I Wish Before

I wish a million things,

and none of them forever.

I wish a hundred pieces

(Baronialbees)

all of them brought together

I need this like tomorrow

so nothing is for sure

I'll beg it from the past
It all remains impure

Don't listen as I say this

I've told you all this finally

Perhaps we will reach silence

Release this now entirely

I wish a million distances.

I'll try to hold them close like this

I'll tell you what I want from you

You'll tell me it's all true

And then you'll let me go

July

(SynSlaughter)

I'm in love with summer thunderstorms.  They fill me with energy, and I'll shout out loud.  I love standing on the deck in the rain.  I love the powerful roll of thunder, or the dance of lightening.  I've been guilty of lying on my tin roof and watching the sky light up around me.

I've realized I don't very often write about what's actually happening in my life.  At least not often and not directly.  July has been brilliant to me.  I've camped like a gypsy in a field of wildflowers with people I love.  I've managed to get in every trip despite having a real job.

I spent a week at a music festival.  I saw bands I've listened to for well over a decade.  I acted a little bit fifteen.  I turned twenty-four.  Oh, did I forget to mention that?  This age jump seems more significant the the ones surrounding it.  I've dealt by ignoring it.  But I think I'm actually pretty at peace with it.  Other then the fact that I'm no closer to being set in life then I was five years ago.

July is never long enough.  I haven't hung out at the river, and I haven't dived into the lake nearly enough.  I haven't harvested a single cherry.

And now I sit and type towards the end of a summer storm.  The sun is coming out again.  It's the end of the July where I turned 24.  It means more to me then New Years.  More reflection, more need for direction.

The Notebook Chronicles

(Today's Beautiful Source: Tracelegacy)

This place, it almost seemed familiar.  When I closed my eyes that all-to-familiar feeling would come rushing back.  For lack of better options I have come to think of it as the fresh-start feeling.  Feeling, emotion, opportunity.  Whatever you choose to call it.  I suppose that's what it was.

See, I'm an addict.  Most of us are.  Alcohol, novels, food, sex, adrenaline.  We have something we turn to again and again.  For me it was the "new life."  The places I have gone looking for it...  The forms it has taken.  I have been saved by too many religions, entered too many love affairs, started too many diets.  Each time re-convincing myself that this time I had found the one that would make all the difference.  Time and again I have ripped myself to pieces for the thrill of embraced opportunity.  Opportunity I forced to be there.

Why would this time be any different.  Did I think because I was aware more then ever that I could break out?  Addictions don't work that way, Sweetheart.  I'm indulging in my favourite form of the hit, and I know it.

Changing locations.  Replanting.  The rest of you know it as moving.  I have done it a few to many times.  I have been welcomed by the good neighbor committee many times.  Assured them as many that I was hoping to settle.  And I was.  Oh, was I.  But before to long things weren't new any more.  Not exciting.  The streets had been explored, the company met.  Things would start to feel stale.  Often it was an apartment of my own.  Occasionally a quaint small town.  Maybe it's that I want chances on the horizon.  Or maybe I feel a need to flee from every little mistake.

Today the street is empty.  Dead leaves rustle on this sidewalk.  I hate the onset of winter.  Everything seems so dead, so comfortable.  Not in the least vibrant.  Hibernation.  That's the word.  I hate it.

This new street in this new place.  With all this newness even the dismal sky can't completely suffocate  the thrill.  I should be inside unpacking.  I've found the cutest bungalow just outside town.  I think I'll have time to explore what I always believe I want to.  Painting, running, a little gardening.

"If you're still around," my new found pessimist murmurs skeptically in my ear.  I ignore it.  No need to further suffocate this chance of a high.

---

These are the posts where I let you glimpse random pages from my scribbles of the past.  Raw, young and often unfinished.  Remember, with this piece, fiction is often prevalent...

She Holds an AK47

I've been at a music festive here in the NW, and it was five days of amazing.  I have something to say.  But, here.  First of all have some music.


Now.  I'm wearing dog tags.  They say simply

Name: Yex Seung
Gender: Female
Age: 8 Years
Status: Active
*Burma*

It's a representation of an active soldier in the country with a larger concentration of child soldiers then any other country in the world (over 75,000).  I'm sorry to admit I wasn't aware to the extent of the tragedy.  I'm wearing her tags.  She is raped, fired at, and taught to hold an AK47.  At eight years old.

