We’re born into this world like a freshly snapped Polaroid; the image of who we are & what we contain takes time to develop. Sometimes, as this is happening, whether out of love or selfishness, people will try to point out our details to us, to guess or shape the image even as its still sits lost to obscurity. We, ourselves, often end up covering certain parts of the image as we violently shake to clear up the picture into what we hope it will be. We grip more & more tightly, pressing our fingers into the swirling black, preventing pivotal parts of our picture from developing properly. But lessons take time, nobody perfects life over night, especially if those lessons contain the parts of our beautifully composed photo that we’ve spent the longest amounts of time with our thumb pressed over.
Object Writing: Just Another Late Night
Reckless, we might’ve been. we were fearless, cause back then we didn’t care that we would be growing older, playing with aches & age, maybe time made us bolder & young love can’t help but fade away. But still you end up at my place every, single time. You’re always coming back my way when no one’ll hold you tight. I still save space for you, though I should make room for someone that’ll love me right, not just another late night. Tired, but I could sleep, you’re leaving me wired cause trying to keep a handle on the way that you need to use me. God, I must be insane. Somehow you phase right though the walls that I think I’ve made. But still you end up at my place every, single time. You’re always coming back my way when no one’ll hold you tight. I still save space for you, though I should make room for someone that’ll love me right, not just another late night. Please leave the keys with me next time you run cause I need to close the door on us. But still you’ll end up at my place every, single time. You’re always coming back my way when no one’ll hold you tight. I still save space for you, though I should make room for someone that’ll love me right, not just another late night.
Object Writing: Cinnamon
The ancients said it contained good fortune, that it would whisk your dreams & abundance from their hidey holes & send them careening towards you, a cosmic hack to elevate your vibrations & magnetize your highest good. I can understand why, just the touch of its soft warm caress against my olfactory centers fills me with bubbling comfort & an unbridled sense of security. Each tightly wound spiral of toasty brown bark can't help but curve a smile onto your face. Each homey flush spreads the promise of sanctuary across the tongue. Believe in it what you will but there's no denying the reassuring hospitality cinnamon seeps into our daily lives.
Object Writing: Shaker
Into the sparkling stainless steel cylinder go the ingredients to my elixir. Juices, spirits, bitters, syrups, & liquors are all viable option, each diverting the path towards a different finished outcome with every ounce I pour into the potion brewing below. The fiery sting of alcohol ignites my nostrils as I topple in the base spirit, finishing off my pre-shake list of ingredients. I top the unmixed shaker off with ice pilfered from my freezer before caping it & violently shaking its contents to & fro. The tumbler grows colder & colder in my hands with each pass the drink makes in its vessel; the ice within being reduced to chips, the mixture no longer a series of separate items, now a combined refreshment to be enjoyed. I strain my libation out from its metal origin into a new, crystaline home, adding the simplest of garnishes before settling into the couch with my eloquently constructed nightcap.
Object Writing: Fireflies
The mid-summer haze plants the seed of their terrestrial bound, celestial display. Lofted delicately into the air by humidity & paper thin wings they begin their musing spectacle of courtship. They paint ever shifting, continuously rearranging constellations upon the evening air, flashing their messages of availability & attraction, pining for those hidden in the vivacious green below. These fireflies are the first signal of summer; the first indicator that Ostara has ended her great, bounding resurrection & has passed her revitalized bounty off to Sol, lengthen the days & bleeding warmth into night. I’ve always been overjoyed by the presence of these, their comfort hangs in the air along side the heat of the day, enrobing me in a truly childlike sense of imagination & wanderlust. It’s my greatest pleasure to know them & an indescribable gift to witness their light.
Object Writing: Wick
It flickers delicately in the softly shifting air of my abode. As its warmth turns wax to liquid & then to vapor it expels scents of Spearmint, Texas Cedar, Rose, Palo Santo, Rosemary, Grapefruit, & Eucalyptus into the space around it. The aromatic mixture invigorates the senses of all who pass into the space, igniting a deep calm that puts the brain at ease & unwinds the tension of muscular stress. This candle is of my own design, a combination of all that which puts me in a place of hospitable comfort. It is a natural favorite that I savor endlessly despite having the means for its recreation at any given moment. The melted wax & its aroma put me at peace & give me a sense of home that I feel has escaped me for so long.
