Hedonistic

Love affair 

Take my body

Strip it bare

Take my will

It has no power 

All my logic

Lust devours

Take my promise

To be true

All my virtue

Melts with you 

Take my instinct

Heartache looms

Your touch is lies

That spell my doom

Give me nothing

Another conquest won

This life I’ve made

Will be undone 

Gord Downie is a part of me, his music is underlying in my psyche and I imagine it always will be. The back roads the Hip travelled musically showed me that it was alright to be dark, alright to go deeper, alright to walk that fine line between dark and light. It inspires me, it lets me get my rock on with my socks on. It haunts me and taunts me, jacks me up and pins me down. These men are genius, talent unbridled in a relentless pursuit of nirvana – pure rock and roll. I love them, they turn me on when I turn them up and they will always be Canada’s greatest Rock Band – no matter what.

Down the rabbit hole I slide

Chasing the dragon in my stride

Trying to fix what has gone wrong

Always slipping, never strong

My words they fall on deafened ears

The love we had it disappears

Try to regain what has been lost

But the words we speak are doused in frost

The rage and pain is what remains

As every conversation strains

There is no kindness, only shame

To find the one who is to blame

This love affair has run its course

And all that’s left is the divorce

You speak to me in whispered hush

And see the passion in my blush

Your hands are tender stones on skin

And find the place where I begin

Creep into my soul so dark

And within you light the spark

Our journeys now are intertwined

in places we thought left behind

The soul is fractured deep in me

No idea where I should be

My fate to be a simple toy

Is this where I’ll find my joy?

Shall I stay and wait for change

Feel myself be rearranged

The truth is yet an unseen path

Will it be love or only wrath?

My thoughts of you are twisted dark

you found inside, a dim lit spark 

I feel your hands like hardened steel 

caress my soul and slow reveal

That piece of me sent to its grave

Was found again in what I crave

Feel your weight on top of me

That treasure cave of ecstasy 

In my mind and in my soul

The only way that I am whole

Is to know your ever sinful gaze

Will haunt me till my end of days

Things have not been easy in 2020, For the world and for me personally.  Over the last 8 years I lost my Brother at 40, my father to a heart attack, and finally my Mother in 2018.  Depressed was not the word I would use for my pain.  I love rainbows and unicorns, always have.  So I kept filling my life bright objects and I realized I was trying to re-colour my dark life.  Then I found out about Canada’s Drag Race.  I have never seen the American version, but I have always loved Ru Paul for her courage and strength, something I had been lacking of late.  So I started watching, and experienced my first genuine joy for 2020.  Beautiful, elegant, amazing woman with courage and grace filled my living room.  I understand there has been a lot of hate being spread of late by those online who likely are having dark lives too, but they have decided to tap into the dark and try to spread it across the internet world.  I am sad for them.  I love this show,  These amazingly creative contestants and the bravery and talent it takes to stand on that stage in platform heels and pounds of clothing and makeup and make it look like it was the easiest thing in the world.  They inspire me.  They keep the light alive and I could not be more grateful.  Haters gonna hate as they say, but this girl is gonna love them, all of them,  Because in the end we are all in this together, and these girls are here to brighten up this cruddy year.  Thank you Drag Race.  Thank you Rita Baga.  Thank you Priyanka, that all of you fabulous bitches!!  You are the BEST.

Twisted metal wreckage

Broken glass and melted steel

Crumpled up like paper

I’m still trapped behind the wheel

No jaws of life to save me

No rescue truck in sight

Suspended in my madness

Darkness day and night

The smell of gasoline

As it trickles past my view

Surely to ignite

And engulf me when it’s through

The only proof of my existence

The only sign that I was there

Are the deep and ragged skid marks

And the scars the road shall bear

Early morning found us in a tight squeeze in that old blue 70’s station wagon. The sun was still asleep but I was eager to be on the road to our next adventure. My pillow pressed up against the cold window coated in early morning dew as we quietly backed out of the driveway and began the journey to the Atlantic. It would take two days to get there with an overnight stop in some remote American town where we would find respite before continuing on the long drive ahead. Roadside exits held picnics of egg salad and over run washrooms full of other weary travelers along the way. Twisted plastic drink holders of solid red and white hung precariously on the window frame waiting for that right pothole to dislodge it from its temporary perch. The drive was long and tiring and filled with scenery that sparked imagination of what lay beyond. Through mountains and valleys, on blacktop and concrete the road stretched out before us long and winding, always with the promise of vacation just on the other side of the next hill.

We would arrive at our destination early or midday and find quaint streets coated in light colored sand and pine needles. The air was thick with salt water taffy and ocean breezes just beyond and even it seemed to hold fine granules of sand that would come to rest on faces and grins of family reunions. Her house was seafoam green and quaint, with those same pine needles strewn where grass should have been and ceramic cats climbed the garage walls greeting visitors near the front door. Seashells were abundant and decorated quaint homes inside and out. It had the feel of a summer town, a place where tourists flocked as did copious numbers of seagulls in search of tasty seafaring morsels. The house was open and clean, airy and old timey. The floors were well worn wood, seemingly polished and shiny. The attic was a place of wonder for a child, filed with dusty boxes of memories she held on to and times she had forgotten. The beds were comfy, although foreign and there was defiantly a feeling of home. In the backyard the garden, overflowing with the abundance that only true green thumbs could evoke. Beans, radish and flowers fragrant mixed with the sea air and summer breeze. Tranquil and bustling at once that garden, more alive than a city, and more peaceful than an oasis. It was his pride and joy.

