all, prose & poetry

Past the pieces

He was a blur of faces, shapes and identities, familiar and half forgotten. His hair, dirty blonde and long, like the shy drummer she met online years ago, whose friendship she lost when they tried to become something more. His eyes and nose like the older all-american boy she knew in college, who flushed his drugs down the dorm drain one day and found Jesus in Connecticut.

His way with words and music, driven but scattered, like the teacher she had an affair with, who threw himself into every creative pursuit, as if desperately trying to draw or compose or write or fuck something out of his soul, always failing to connect that art to other people.

The way he glided out of conversations and spaces, so solid and present one moment, then gone the next, like an old roommate she had a short-lived crush on, who left a tangible, painful void when he disappeared, suddenly feeling so necessary, as though gravity itself no longer worked without his presence.

His voice, calm and thoughtful, with a touch of amusement, a bit like her former boss whom she had always aspired to sound like, and saw through the facade it was for a deeper storm of playfulness and fire within.

She thought about the endless permutations of people crossing each others’ paths, their layers of familiarity and strangeness intersecting to connect for one brief moment or a lifetime. She’d met him before, or pieces of him, liking and loving and hating them, losing them, only to come across them again on another body, in another space and another time. Their kinship happened before and would happen again.

She didn’t know what the universe wanted, throwing her past back at her in this human shape of roads taken and lessons not learned. She tried to see past the pieces she knew but never fully understood, into this abstract of a man, a stranger with a life lived and his own stories to tell of women who came and went, leaving traces of themselves in everyone he would encounter since. But the pieces of others wouldn’t part, his soul hidden safely beneath and out of reach.

“Good,” she thought. “Good.”

This was for the best. She wasn’t one to romanticize the past, painting over anger and regrets with sentimental lies and a varnish of what-ifs.

She closed her eyes and shook it off, all of it, the recognition and the memories he’d brought, the magnetism and the temptation to fall in. She centered on the now, this moment of music and fog and 2 A.M. beers and friends nearby. She let the melody take her over and danced, laughing and spinning. And when she opened her eyes again, there he was, dancing like no man she’d ever met before.



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all, inspiration

As I floated 

“The liquid engineers left the pool heater on too long, and at night, chlorine vapors rose above the plant life of the planet, and I imagined my flesh, being inside the pool, being warm, being protected, feeling gravity, but able to mock it as I floated.

Would you float with me now, if I asked you, would you jump in the pool and not even bother to strip? Could I strip you down, remove your clothing and we would fall inside the water together?

It scares me.

I don’t want to lose you. I don’t imagine ever feeling this strongly about anything or anybody ever again.

This was unexpected, my soul’s connection to you.

You stole my loneliness. No one knows that I was wishing for you, a thief, to enter my house of autonomy, that I had locked my doors but my windows were open, hoping, but not believing,
you would enter.”

— Douglas Coupland, Microserfs

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all, inspiration

(Don’t Be) Anonymous

“Our digital experiences are out of body. This biases us toward depersonalised behaviour in an environment where one’s identity can be a liability. But the more anonymously we engage with others, the less we experience the human repercussions of what we say and do.

By resisting the temptation to engage from the apparent safety of anonymity, we remain accountable and present – and are much more likely to bring our humanity with us into the digital realm.”

Douglas Rushkoff

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all, thoughts

A pattern in the sky

Somewhere in this city, scattered about like so many lightning bugs in a summer garden, floating aimlessly then suddenly taking off into mad flight, are people connected to me. Our lives, zigzagging in patternless dashes, occasionally crossing and repelling away, drifting.

I think about our movements, always curious, always wondering if there’s a sense to how we come together. Is it nature, genetics, socio-political or economic patterns, or a million other coincidences driving us somewhere? Are we just space junk, bits of ancient planets broken off by asteroids billions of years ago, being pulled along on a trajectory drawn across the universe by gravity and time? We clink against each other, sometimes lightly, and sometimes powerfully, bouncing off, changing course, and continuing on.

It is now that I decide to be a space rock with a purpose. A comet blazing across the sky. An agent of change and a beacon of the universe. I will tear through stars and galaxies, lighting up the dark skies over planets at the dawn of their civilizations, prehistoric aliens looking up from their astral bonfires, making wishes on the dust tails burning in my wake.

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