Save Yourself (lyrics)


The sun is down the light is dim
Are you sorry now you let me in?
I’ll make you sorry now you let me in
You’ll never want to smile again

Bad things happen to pretty girls
I’m the only one in the world
Who went to school, played by the rules
Where did that get you, where did that get you?

Save yourself, I cant even
Save myself, I cant even
Save yourself, I cant even
Save my self, save myself

Bad things happen to pretty girls
Not my mission to save your world
Not gonna be your super girl
Not gonna be your super girl

Bad things happen to pretty girls
I’m the only one in the world
Who went to school, played by the rules
Where did that get you, where did that get you?

Save yourself, I cant even
Save myself, I cant even
Save yourself, I cant even
Save my self, save myself

Continue reading


The Lucky Ones

I don’t need

New things

Lovers, collectibles


Old weighs heavily

Leaves a dip in the bed

New,  light as feathers

Even with the sheets wet


New smothers the old

There is not room in the heart

For two to grow


Absorbed impressions

Sour or otherwise

Opening eyes to survive


Had the choice

We might choose to be blind

They are the lucky ones


Did not count

Time, nor money, nor love

No keeping score


The morning after

Apology on our breath

Liquor stained halitosis


Choosing paths that won’t diverge

Asking others to follow

The shadows of our secrets

Counter Intuition And The Wisdom of The Raspberry Bush

I wish I could be as fearless in life as I have been with my landscaping, or lack thereof.
One of the greatest things happened when I threw caution to the wind, and let the dreaded by many lawn care aficionados, raspberry weed take root, many roots in fact, at the back of my yard.
Eight years the plants spread, and to my relief have basically taken care of themselves. A bountiful harvest I have reaped, at the expense of nothing really. Less lawn to for me to mow. Although I do get some scratches when I reach into the depth of the prickly plants, even with a long sleeve shirt on. They’ve probably attracted wildlife to our backyard, including the greatly romanced honey bee.
Every year when picking raspberries, I have to relearn the same lesson. Even after I think I have found all the raspberries in a section, if I stand back there are more I’ve missed, always. How did I miss them? I was staring in that exact place but a bit closer. Moving the leaves up and around, crouching even to find the berries underneath.
I’ve been struggling writing my story, and a friend told me of ‘seeing the forest for the trees’, and that if you couldn’t tell the difference between the two, it’s time to stop writing, and let your story simmer for a while, like a good long while.
Stop? That makes no sense. I must keep writing, and rewriting, and thinking about said story to find the answer, the elusive puzzle piece, and that is to finish in every sense of the word, the fucking story. This story which I love because I have put so much of myself into it, and it also just happens to be the reason I hate it. That I could bleed myself comatose, with paragraphs of prose, and still it’s not done. Not even close.
I’m going to be honest, my friend’s advice didn’t resonate with me until today as I was picking raspberries for the first time this year.
I became aware of learning the same lesson I have to every year. To stop. Step back. And something amazing happens. Before your eyes you start seeing things just moments before you did not. Stopping lets you adjust your perspective without losing focus on the task.
But if I’m being even more honest with myself, I’m afraid. Although not of an unruly bush, raspberry, that is. Though the actions caused by fear often propel situations into self fulfilling prophecies. Although said friend also states ‘you can’t ruin a story’, you can. Fear might cause you to start changing things you’ve written and maybe not ruin it, but certainly make fixing it a more daunting task than it had originally been.
Just as fear of losing someone you care about, might cause you to tighten your grip on the object of your affection, thus scaring them away. Counter intuition says STOP, STEP BACK if you want to see the forest for the trees, that is your story, STOP, STEP BACK if you want to find all the raspberries hidden before your eyes, and STOP, STEP BACK if you want to avoid a restraining order.


moving on from number 1

Story one is on the back burner as I await some very needed input. How amazing it is i have started another one, inspired by a dream. And as i am surprised I’m not that this story is a totally different style as when i paint every painting seems to be in another style like i have no distinct voice. And I’m surprised there is more to be drawn from the well. But i feel a little uninspired in a way, not so passionate about this story. Seems it carries the same surprises for me, the writer, which i love, and seems as it unfolds it is either has been written in the stars or i plain jacked the idea from someone. Can a writer or artist be like that? Can a voice waver and move in and out as it pleases. Usually artists have a certain style so you can see a painting or read a story and you hear their voice. Silly question i know. Of course i can be any way. I had a dream once maybe over fifteen years ago that has stayed with me. An artist was selling his paintings on the street at some neighbourhood garage sale, perhaps inspired by the annual Glebe garage sale that happen every year in Ottawa, does it still happen, i don’t know. It was a long time ago i lived there. i stopped to talk to him, though i didn’t buy any, even in dreams artists are poor buggers. Kindly he gave me advice. Said that i needed to choose something. He had chosen lions. He painted lions, in all various ways. But his subject matter stayed the same. So maybe that’s a way to be. Have the style transient but the subject or genre fixed. But i feel very eclectic as a person. I like freedom to move wherever the brush or pen takes me.

on writing a long story…

I am 9000 words deep, which for a novel, isn’t deep at all. But i feel like im up to my neck. I wonder where are the other 40000 words plus are going to come from and how far it will leave me under. What I’m writing, probably won’t be read my anyone or not more then five people but has inspired a fear in me. it’s one of the most terrifying things in my life right now(not true btw). Making me return to the truth that in life, the journey one goes on while embarking towards any goal is always more important then the goal itself. The goal is one blip in the journey, but the journey is many blips. Is this why people feel empty and let down after a big achievement? We’ve put so much emphasis on the destination and not enough awareness while getting there. Our bad habit of placing importance on titles and achievements devalues the experience.

So I’m writing this novel, still feel silly calling it a novel, that may never be finished, would be hard pressed to be published because of content and cohesiveness, may never be read, would certainly be judged, and i might be empty afterwards and feeling i have nothing else to write about.
I have my soundtrack i listen to without fail. The Rachel’s and Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie No 1. They bring me back to the head space where the story takes place.

I can’t get out of my head, i think about it many times through out the day. I often i have to hold ideas like one holds their bladder, until i can write them down. I get restless looking a the clock, waiting for the time i might duck downstairs and get more then a few minutes to write. Otherwise i am writing when baby sleeps, when there is a lull in the family commotion, which doesn’t happen often. I feel a little addicted, a little foolish. And the content leaves my mind feeling chaotic, restless and uncomfortable. I go full circle wondering why i am investing myself in this thing, that seems an entity of it’s own, using me to channel some incoherent babble of my inner monologue and imagination.

20,000 words deep now. And i come full circle again, it’s a real ferris wheel, realizing time and time again, life is about filling your head up with ideas, goals, purpose and there is nothing more i want to do now then sit down and write. What else could be better? Sure i would paint too, but writing needs no clean up when i am called away to care for family. Getting lost in something that gives me a sense of wholeness, that no other can fill. I feel as though I’m holding hands with myself a little finally, that i have accepted life as a bit of a one person play. But baby steps of course. Things becoming clear but I’m still uncertain i want them to.