is not all so tragic as this, not so dreary and weary. I am safe and warm, my sheets are as clean as I keep them. There is water in my tap, and soap on my counter, the oven cooks my food and feeds my family.  And while where I hide my heart, and where I rest my head may no longer hold the same address, I am still home. If I ever so choose to be there, I am home. 
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both, at the same time

Not sure what to write to you about this week. It was much like the one before it. Spent as much time writing the thoughts out the way as I did actually writing my book. There are weeks that pass me by without any thing of notice happening, those are both somehow the best and the worst.   The approaching of Fall has me breathing a deep sigh of relief. After leaving school, it has become something of my favourite, I love the leaves and I love the cool breeze. The slight chill in the air somehow reminds me that this too shall pass, and it is a relief.  But the days that pass without incident or intrigue, there is both rest and a loss of sanity contained within them. On one hand, the meadow like existence is peaceful, I sleep better. And on another hand, each day will bleed into the next till I no longer know how long I’ve been here. It’s why the never ending sun of this summer had grown wearisome. The return of the clouds like a balm for my soul.  Somethings become clearer as I gro
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the winding path

  Sometimes I have to remind myself I am allowed to flounce to and from my task, my writing, taking breaks as frequently or as infrequently as I like. That I needn’t remain glued to my chair if it ceases to serve me and my purposes. The routine beat into me through years of schooling is a heady one, one that has outlived it uses.   I write better without restrictions, but convictions. I’ve spent much of the week writing whatever was occupying brain space, rather than acting like a stubborn bull. Sometimes I stare at the empty page, and it becomes a punishment rather than a joy. That's when it's time to get up and walk around. Or to stop fooling around and write what’s actually on my mind. It has resulted in a number of pieces that will likely never see the light of day. However it has made the productivity of working on my book sky rocket.  I will say this however, these things I’ve written that I more than hesitate to share, I find them to be well worded and gut-punching p
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