Object Writing: Sunburn
“How?! How? How did this happen? I put on so much sunscreen” I exclaim, the warm scent of coconut & shea butter still wafting from my now reddened skin. I look down begrudgingly at my arm, the blotchy red fading into pale tan as the skin progresses around the underside of my forearm. I reach out to touch with the other, my fingertips sticking the now hot iron that hold the place of my baked epidermis, leaving a lasting streak of white with its impression. Even just lightly hovering above my burnt skin I can feel the embedded heat rising, radiating my regret into my opposite hand.
Object Writing: Lightsaber
In Honor of May the Fourth!
Lightsaber
The pieces sit patiently waiting before me scattered meticulously over a thin shroud. Ceremony. My knees ache from the pressure of my personage against the dense, well practiced stone beneath them all while the light flickers around me, the smell of tradition & ritual settling comfortably into my nostrils. I reach out hesitant, space & time pulse with gentle insistence the closer my fingers get to the heart of that which I aim to construct & suddenly, without warning my mind is flooded with visions; a cacophonous eruption of life, death, light, & darkness, the swirling eternity calling out to me through this one small object. It had called to me before, this crystal. From deep within the cavern of its origin I heard its soft ring beaconing me to come & lay claim to it. Despite its make the stone is warm to the touch, like the embrace of an old friend it sends familiarity coursing through my veins before nestling neatly into my bones. I pick it up, turning it over diligently in my hand before reaching over to retrieve its housing. Once it is fixed in place it sends out a tintinnabulation of joyous acceptance. I grab the remainder of the guard & continue my meticulous assembly. The metal is cold to the touch in contrast to that of its core but it still feels instantly recognizable like the still of a snow covered winter’s eve. Once my task is complete so too is the rite. I stand victorious & the light is extinguished from the room. Igniting the blade it shares its true color with me, a reflection of its now bonded wielder. I am one of them, one of the Jedi & The Force is strong with me.
Object Writing: Bedsheets
Through the soft silver glow of the crescent moon I watch your breath rise & fall. Like waves rolling gracefully under a midnight sky I am transfixed by the steady expansion & regression of your chest. Shadows dance lovingly across the muted gray linens that adorn you, their proprietors gently wafting in the midsummer breeze holding vigilant watch of the darkness from the other side of the window. It appears this will be yet another night where Morpheus has chosen to ignore my prayers for rest, but tonight I do not mind, for in his absence he has gifted me a view few on this earth have been fortunate enough to hold. I cradle the pillow tenderly between my forearm & crown & fix my eyes amorously upon you. Your hair falls indiscriminate upon your brow as you slip further into the realm of dreams with each passing aspiration.
Object Writing: Terminal
Concrete & rebar encase the hive, a buzzing center of travel & commerce where lives mingle with one another unbeknownst. Gripped by the sonder of individuality I watch each of them pass; some beginning their journeys, some in the middle, & some have reached their final destination. Each passing patron parades through the terminal, possessions in hand, scurrying too & fro like mice seeking shelter from a danger looming overhead. What must each of their fully fleshed out lives be like? Who are these people when the stress of hurry up & wait isn’t baring down on them? I watch them leaned lazily against the window; the outside air cooling the glass where it makes contact with my skin. My fingers trace circles in the scratchy, short carpet as I slip in & out of daydreams, little self inflicted distractions to pass the time as I await the winged carriage that will catapult me across the sea into my next adventure.
Object Writing: Atlas
Deception, pain, punishment, these are all the things that brought me to where I am now; set between the crushing weight of atmosphere & the unrelenting density of earth sprawled out before me. I shift uncomfortable, the literal weight of the world on my shoulders, my knees bleed from the sharp mountain tops forced beneath them. My existence has become suffering, destined to stand tall & strong for an eternity watching life & time slip by. I am cursed, infinitely cursed all because of the need to support those who raised me, who cared for me, who gave me power & purpose in this world. I have been ripped from my lofty throne & thrust into the servitude of Gods that don’t serve me or mine. It is here that I am destined to spend my forever burdened with keeping two loving bodies from one another, doomed to be a passive member of creation, a watcher, a monument of strife, a beacon of warning. I heft the sky father farther away from my mother earth & bear his weight reluctantly all while life goes on without me, all around me, oblivious to the sacrifice I have been forced to make.
