Nah, love. My voice is just, well, my voice. It’s nothing special.
I think I sound crazy awkward.
Like the Eezma kitty says in The Emperor’s New Groove: “Is that my voice? Is that MY voice?!”
So, as some of you know, I’ve been working on a collection of poetry to self-publish. That is coming together slowly but surely.
But, aside from that, I am working on a collection of prose that I would like to self-publish as well. I’m really excited about how it’s coming along.
Anyway, they’ll probably be ready around April I’m assuming, but we’ll see. Just giving a heads-up.
I’m planning on self-publishing but who knows; maybe somewhere wants to publish this stuff for me. Not banking on that though.
It was around this time a year ago that I created my little corner of the internet, seeyou-invancouver.
This blog began as a private place for me to post my work and served as a space for my emotional venting. It was more cathartic than anything and was never meant to be shared. However, it slowly grew from a personal therapeutic device to a page where I could debut my writing.
I did not start actively blogging until August of last year and I must say, this blog has had a drastic impact on my writing and who I have become as a writer.
Many times, I wanted to quit. I wanted to throw in the towel, in more aspects of my life than one. I did, at times, but returned, knowing that giving up on my writing and myself would ultimately solve nothing. This past year has been exceedingly difficult in the emotional and psychological department, but you all have been there for me, through and through.
I cannot thank you all enough for taking part in this venture with me and for the continuous love, support and kindness you have all sent my way. It has and continues to mean the world and more.
Here’s to another year of blogging, publishing and writing; another year filled with art, creativity, exploration and a love for words.
I have many plans for myself and my work. I couldn’t have done any of this without all of you.
Thank you, thank you all again, from the bottom of my heart.
Happy Birthday, blog. I love you.
I knew a woman once who tasted of copper, bare shoulders russet in ways that made cents. The sounds that sprung from the flick of her tongue were like nails, stakes pounded into your every bone. A student of architecture, Islamic arches; support, she’d said between sips of black coffee - you…
This is so incredibly beautiful. The most beautiful piece of writing i’ve seen in a long time. You, my friend, are a miracle.
Thank you so much! This just made my night.
When I first read, “Can you stop writing”, I thought “Oh.” But then I read the rest and now have a smile on my face.
Thank you, thank you!
I have no words. Coming from a woman who’s romantically involved with a dictionary, that’s saying something. I’m about to cry.
Thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my heart for this.
It’s people like you who can unexpectedly change the course of a person’s day, week, or even a handful of months with encouraging words that leave the world a little better off. I honestly, I don’t know what to say. I hope you know you brightened more than just today for me. Your kindness means the absolute world.
I appreciate this more than you know.
Thank you, again. Thank you so much.
Well, the title Stephen is in reference to Stephen King, the author.
I’ve received multiple messages asking why I would blatantly title a piece with the name of someone I know/knew personally, but I chose Stephen in accordance with the last three lines “and that the monsters in your favorite books/ are much less frightening/ than the man who reads of them”.
The piece stemmed from things I experienced in a past relationship. Said relationship also inspired Lost Boy, Adieu - A Lyric Essay and a handful of other works. I have since cut off all contact with the person and it has been a long time since they were a part of my life.
I no longer write about it, or well, I don’t mean to. Some things just stay with you, as much as you’d like them to go away, you know?
As Cormac McCarthy wrote in his novel The Road, "You forget what you want to remember and you remember what you want to forget."
Thank you for the question, Anon. All the best.
If you care to read Stephen, click here.
Thank you, darling! You kindness has made my night.
I knew a woman once who tasted of copper, bare shoulders russet in ways that made cents. The sounds that sprung from the flick of her tongue were like nails, stakes pounded into your every bone. A student of architecture, Islamic arches; support, she’d said between sips of black coffee - you need to learn how to distribute the weight.
She was a carpenter, preacher - halfway house savior; breaker of dollar menu buns and boxed red and white wine seals. On Sunday mornings you could find her in torn tees and too-shorts. They kept her knee-deep in after-church boys she sifted like landfill.
She made alters from cardboard. She consecrated the trash.
Eyes like bright headlights, she was yellow-cab incarnate. Men would wave hands at her, arms, stick out their sore thumbs. She must see you. She must see you. She must stop because she sees you.
She was red-light running meter, pawn shops and barred windows; second-rate security system and neon district lights. She will draw you into her nine-to-five traffic; oncoming, you jump ‘front of slow-moving cars. You are convinced you can paint streets, burst veins - scarlet. Bumpers paint you purple, paint you blue, paint you black.
She will knock you down like recession and you will get back up because you love her.
She was black-bagged windows, two-tap needle sans dope – lead-me-home breadcrumbs with a dislike for long sleeves.
She was artwork with a name that licked lips like Metropolitan. Walmart Banksy in a can - only five bucks a pop. In subways, you may find her between stops five and six. She was blank canvas and warped paper, eraser and hot glue. Permanent marker - she stained things, hid holes in the wall with her eight by ten frame.
Veins a tangle of power lines and current, she was pulsing to the touch. She will spark your interest like outlets with a fear of blowing fuse.
You tell yourself you have learnt her, trace with fingers on her hips stop-go intersections and steel railways. You are train-hopping, a vagabond. She is a joy ride. You will fuck her like a drive-by and reference Vegas roadmaps.
Come morning, she will have become a collection of outcries. The acts of defiance published on her flesh will outnumber the words in every failed actor’s this-will-be-my-big-break manuscript. Late at night, you lay beside her and read them. Late at night, you cannot sleep.
She will find sanctuary, a hostel in the confines of your chest.
You think you can hold her. My God, you think you can hold her.
You will kiss her once, twice, third time’s a charm, and fish from her stomach the remains of bodies mangled; head, hands, five fingers severed. You will tread her thoughts like the Hudson, wary of yellow-tape lines.
Months will pass and she will remain starless, swear her eyes are only dark because of their color. Galileo, your punch-and-go bus passes will not thin the smog in her throat.
On white-knuckle nights, she will take coat hangers to her abdomen; back-alley abort the forever’s you tried so hard to plant. She will not believe them. She will not let them grow.
Hide-and-seek, she will run and you will not know where to find her. You will spend nights checking beds and garbage bags in shelters to no avail.
You will become bulletins with tear-away numbers, dialed payphones and spare change.
You will find her. You will find her. One day, you will find her.
I knew a woman once.
Please, tell me if you’ve seen her.