I don't want to scare you away and I don't want to freak you out.  I know there's a tendency to avoid anything depressing, sad or hard.  I don't want that, but I believe in awareness and honesty.  Truth is, this is a pretty broken world sometimes.  We do have reasons to celebrate, but a responsibility to bear.  I'm a part of the human race, and I need to ask myself what that means.

I'm not trying to guilt you, either.  What I do want is for you to visit projectak47.com.  Or I want you to search a change you believe in.  Maybe you'll reach into your heritage, or your past.  Maybe you have to deal with yourself first.  Just don't hide.  I've researched this one enough to believe in it.

You can get dog tags of your own.  But I don't want you to start there.  Read about a project.  Get Involved any way you can.  Learn.

Yes, I believe this is a positive cause.  However, what I'm also asking for is that you find a way to support somebody somewhere somehow.  Find something you believe in.  You're creative, smart and hopefully caring.  Believe it.  And tell me what you find.  I want to learn about that too.

Link Overload (In a Good Way)

So some pretty sweet bloggers have been linking me on their blogs.  Over, like, the last two months.  Yeah, that's how marvelous I am at passing on awards.

But well I'm here I may as well say a few things.  Shout-out to #69.  Follower, people.  She's redheaded riter.  Which is pretty awesome 'cause now I am too.  Well, you know, like heavily auburn.  It's the closest I could go well still looking halfway natural.  Check another one off.

Also, pretty sure my redhead friend got the awkwardness over and paved the way for #70.  She's also pretty impressive 'cause she found me on Twitter.  Anyway, see, followers seriously make my day.  I'm still excited every time I open my blog.  It's like blogger after-glow.  Thanks to you all.  Yes, I really wish I could link everyone.

So...  I suck at passing these things on.  I just like to tell you my favourite blogs.  And they'll probably never know.  Anarchist Project is posting this week.  I quite literally mean this week.  But he's so good!  And I also just discovered this new little blog Beat Up Boots. She has fifteen followers, which means you can be part of the discovery with me.  I'm still a little confused, but apparently 92% of what she posts is true.  Oh, and I totally am biased to Canadian bloggers.  Not sure why really...  Peter DeWolf writes poetry that even I think is hot.  I'm not a poem girl, so that's saying a lot.  And his really steamy stuff is even password protected.  At least, I assume that's why.  Between those three and my dear friends that awarded me (remember to click above) you've got your reading cut out for you.

And... oh yeah, and!  Remember The Big Give?  Of course you do.  It's underway with some classy competitors.  However, Mel has the Youtube channel underway.  Ok, so one movie is up.  But it's so cute! And I'm sure there'll be more to come.

I hope I haven't link fatigued you.  It's way too easy to go overboard.  I'm going away soon.  But only for a week.  So we need something to keep you going...  Cheers and all that good stuff!

Fragments of Friendships

They're memories of you. All of you. Sometimes I don't open the drawer for months. Other times I take them out five times in a single day. Pulling these close to my heart, brushing them with my lips. Clenching them in my fists or throwing them back and slamming the drawer.

Random pieces. I like life a little better when I forget they exist.

A homemade necklace. A charm that says “friends.” Yours said “forever,” of course. We were twelve and we knew it. This one is a broken heart. That's not what it meant at the time.

I hold it now and it remember the confusion of torn families I only observed. Whispers over the phone. And you disappearing one week without a goodbye. The strong decision your Mom needed to make. I still see your Dad sometimes. I'm glad you're free, and I trust you grew into a woman that would make your Mom proud. Confirm she made the right decision. I know more, now. Things I wasn't ready to understand when I was twelve. Things you probably weren't either, but had to. I'm sorry. I wish my two letters could've said more then that I missed you.

Where are you now? I don't know. I guess I never will. I searched your name on Facebook, but it's probably not what it was.  I still have that piece of pressed metal that says “friends.” That's what I'll remember you as.

A sand dollar. I was sixteen now, walking with you down an abandoned Mexican beach. I was so proud to call you my best friend. So sure you were cool, you convinced me that athletic teenage girls like us looked good in over sized t-shirts. We would wrestle, and I would win. I believe that you thought it would last forever. I trusted you.

At nineteen we lost touch, but I still have that sand dollar. I wrote letters, e-mails. I poured my heart out and scribbled in my notebook. Life did get in the way. Such different paths, you and I. We share the most important now, but it's not enough.