Blog/Object Writing: Grief
If you noticed I did not post an outright “Object Writing” post on here on Wednesday, that is because I did a five day series on grief. I was given the grief prompt by a dancer our of University in Canada who asked if I would do an object writing page for her final dance project using the five stages of grief. Naturally I agreed & was delighted, this is that assignment! In my initial writing I did my best to make the stages flow naturally into one another, over the last week I had to figure out ways to segment them out into five one minute posts, they are all attached below. So, what I’m going to do is first post the written form then if you feel so inclined, or if you’d rather, you can go through the individual posts & watch/listen to what I did with them. I can’t wait to share the final dance product as well once it’s presented! Enjoy!
OBJECT WRITING: GRIEF
“This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening, this can’t be happening.” The shock of the news nearly knocks me off my feet as the message the tsunami of information carried echoes endlessly around my brain. I feel faint, detached from the human vessel that tethers my spirit to this earth, adrift in the noise & chaos. My myriad of emotions cause me to question what is real or even possible. Is this? Is it all just a dream, some sick illusion my subconscious has cooked up for some unknown reason or have the unfathomable nightmares of my deepest, darkest dread become reality? At the end of my Rolodex of “no’s” hangs the fixture to which I attach blame. “IF” I am to believe this malicious marquee of misinformation then someone is at fault. Someone or something is the culprit for this misfortune; effect is nothing without cause. My adrenals pump molten rage into my bloodstream, igniting my senses into fiery passion. I am fuming, eyes frantically searching for elucidation & something to pin the focus of my frustration. Then it hits me. It smacks me in the face with the fury of the scorn I’ve irradiated into my atmosphere. What if it’s me? What if it’s my fault? My mind begins to work overtime, clockwork machines come alive & the pressure & steam give way to desperation. I return a call, for the first time since being encumbered by the burden of knowing I reach out to another human being whom I share commonality with. I am insistent, disheartened, “if only I’d done this,” I cry, “if only I’d done that” but my cries are fruitless. What’s done is done. Life has no redo button, it offers no relapse into the undoing of retribution. Maybe an exchange then, something for that which I’ve lost. Maybe the almighty, the cosmos, the powers that be will shine one glint of mercy upon me & offer me a fair trade. Time, money, possessions, health, all are on the line, all viable options for the return. But the universe sits silent, unbothered by the heart-wrenched pleading of a drop in the river, in the grand stream of time. All is silent. The stillness creeps into my being & settles uncomfortably into my bones. The meaning & spirit drains from me like sap oozing softly from a tree into the ground below me. Gravity’s weight is multiplied ten fold & soon the creature comforts that bring me respite begin to do little the fill the void. I am hollow, an empty shell of icy numb hurt as the colors melt inchmeal around me into sickly, sullen shades of grays. It’s pointless, all of it. Pointless. My energy depleted, my hopes scattered, my berth begins to feel more & more like a tomb; a black void of nothingness to which I shall willingly succumb. Little by little I fall further into the pits of my forlorn until, at last, I reach the soft maw of the abyss. Cradled in self pity & affliction I lie there, transfixed by misery until a delicate ember drifts haphazardly into my core. It too rests with me in this eternity, offering a knowing melancholy smile before wrapping me in warmth. The freedom of empathy washed through me & enrobes me in loving light. It does not discount my loss or patronize but instead sits in amiable eloquence carrying me through my despair. It lifts my chin, places a quant reassurance on my forehead, & nudges me affectionately towards tomorrow. “It is time,” it whispers to me. Like a freshly birthed foal I stagger to find my footing; one & then the other. I look up to the mountain that stands proudly aloft before me & I begin the ascent; one foot at a time, one day & then the next. The sun breaks through the morbid gray & for the first time in what feels like an age I am at peace.
