My Ten

Was toying with this idea in my head then received a FB prompt from my cousin, so for your education I present:

Ten things you probably don’t know about me:

1. Whenever anything repetitive is happening I automatically start counting along in my head, often unconsciously.

2. For over 10 years my diet has been free of gluten, chemical additives, red & white meat.

3. My diet has changed dramatically recently. After a year of medical issues, I can no longer tolerate much sugar without triggering severe stomach problems. And I avoid most processed food products in favour of freshly prepared whole foods.

4. During early primary school years I used to wake up before sunrise and turn on the tv to watch “Thunderbirds” or “Johnny Sokko and His Flying Robot” alone in the lounge room.

5. My earliest memories are of when I was in hospital for an operation on an ulcerated eye, aged one and a half years.

6. I had an out-of-body experience during this time in hospital.

7. The first song I remember is “The Pushbike Song” which was playing in the hospital children’s ward when I woke up after the surgery.

8. I also have many memories of when our family lived in Papua New Guinea for a period of six months, aged just under four.

9. During primary school years I could look at the sun position in the sky and tell the time to within 5-10 minutes of a watch reading. (I think my internal clock and sense of timing was very good).

10. My age is quite a bit older than most people think when they meet me.

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A blank mind (Response)

Without a measure of focus
Time passing
seems wasted
Inspiration
is the cure

.

[My response to Chantelle’s poem 30 Days of Poetry – Day 8 ( Personal Challenge ).]

Mind is blank
To match the expression on my face
writing, it used to come so easy
now I stare at empty space
you’d think that if you stared long enough
something would come to mind
but all that seems to be happening
is my awareness of the time
seconds, minutes, hours, days
everything just fades away
and all I can seem to think about is life
and how much of it I’ve wasted

The Stalker

Cold hands of chill clutch at my shoulders

so lightly, yet firmly
unshakeable
Forgetting they are there
I push forwards
on with life
And wonder at my limited progress

A chain around my heart
cold and heavy
invisible
restricts breathing
prevents loving
Linked back to the pain of past hurts

Goes by the name “Depression”
or “Misery” to his friends
Cold, dark, silence
Just some of the tools of his trade

He is unwelcome
Yet selfishly,
I keep him all to myself
Even a cold grip
from my old friend
can be comforting

-=~=-

[ credit for the following line “Goes by the name Depression or Misery to his friends” and the spark that ignited this goes to Ashley Nicole’s piece The Face of Depression. ]

Reactions

She learnt
to react to me
to make
the relationship work;
Reacting to
when I was upset
depressed;
Reacting
to fix the situation
– for the ideal life
Reacting
to keep the peace
– because she grew up without

And I knew no better

Now
when there is nothing
to react to;
When I feel okay
in a neutral
or positive space
She thinks
subconsciously
nothing needs fixing
everything is right
and doesn’t
do
anything

But that
is exactly when
I need interaction
– positively
– building good times;
For it’s these times
she ignores me
all I feel
is that there is
no love
to show for me

Reactions
Hurt
Hope
Loss
Longing

Free. (reblog)

A wonderful poem by Chantelle Garvin (see link at end).

-=~=-

We’ve lost ourselves

somewhere along the way

and hide behind the masks

of all the words we say

Built bridges to act as obstacles

And gates to keep us bound

Walls a thousand feet high

So no one can tear them down

But we’d gladly surrender it all

For a chance to

Be

Free.

 [ Free. ]

Around here…

I’ve been toying in my head the last few days, how to write about the community here, to say something to all my followers, and friends, to express my gratitude for all the support, for the appreciation of my writing, for the thought provoking words that inspire each other and ignite new fires of imagination. And this little response came to me after reading some of thenaughtypoet (credit due for the spark).

So keep it up! Keep writing your own honest truth! Say what you think, and share it. Write, sing, paint, draw – whatever your heart wants to do. Pour it out for us to see. Package those emotions up into a blog entry, then set them free, and let them be, Don’t hold them tight, release them because they belong to us all. Because we all feel, deeply, caringly, laughingly, somberly. We are all different, yet we are really all the same.