I'm sorry. I try to hard.

A pair of drumsticks. They say you'll love me forever. I almost believed that, too. Luckily I was jaded enough to question it all.

I know I held you at arms length for longer then you thought possible. But you were my best friend. A misjudgment, but I wish that part could have been true. I cried with you well you held me. I cried when I left. I stuck by you until I couldn't any more. It was too long, yet far too short.  How you could blindly cut me like that, I'll never know.

These drumsticks will never tell.

And you. You haunt my life more then any other with these reminders. We shared our childhood, our struggles and, finally, my home. Others came and went, but you were like my sister. My sister with communication skills that would never match mine. Is that where we went wrong? This crumpled stack of notes, letters, ramblings? This giant paper clip, teddy bear and a heart. How unlike us, then. You and I with our hitch hiking, our first time swearing, our baggy jeans. The times we shunned each other and our mutual respect.

And this last letter. The one where you asked me not to reply. The one I'll never understand.

I'm closing the drawer for now.  I've learned that others will be added, despite my greatest efforts and my learned reservations. I regret that it's still so damn worth it.

(photo source: Barcarola)

Redneck Style: A Guide

There are a few things to bear in mind when dressing like a redneck.  First of all, the stereotypes are true.  If you think stretched confederate flags and ball caps are a myth, you're wrong.  We believe in sexy, but not so much in subtle.  I believe the correct word for this is "trashy."  Bear in mind that we're not feminists.  However, we can play with the boys, and that's partly why the teenage pregnancy rate is so outrageously high.  It's not all bad, though.

The secret is to stick to key pieces.  The essential will always be the ribbed tank top.  The effect is most effective when it's too tight.  They can be stocked up at Wal-Mart for three bucks a piece.  Logos and racer-backs are encouraged.  For full effect please be sure that lacy bra straps are visible at all times.

Pair this with a denim mini.  Durable and multi-functional this is an important part of every redneck girl's closet.  We especially like that they can be worn for any function from meeting the parents to weddings.  As an alternative daisy dukes make a good replacement.  These are so simple.  All you need is a pair of tight jeans and scissors!  They also work a bit better after you've passed out on the lawn of some house party.

If the brush is too thick, or the weather too chilly for this option ripped jeans are fine.  Also, we really do wear plaid shirts.  We like that the top four buttons can be left undone.  Print hoodies are a good functional option as well.  Don't forget that these can be tied, or slung.  Sweats or pj pants can be worn out shopping, or for 7/11 runs.  These, however, should be paired with low-cut tops and preferable should state "cutie," or similar sentiment across the butt.

Don't forget to accessorize!    Let's start with shoes.  Yes, we believe in heels!  These should mostly be worn during the day.  Say, when on a trip to the hardware store.  For bush parties, brand runners are much more practical.  Uggs are also good in winter.  You'll look pretty lame when, well trying to climb into the back of a lifted pickup to make-out, you slip on a patch of ice with your stilettos.

Jewelery is over rated.  Except piercings.  Belly button studs are hot, and you should have at least three or four piercings in each ear.  The best way to go, however, is tattoos.  There's not really such a thing is too many.  Favourite spots should include ankles, upper breasts, and the ever popular tramp stamp.

Then, the crowning glory.  Long is the norm.  Hair should also be at least streaked blond.  A full on bleach out is more typical.  Straw cowboy hats or trucker caps are also a good option.  Always keep a stock of simple bandannas.  There are several ways to wear them, and they'll always signal that you're up for a little mud bogging.  Also, make-up isn't really necessary except that heavy mascara should be worn at all times, such as when nursing your youngest well waiting for the bus.  It's so easy!  Take care of yourself first.

As you can see, dressing like a redneck has more to do with mindset then anything else.  With a little practice you'll be ready to take on the next bush party or mountain camping trip.  Don't worry about being over the top.  Just follow the simple tips above and you'll be ready to go.

Disclaimer: Even though I used we and us throughout this post I can say, err, most of it doesn't apply to me.
Also, what I learned from this post...  I can't spell accessorize, jewelery or stiletto...
Photo sources: Teethlikeswords, xxtwilightbellaxx, and chell-o on Deviant Art

When Skater Boys Strip

(Source: Afireoutsideme on Deviant Art)

Pretend it's June in North Ontario.  The sun is weak, the town is tiny and the area is stunningly beautiful.  It's also St. Jean Baptiste which means the Quebecers in my little group want to get wasted* and declare their sovereignty.