OBJECT WRITING: GRIEF PART ONE: DENIAL
OBJECT WRITING: GRIEF PART TWO: ANGER
OBJECT WRITING: GRIEF PART THREE: BARGAINING
OBJECT WRITING: GRIEF PART FOUR: DEPRESSION
OBJECT WRITING: GRIEF PART FIVE: ACCEPTANCE
Object Writing: Mosquito
Its tiny taps on the window were what woke me. Small pinpoints ringing out from a minuscule life intent on escaping back to the warm promise of the sun just outside of the grime dusted glass in its way. I watch it from the sticky sheets of my summer bed; how freeing it must be to be a creature so oblivious to the drastic difference a handful of degrees swaying one way or another can make in a room. I lay there, sprawled out on just the mattress cover, sweat soaking through the cloth, as the mosquito moves to circle the room. The late afternoon sun casts long arching marigold blocks of light across the floor, interrupted by a long narrow shadow any time the bug ventures into frame. Another hot day, another hot summer. Even at the distance it flies from me I can still hear the piercing buzz of its wings. I was convinced it wanted to make a meal of me though thus far it has shown little to no interest in doing so. Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the ting of musk in the air or the thick soup of humidity, but the insect pays me no mind, so I return the favor. So here I am, spread out over my bed like jam on bread, watching this mosquito search in vain for whatever entrance allowed it access to my abode. I watch & watch & watch until my eyelids began to grow heavy once again & I embrace sleep as my blanket of the oblivious, my single relief from this sweltering heat.
Object Writing: Envelope
No return address, curious. I run my finger over the pointed top of the envelope, my name inked diligently below on the broad side in an enchanting cursive. The wax seal on the inverse panel glistens in the light as I turn the folded parchment over & over in my hands. Occasionally my fingertips caress the soft compress leaving behind a sensation of comfort & familiarity. Upon turning my attention back to the pressed fastening it stands out to me that the indentation of the seal is foreign to me, an unknown entity or house that I have yet to come across or that has possibly slipped my mind. I reach for my letter opener, the blunted blade is cold in my hands sending pin pricked goosebumps down my wrist. I press the tip of the instrument firmly under the binding, then hesitate to take in the insignia of my mysterious sender once more. One fell swoop & the letter is free, springing from its paper imprisonment & cascading folded sheets onto the floor. Casting the newly vacated envelope aside I reach anxiously for the message, wary of what news it may bring.
Object Writing: Coffee Cup
Red. Who do I know that wears red?
The lipstick stained rim would have been perfectly set if not for the smudge jetting off to right of the greasy rouge. Whether the imperfection was a remnant of an imperfectly released sip or an attempted clearing of the streaked mistake, I cannot tell. Shaking distraction my mind I snaps back to the question at hand “whose is this?” It was quite the surprise to wake up & find this lukewarm caffeinated tar sitting anxiously in the middle of my kitchen table, auspiciously anticipating the return of its consumer all the while spilling notes of baking chocolate & candied hazelnut into the pale morning ether. Could it be one of my roommates', had one of them had an unexpected guest, or was there now some gussied up rando lurking in my abode? I eyed the mug suspiciously, pondering not only its proprietor, but also where its contents had come from. We haven't had coffee in this house for weeks, an oversight that never seems to get remedied no matter how many times any of us happen to be out & about at the store. The more I observed, the more the neurons returned to their posts after my slumber, the more questions also I had. If I weren't already, the shockwave of the powder bathroom door careening open surely woke me.
And all at once I had my answers. All of them.
Object Writing: Easel
It stares tentatively at me every time I enter the spare room at the end of the upstairs hall, longing for the attention it had amorously received in its former life. What once belonged to my inspired grandmother now stands forgotten, collecting dust out of sight & out of mind. A half finished painting rests lazily against its frame, the acrylic paint of which still encrusts the shelf that hoists it aloft. It's been a while since this easel has been loved, properly loved that is. It was once the advocate for beautiful expressions of art; oil slicked splotches of plumage, delicately washed lofty cliffs overlooking the sea set under the watchful eye of a salt white lighthouse, true enchantment put to pigment. Now it yearns for such activity, its use long dismissed by the passing fancies of a neuro-divergent brain. Poor, lonely easel, you are so deserving of the flourish of life you once received in the past. I guess it may be time to once again crack out the paints & feel the tug of creativity.