Be kind to yourself when you feel down, and reach out when you need to. Be patient, or not. Find who you are, grow, try new things.
Comment often. Like, Vote, Encourage each other. Share!

-=~=-

We judge not,
But bask in the honesty
of self expression
baring the soul
for all to see
within a moment.
This is your place
We are guests,
Respectful,
Supportive,
Friends. 
 

Self Portrait: Ekphrasis (reblog)

[“a literary description of or commentary on a visual work of art”. Such a powerful piece of honest writing from The Magic Black Book, I felt compelled to share this with you, enjoy. (see link at end of piece)]

-=~=-

The brief: Writers share many creative qualities and artistic processes with painters. Both are engaged in the difficult endeavor of portraying oneself through art as an artist. Write six hundred words about you as a writer, manipulating your words and sentences like different brush strokes to create an image of how you perceive your artistic self. Be bold. Be thoughtful. Be candid. Self-portraits are rarely flattering. Art is about truth and true artists never spare themselves.

She writes with a heavy hand and a heavy heart. Her words are written in blood, the paper is her soul, scribbles form a bloody mess on the page. Her eyes are hollow, empty, sad: she radiates the enigmatic, her eyes comprise of diamonds with tiny, microscopic cracks, flaws, faults. Perfectly imperfect.

She exudes the unknown. You’ll try your best to figure her out, but she supplies codes that you cannot crack. Her lips move as she re-reads her work, aloud, to her imaginary audience. She pictures herself on the stage in the Richmond pub, the youngest of the crowd, stepping up, wearing all black, taking herself very seriously, reading her poetry to the older upper-classes. Her lips move as if muttering prayer under her breath: her lips have cracks too, she bites them thoughtfully.

Her fingers blithely tap out rhyme schemes, word counts, dancing across the airwaves. Uneven nails, black nail polish, shining, her silver rings clash together as she quickly explores iambic pentameter with her hands, tapping away at her imaginary typewriter (one like Sylvia had).

She is in love with words, madly so. Effluvia, reconnaissance, camaraderie, harbinger, Jurassic, trajectory, acquiescence, convolute, proliferation of discourses. They spring to mind like a Venus flytrap springs from the womb. She has an affair with each word, cheating on others, breaking others’ hearts. The words belong to her, they are her children, she mothers them until they look perfect written in blood on her blank canvas of a soul.

She composes her best work while smoking furiously on a cigarette. She writes in her head then lets it go the second she stubs out the smoke. She fills countless black Moleskine notebooks, aspiring to feel close to Hemingway. She type manically at her laptop, a gift from a loved one, something she cannot possibly afford. She writes on cigarette packets, coffee cups, post-it notes, bus tickets, receipts, arms and hands (sometimes belonging to other people). She writes to survive, to exist, to feel worthy, to feel appreciated, to be heard. She writes because she has to, she has no other outlet. She paints terribly, she sketches worse, she writes like a victim.

People are surprised by her age. They expect older. Or they accept her age, but fail to accept her appearance; she looks about fifteen years of age, not twenty. She writes like a 26 year old, more experienced than her days. She feels regret that she cannot write about motherhood, divorce, death, war, murder, things she has never experienced. She awaits marriage and motherhood to bring new life to her poetry, new tastes, new sensations, new experiences. She wants to travel but does not have the financial means to do so: she would love to be a travel writer.

Her hair is matted with sweat, tears, blood and words. She write ferociously, physically pouring her heart out onto the page that is her soul, writing in her own blood, displaying her masterpieces to the unwittingly receptive public. She craves feedback, attention, focus on her work. She wants fans, she wants followers, admirers of her writing. She wants appreciation.

Her skin crawls with energy, aiming to produce more than the sun. Her scarred arms are covered with ballpoint ideas for new projects, dissertation proposals, poetry sequences, sonnets, features articles, blog posts. Poetic energy literally seeps from her every pore, quick fingers making light work. Her heart is a heavy weight, her lungs are polluted by toxic words that she has spoken with regret, the albatross around her neck has become a faithful companion over many years of following her around.

She dreams, she writes, she hopes, she writes, she exists:
she writes that she hopes that she exists.

Self Portrait: Ekphrasis.