Now, I'm not all Vivre Quebec, but I enjoyed hanging out with the biggest Libre believer of them all.  Thom was a guitarist of the tenth degree.  A ponderer with a French-guy afro.  Funny, deep, and a little bit lost.  Being as it was Quebec's national holiday he got all introspective and wanted to wander off to the beach with his guitar.  I was bored on our free block and decided to go along.  Mostly, I confess, I wanted to sit looking over Lake Superior and listening to Thom's acoustic guitar.

As we got closer to the beach a cop car pulled up and informed us that a bear had just been reported on the beach.  There's another thing about this town.  It wasn't unusual to see black bears crossing the street in the middle of town.  With a dejected Thom I turned and meandered down towards main, stopping at their little skate park.

Laying on the curved concrete Thom played and I listened.

Groups of fourteen year-old boys can be a little obnoxious.  Especially when it's a birthday party and they're on the way to the corner store to try scam cigarettes.  They spotted us like prey on a field mouse.

"Dude, you're amazing.  Man, play us something."
"What do you want?"
"Play us some Slipknot!  Know any Metallica?  Dude, Slash!  Who's she?"
"Kris.  She sings."  I shot Thom my "way to try switch the heat" look.
"Dude!  Play us something and she can sing."

Kids don't shut-up easily.  Thom cued the opening bars of Hotel California, about the only song that we both knew he could play and I could sing through.  Amid just-breaking voices and experimental swearing he glanced at me.  Kind of a "just do it, I dare you."

As I started on dark desert highways and cool wind in my hair the miraculous happened.  The group shut-up.  They stood against the graffiti and stared.  When the guitar died they were all, "Man, that was amazing.  Amazing!  Beautiful!  Really."  That's right.  We got a fourteen year old male to use "beautiful" as description.

Then the birthday kid dropped twenty bucks in Thom's case.  Twenty-bucks!  We were on a youth volunteer program, so that was a night out at the Legion (yes, the Legion was the happening night life).  It was his birthday money, but he wouldn't take it back.

They headed off to the convenience store.  We returned to our non-heavy metal under the night sky, but it wasn't too long before they were back.

"Dude!  You were amazing!  But we're out of money, Man.  Here.  Have a rock."
"No way, Man.  They're too good for a rock!  Here, have my shirt.  No, seriously, take it!"
I was laughing.  Thom was like, "C'mon guys!  You can't go home without a shirt.  No, it's cool."
"No really.  Take my shirt.  Take my shoes."

"Here!  I'll give you my pants!"

To our chagrin a barely teen dropped his pants.  Right there on the skate park of a little northern town.

"Want my boxers, too?  I'll give 'em to you!"

Thom was freaking out a little.  I couldn't stop laughing.  We managed to get the kids to (mostly) keep their boxers on.  Eventually it was us who had to leave them running around the ramps partially dressed.

"I was scared," Thom confessed.  "Man, like, maybe we get in trouble for little kids strip in front of us!"

It was perfect.  My first and only St. Jean Baptist.  But regardless it'd probably be my favourite.

*Yes, I see the irony as the holiday is (apparently) named after a saint.

"But I Don't Like it"

"I do like flavour," she said, "Just not in excess.  Not spicy and stuff, you know.  Just subtle.  I should know what I like if I'm going to bother eating it, right?  I mean, think about it."

She smiled at them, spreading margarine on her bread.  They smiled back.

"Like, I try stuff.  Sometimes I buy different jam, or maybe mixed lettuce.  Or, you know, Asian salad dressing or something.  Once I tried shrimp.  But I didn't like it.  So, like, if I don't like seafood it'd be stupid to eat it, right?

"I mean, I may as well be happy.  And I'm just happy with chicken or whatever.  So, I don't know.  You can run around trying everything but end the end mine will have been more quality, you know?  I mean, if you think about it, I appreciate flavour at least as much as you."

They continued to smile, to mingle, to live.  She smirked and ate her bread and margarine.

So, This Probably Only Interests You if You're Canadian

So, I don't care for Molson.  But...  but this ad is one of my dramatic favourites out of their brilliant campaign.

Ignore the last ten seconds.  Just seems relevant for July 1st.

Happy Canada Day, Everyone!