These appetites: Shapes, Run fingers through dimension; And Rimbaud’s regret? To sprawl oneself bare On dynamic growth, youth did not have Depth, Age grows too brittle and arthritic There are worse things than inexperience! The measure is what one has not –yet what Was charming of African earth? -Consistency in the predator’s gaze -A delicate (simple) joy bending to the sun Libertineflesh sheathed its poet’s death; With no remorse in the seasons’ passage This dead poet’s footnotes trailed To find art living as concubine
I was working on short stories from January – April of 2019. I’ve now compiled them in an Ebook. It’s near terrifying how personal, revealing, the process of writing can be; and all sourcing without planning or prior thought – a sequence of events created, and by some natural force, linked in a whole both coherent and meaningful.
The story is a testament; it’s always been, and not just for me. And for what, I don’t know, or I don’t want to know. That’s likely why I’m attracted to writing fiction: to play in the mystery.
A painter struggling with authenticity and the influence of others tries to start a new life in a city under political unrest. Loosely based on the October Crisis in Québec.
2. Darwin’s Curse
A scientist cataloguing wildlife on a tropical island must reconcile science and faith after his wife miscarries from a genetic defect.
3. The Trial of Davey & Lon
Two friends break into a cemetery to rob a precious necklace from the body of someone very famous.
4. We, Among Fools
Alternate historical fiction on the bizarre relationship between King Henry the 8th and his court jester William Sommers.
5. White Lilacs
In the aftermath of a civil war a husband returns home thinking his wife dead, yet there’s something happening to him that he can’t and isn’t willing to explain.
Artwork: Max Beckmann (1884 – 1950)
Left – Departure – 1935
Right – The Actors – 1942
I am wondering how to write. I'm reminded of Nietzsche. In The Gay Science his prose was, in comparison to his later works, boring. I think he had a distaste for writing so practically. His thoughts changed; to read what he had had wrote made him cringe. And so, he later wrote as to make the text ambiguous. The perspectives were welcomed. And he was made more than what he was. Reading someone's blog posts, the same person I've silently ridiculed because of how detailed and verbose and well-done they write, I'm inspired. There exists what I want in this person; to write, and do it with conviction. Their writing looks like worship. I'm hateful of stereotypical writing techniques when trying to write a blog. I'm agitated at having a model of a blog post when I am writing. It kills creativity and motivation. I want to write more. My life feels over-saturated with meaning and I want to express it. I have grown a nightmare out of silence. It is hard to translate floating thoughts into syntax and grammar. Intimidating, when you've always done it with your most buoyant ones. Words are like cages. When I was younger I admired long and tangled sentences. Sentences like garden hoses. I considered them signs of high ability, and I emulated them. Now, I'm over it. I like simplicity, minimalism. Emily Dickinson is right for me. I want my thoughts to be fatty. My writing like a razor. The process: to trim and make lean. I think of how I appear to others through my writing. A thing I've naturally learned by writing short stories is that there is an amateurish engagement where one is trying to convey to the reader who and what one is through the story. This is noticeable to nearly anyone, and lame. The writer is an epigram-generator. They are trying to translate the drama of movie scenes, abusing tropes, ending every paragraph with a closure, placing pointless references. Trying too hard, hoping and begging for the reader to see them through the words. I've written like this. I don't, or I'd like to think so, write like this anymore. Writing is vulnerable; I have to be okay with how others view me. Not uncaring, but okay. I dislike this audience in my head, especially because I like to think they're not there. Notice I did not say hate.
sometimes i get stuck in my head.
the green of the grass outside sometimes gets stuck in my vision.
the motion blur in the car sometimes is not blurred enough.
the music in the bar gets into my veins and it’s not loud enough, sometimes.
i don’t want to keep sinking into the same old feelings,
i like the new, like changing old clothes,
it takes time for me to realize i’m not my feelings
There is a need to make sense of experience through a language that is more authentic.
Language sets a standard to define our non-standard selves.
If you analyze yourself deeper, burrowing down to the centre (whatever that is),
the common words, symbols
become disingenuous means to express what it is found;
Convenient placeholders- ready made constructions for mass use.
Poetry is created from an inward movement
orbited to one mind
in the struggle of re-definition.
Experience is the greatest teacher;
Yes, but you need to be humble enough to
understand the lesson.
Like a scene of a crime,
you come back to find what you missed
the first time.
It was too much to take in then;
the shock: too sincere;
so you go back,
and go again;
the memorable dries on wallpaper,
the senses clear
from a cloud of baking soda;
and each step backwards demands more of what was missed
until mystery writes another
the stain of time…
You had this fragrance about you;
it smelled like the beach.
I always told you about it, and you
always replied “is that good?”
And I, of course, as
a gentlemen said “of course.”
That was a lie.
You smelled like one of those dirty beaches
people only travel
and they just want to waste a weekend.
take seriously only when
it’s the right author.
like tablets of how to be,
how to feel, but seldom
what these things are.
an emblem, designed for
mass transport, mass fixation,
transporting ghosts to Mexico.
but can we
fix the damage done? Yes,
it happens everyday in the background
tools for your individual,
shame inherent in
architecture to talk
about freedom, rights,
what you called your
mother the night before.
I am covered in a wet darkness, viscously roaming my foolishly welcoming body like a foreign disease exploiting the tender territory of sensible skin for every worthwhile infectious moment. -I can't help but think of analogy. Breath: a precious thing, turned thick and heated like the city pollution outside, burning through my nose during each painful voluntary cycle; carrying traces of pirate scents wishing to frighten the modest treasure out of virginal sensibilities, voyaging in and out the plunderous space of craven lungs. Pools of gasoline swell on top of stained eyes unyielding to be shut by whatever frail power still lingers beneath; with droplets cruising down a flurry of dense flame filling up both ears until sound from all those pointless conversations downstairs ride softly into a dullness that fades to phantom impression- I had a similar experience on the plane. I've seen enough. I've listened enough. I cry not from anything to do with the heart but from a build up in the head incrementing to a growth where my skull expands to trespass the surface of four walls and the room becomes nothing but cephalic irony. The body, a silly remnant spurring feelings of what once was, reluctantly obeys the violence of torrent waves, and I submerge darkly on the bedrock of bed-riddeness alone with the one activity that has solely defined me,
now stuck in loop. now stuck in loop. now stuck in loop.now stuck in loop. For the first time in a long time I am not looking forward to the light of the morning and the dry renewal that accompanies it, which I know will not be there this time. "You need a strong immune system to travel." Repeating.