Days were spent at the beach, the drive there filled with aromatic roadside seafood stands and t-shirt sellers enticing you in with bargains and colorful signs. The parking lot at the beach was a flurry of activity, even in the early part of the day. Typically landlocked tourists clamoring for the best spot on the beach to rest their weary city bones. It was a hard fought battle climbing mountainous sand dunes to long stretching boardwalks leading to the sea. Excitement took over and fought the weary travelers exhaustion with the promise of cool ocean breezes and soft welcoming sandy seating. Dozens of colorful umbrellas dot the beach and the smell of cocoa butter and coconut fill the air. Finally at rest the we fought the urge to run to the ocean and dive in, opting instead for slow leisurely strolls down to the water. Watching the waves roll in just far enough that only our toes were grazed by the cold Atlantic sea. That first frigid step perhaps gave us pause before we committed to walking in to the water. Indentations of footprints washed away as the water rushed in over our feet and the sand escaped below. The waves revoked our chance at going slowly, pulling us in with each out flow. Suddenly we were hip deep, then chest deep, then had water on our faces. Fighting to keep our feet, first across jagged small shells burrowed in the sand below and the waves pulling at our ankles in the strong undertow. Once beyond that point the silky soft sand encompassed our feet and made our knees weak with relaxation. Looking back to our towels on the beach and realizing we were now hundreds of feet from where we had gone in, further down the beach and blissfully disoriented. Trudge back through the sand and crashing waves to line up once again with our spot on the beach, only to once again be mystically pushed along the coastline to an unfamiliar scene.

Out of the water our and back to our towels were we collapse in the warm summer sun. Keeping the towel free of sand is a tedious and pointless task. Reapply the sunscreen and feel the breeze drift effortlessly across our shoulders cool against our warm flesh. Sandcastles are created out of no where and knocked over by waves or annoying siblings. Rebuilding is part of the fun so there is nothing that can dampen these days. Finally the sun begins to go down over the horizon and we begin to pack up. Shake out sandy towels and fold up lazy chairs. Umbrellas folded down and carried under overfull arms back to the sandy parking lot. In the car and back to the house where the outdoor shower awaits. Sand is everywhere and washing it away seems daunting and somewhat pointless. Later in those evenings we travel to the town and get ice cream and shop for trinkets of cranberry glass and sweet smelling candles. It’s a feast for the senses here and objects of mystery are stacked with childlike wonder. The soft serve ice cream is sweet and becoming liquid faster than it can be eaten, dripping down hands and forearms making its escape. Mini golf courses are bursting with weary beach goers whose skin has reddened in the August sun. The course is line with quirky obstacles and impossible slopes, but the air is sweet and soft and there is no place we would rather be.

The morning was ghostly grey and foggy. Eager to break its silence, we played in the one forbidden places we were shunned against. The patio stones laid innocently next to the house, neatly awaiting the sand that was then piled beside them to be brushed in between them to give them their final resting place. How dull and yet exciting it was to run around those slippery stones and piles of dirt. Workman would be there later that day to finish this installation, so we only had a small amount of time to play. We chased each other gleefully until it happened and the world went dark. All of a sudden my four year old foot was lodged snuggly in between those waiting patio stones. My foot was were the dirt should be and I panicked. I wrenched my leg as hard as I could to free it from those stones, perhaps terrified that I would be stuck there forever, having to live out my life on that neighbor’s driveway.

I have no memory of going from that place to my home across the grassy Cul de Sac. Just being back in my own house with my Mom who looked at me with disappointment and disapproval. I mean, after all, it was the one thing she had asked us not to do, play around those stones. As if by sheer force of nature we were going to play there, defiance to the hilt in my four year old brain. What magical experience was I being held back from on that day? Why was I not permitted to know that joy? I needed to know, I needed to defy. And then there I was. I remember she put each hand underneath my arms and stood me up straight with a bounce onto my feet. I remember my tears had not stopped flowing since the stone caught my foot. Then I remember staring at her, deep in her eyes while my little body crumpled like broken glass to the dark navy shag carpet below me. Next I remember being in the back of the old station wagon. In a place I loved to ride, but never got too. Grimacing and choking up with each bump and pot hole. The long trip to the old hospital seemed to take forever.

The smell of the room I was in was of paste and bandage. I remember it caught it my throat and did nothing to settle my pain. I remember the smallness of that room, even as a child. I remember rolls of gauze and other bandage hanging off the walls. I was alone in there, shattered glass leg, half sitting half laying on a medical examination table awaiting my fate. A single light bulb strung from the stained ceiling swung slightly each time the door was opened or closed. Mom in the hallway worriedly talking to doctors and nurses. I have vague memories of being propped up in a different position and coated with paste and bandage from the top of my leg to my foot.

