The Age of Apathé

I’ve been in a bit of a writing slump for a few weeks, but here goes! I decided to post in a creative style that I rarely explore. SCIENCE FICTIONESQUE. Anyway, in lieu of the election and all this political content, I decided to capture what our society might look like if bartering were to […]

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Straight from the photo-vault

11.24.07 21st 10.09.07 Union Station @ 11 01.04.09 Prehistoric goodness to the 3rd degree 08.28.11 Gotta fight for your right… 09.07.08 North Pier 11.19.07 Apocalypse green house 12.13.07 Branx entry 08.28.11 Rainbow Knit Bomb 12.12.07 Industrial Heaven 12.12.07 NW Church 07.05.07 Broadway @ dusk 07.28.07 Columbia Slough overpass 12.04.07 In memory & honor 12/04/07 Of […]

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THIS IS NOT A L…

THIS IS NOT A LOVE STORY. THIS IS JUST MY LIFE. [PART 1.]

Sometimes I think that memories would be better and more beautiful if they were painted from a place of imagination versus reality. A sort of past life creative outpouring. Like colors swirling into surrealism…but in the now.

The thick of carpet fibre disgusts me. And softness is deceiving when your face is pressed in it. Echo of shame speaks and then lingers. Dirt never tasted so good.

One day I almost asked a stranger if they had ever woken up from a dream so vivid that they thought they were still in it. Lips shut. I walk on.

I carried my heart that day like a drum while reminiscing of the Oldies song that goes “…and the beat goes on…” You are married now. Out of state. New state of mind.

But that day I almost caught up. Max speeding. Legs moving. I had a feeling you were near. After that, I saw you once more. Happy endings.

Image

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Stepping Westward

Stepping Westward

What is green in me
darkens, muscadine.
If woman is inconstant,
good, I am faithful to
ebb and flow, I fall
in season and now
is a time of ripening.
If her part
is to be true,
a north star,
good, I hold steady
in the black sky
and vanish by day,
yet burn there
in blue or above
quilts of cloud.
There is no savor
more sweet, more salt
than to be glad to be
what, woman,
and who, myself,
I am, a shadow
that grows longer as the sun
moves, drawn out
on a thread of wonder.
If I bear burdens
they begin to be remembered
as gifts, goods, a basket
of bread that hurts
my shoulders but closes me
in fragrance. I can
eat as I go.

– Denise Levertov

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