Object Writing: Pavement
Glossy pools of silvery water sit anchored in their valleys, each receiving new tsunamis with every fresh drop of sky that plunges into their shallow depths. Reflective images of trees & clouds ripple away into the aqueous black with each cascading wave. Mountains of inky pebbles extend from the water reaching fruitlessly towards the heavens bridled by their mass & rigidity. It's a small world this splash of life giving sustenance I've stumbled upon, yet another drizzly day blossoming their abundance into existence, their multitudes extending as far as my eyes can see. They tumble recklessly into one another, spilling their burden into their companion just down stream from them until the bounds of each of their shores is compromised & runs its contents lazily into its next of kin. The pavement glistens in the gray gloom of this rainy afternoon. I splash vivacious yellow across the face of each ocean as I pass hearing the soft pitter-patter of the midday precipitation dash against the hood of my polyester rain coat.
Object Writing: Teddy Bear:
One of its small, knowing eyes hangs lazily, detached just a few inches below its intended placement, held flimsily together by two fine, red strings. The soft tawny fur fades in & out where adolescent hands & arms have left permanent scuffs of love. This teddy had seen better days, that was for sure, but for all the adoration & world it had seen behind its shiny plastic eyes, it was content. You see this bear, this stuffed personified companion had once belonged to a child. It had been a gift joyously received which had then proceeded to fill the life of its young owner to the brim with comfort & amity. This small worn shaping of cotton & polyester had been everywhere its adolescent keeper had gone; it had been a soft, supple shoulder to cry on, it had been thrown to the sky in bouquets of laugher, it had been fastened into trucks, carriages, cars, beds, any assortment of garments, & cavorted tirelessly with. It had been many days since the likes of this had seen the likes of those but the bear still sat satisfied; the dust & years slipping through the gaps in its fibers, making their own home in a former part of someone else's. The furry friend did not despair or long for days long past, it had fulfilled its purpose & was overjoyed with the time it had been given. For the love of a toy wants not, but gives exponentially.
Object Writing: Track
"One more lap" I tell myself, "just one more lap." My feet ache with each exhausting stride they beat into the asphalt, long tired out from the previous innumerable laps. My legs scream at me to stop, beg me for rest, but it is my will that over powers them.It's been far too long since I ran, far too long since I put rubber sole to track & rocketed my way around. My compromised hip sends signals of distress ringing throughout my person but I do my best to ignore its warnings, for it is the reason for my current struggle. If I hadn't of fallen, if I'd paid more attention maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't be in my current predicament, stuck trying to prove to myself & those around me that I can come back stronger that the sum of my falterings. Just. One. More. Lap. The battle between brain & brawn rages within me & thus far the war has leaned heavily in my brain's favor, but I can feel the shifting tides, I can feel the odds evening out & I know once they do there will be no coming back from it. In the meantime I just have to keep pushing on. Come on, just one more lap.
Object Writing: Biscuits
The crumbs lie lazily scattered around the base of the package; let’s call them little remnants of a midnight snack consumed half awake. Their trail extending from the ripped opening of which now only a trivial few fractions of the original tantalizing contents remain. It was clear from the moment I'd opened them, during my initial purchase, that this package had previously been dropped; the silvery wrapping had given way to the crumbled bits of cookie within still loosely holding tight to their uniform means of presentation. The hours of night that crept into morning had made way for the soft vanilla & caramel accents of the biscuits to waft delicately into the air & pique the olfactory of any happenstance passerbyer. They weren't my favorite, though, I guess, the haste at which I had ushered them into my shopping basket the day prior would have said otherwise; I guess I'd just had a hankering for something saccharine & carbohydrate laden. I finished the remainder of the container with passive indifference before discarding the scrapes & the undesirable bits into the trash. Great way to break fast, I thought to myself as my gnashing turned sugary tack into mush. Great. Way. To. Break. Fast.