Over the next several weeks, the lost summer, I sat in an old lounge chair in the garage watching the kids enjoy the dog days while I counted bottle caps. Sooner or later I realized that situation was for suckers and I started shimming on the pavement dragging my cast and leg with me. I remember when the cast was cut off, the smell, the sweat, the oddness of the hairy leg below. It felt shaky to walk on, but it wasn’t glass anymore. It would never be the same after my hip line fracture of femur to toe but I swear those stones were just begging me to dance around them.

That vertical driveway seemed daunting even as a child, like we were being lifted far above the earth, raised up to this place of peace and tranquility. It felt as if the vehicle would flip backwards, the incline was so steep and like a miracle when we came to rest along the grassy edge of the driveway. The hammock swayed longingly under those towering trees and the view had that red roof top on a barn on that slope a few miles away. Those distant hills awash in vibrant color, depicting life at a distance and contributing to the beauty of that place. The front yard was vast and a mix of ecotone, trees as tall as giants on one side and expansive fields of grass to the other side. Encompassed in trees and forests with that apple orchard just beyond the house he built. They called it the cottage, but it was as much a home as any, with secrets and mysteries no child could resist. You could watch the seasons change from that frontage, sitting at that picnic table while mountains of fresh corn on the cob dripping with golden melted butter awaited grasping hands from all directions. The grass was soft beneath our feet and the chipmunk crossing sign greeted guests near the front door.

The cold porch at the front door had an aroma of fresh cut wood and spring rain as it welcomed us in. To the right was the kitchen, as country a kitchen as any with long counters, seafoam green cabinets and the black wood stove that crackled all year long. Mornings here were early and blissful, homey and serene. Food created there were like morsels of heaven, each bite was more of a delight than the last. Out the side door to the snarled path to the neighbors, rich with thick tree roots breaching the soft ground. Around the back was woods, deep and dense with birds singing blissfully throughout the long summer days. Beyond the back of the house was an apple field and the rich aroma wafted down to the cottage when the wind caught it right. The giant rain barrel leaned against the side of the cottage and was always full, almost tipping over from its shear weight. The separate garage was mere steps from the cottage doubling as a wood working shop on one side and a garage on the other. Stacks of chopped wood lined the back of the garage and if you were paying attention you might catch a glimpse of the long eared jack rabbit hiding in the wood stacks, waiting for the humans to vacate his space. The woodshop itself was dusty and warm, thick with the smell of creation and burned etching. So much was created and built here, the talent and workmanship was its own reward.

Beyond the garage was the large grassy field where we would play for hours under the hot summer sun. Funny to be in such a clearing, exposed to the heat of the day, when mere steps away was the tranquility of the forest greens, rich, soft and cool. That field always had the aroma of just cut grass and made you feel like you were in a universe made just for play.  Further along that Cul de Sac was the quarry where the wild blue and black berries grew. Sticky fingers lunging over sharp poking branches just seeking the fruit they bared. Hours we would spend there, at the end of that street in that creepy quarry with the big white cross in the middle. Was that a burial place? Was it someone or something that had chosen that as its resting place or was it just a cross to remind us that we were not as alone and secure as we felt there in that peaceful place.

The night was dark and chilling. Wrapped in country blackness where the only light we had was the moon and the stars. Magically terrifying, staying cozy by the fire was the better option. We tried not to picture that quarry with the cross and what the night would bring to it. We stayed inside with the fire and the family. When I think of him I remember that sweet and acrid wafting air that surrounded and clung to him like a soul to a body. That rainbow dotted candy jar filled with peppermints. He was tall and handsome, strong though his years had made him move slower. He would sit in that green chair with the wooly cushions that looked scratchy to the touch, in front of that massive fire place he built that cottage around. He was quiet and kind and it is his voice that I cannot recall. She was the voice, but he was the decider for the most part.

He would walk slow out to that green structure he built, and into his wood shop just beside the stacks of wood against the back wall of the empty garage. The smell of the fresh cut wood encircled me like a hug. Shavings of projects gone by littered the floor and added to the warmth and smell of creation. Tools hung properly and neatly along the walls. Benches filled with instruments and more wood shavings. The energy of that place was palpable and it made us want to build, with no reason or forethought. It just made you feel like you could do anything, and the idea that he did this with his bare hands made him more of a mystical creature than he was to begin with. His hands had held countless stones and logs but were tender when they encircled you. Strong and resilient, he was the kind of man that the world was short on and could use more of. I miss him now. His picture shows his steady smile and gentle eyes. I wish I could remember his voice. I wish I could ask him about the projects he was creating. I wish I could lay in that hammock again and listen to the birds chirp for hours while time stands still. Old green cottage in the hills, built by my Grandfather with his own hands. Still out there in the ether, alive in my memories for all time.