With dark curtains half opened, Summer light pierced single-pane windows and woodstove dust floated upwards without purpose. Good days started with music and coffee, and dances in sunbeams before breakfast. I remember the teal-green walls and the aged pine floors. A hundred framed pictures of memorialized contentment. I remember cracked linoleum, and shag carpet that showed us what forty years smelled like. I remember leaky pipes and damp windows, drafty doors, and chipped paint. I remember Winter hibernation, Saturday’s cats, and Sundays inseparable. Smiles not painted on anger and gazes that lasted through Spring.
An old house, reborn.
Sometimes, life has a funny way of stomping on you when you’re down. One day you might find that you’ve lost your job, you live in a dump — a real worm farm. And for some strange reason, maybe you’re stuck with this low-down feeling like someone just ripped your parakeet’s head off. Mind you, The people you surround yourself with are no better. Unkempt, jobless idiots on the fast track to nowhere. No offence, but man, you are one pathetic loser. This can’t be all there is to life.
Then one day, everything changes. Who knows, maybe you’re graced…
These were the words the critic McCall wrote upon the death of famed Irish writer, Brendan Behan, at age forty-one.
A boisterous, rotund-faced drunkard with a sly, toothless grin. He was born with the eloquence of Blarney and the curse of over-consumption.
“When I came back to Dublin, I was court-martialed in my absence and sentenced to death in my absence, so I said they could shoot me in my absence.”
“I respect kindness in human beings first of all, and kindness to animals. I don’t respect the law.”
Brendan Francis Aidan Behan lived a short but tumultuous life. He…
Daylight weakens and black rain falls with no end. A deluge of dampened spirits. Droplets dance and sing on tin rooftops for days. A true Irish wake. Winter’s celebration of dead seasons passed.
Wood smoke replaces westerly breezes and the Sun doesn’t visit anymore. Winds blow strong, but not quite strong enough to carry me with them.
A deathly silence roars through the river canyon behind my house. Evergreen trees weep with heavy nourishment. Frozen clouds choke, and white walls slip from mountain tops as they covertly creep closer while I sleep. I feel trapped.
Motivation is swept away each…
“I tell myself I use art to promote dissent, but maybe I am just using dissent to promote my art. I plead not guilty to selling out. But I plead it from a bigger house than I used to live in.” — Banksy
Is it possible to sell your art without selling your artistic integrity?
Throughout my adult life, I’ve worked a handful of jobs. Most in the Forest Industry. All as a means to get by. I gravitate towards jobs that are physically demanding. Sitting in an office is a slow, painful death for me. I’d rather be running…
“Please. No more.”
I’ve just watched myself die twice in a matter of minutes. I decomposed like the time-lapse of a spawned-out salmon on a forgotten riverbank. Yet, my recognizable body is still intact. My insides have been cleansed and I can breathe, once more. But something tells me this isn’t over yet.
I stumble back to the ceremony hut, humbled and relieved, but consumed by uncontrollable body tremors. As I approach the doorway, I hear distant moans, bellowed cries, and the distinct retching and splatter of spit and vomit that has become all too familiar to me. My instinct…
“I’m gonna die in this fucking jungle.”
These were the last words to come from my mouth before throat-retching gurgles, asthmatic wheezes, and the regurgitation of a black, tarry liquid from the uncharted alcoves of my intestines.
Life brings you to odd places sometimes. The concept of free will seems almost impossible when you ponder the infinite number of variables the universe carries. Any slight deviation or divergence from a decision only compounds your possible outcomes.
An uneasy feeling, an apprehensive, “yes,” and I’ve booked an international flight instead of opting to go to a bachelor party. A month or…
Weighted fog drops blurred halos around yellow-tinted streetlights. The cold air slices lung tissue like uncoiled razor wire. Dark skies bring solitary silence. I feel alone in my pursuit to nowhere.
Winds howl, trees bend, and rain permeates every inch of my body. Feet blister like sizzling meat on an open flame. Shins swell and harden like filled sandbags. Through sweat and raindrops, I see clouded comfort and colourful images in warm living rooms. I question my purpose.
“Just a little further,” I tell myself. Despite having no destination.
I fight the pain before the devils in my skull convince…
How do you begin to write a letter that denotes the cessation of your existence in your bodily form? I’d like to say I don’t know, but that would be a lie. Well, maybe a half-lie. I’m not fully convinced that I was the author doing the writing.
Suicide is on that absolute dark list of topics that not many are willing to talk about, like abortion and war. It causes people to deflect or wave their hands in front of their face while quickly mumbling,
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
So, why would I discuss this subject…
You came into this world with screams and chaos. Typhoon winds and lightning. Years later, nothing has changed. The dysfunction you’ve witnessed has laid a foundation for your fears and deficiencies. Self-preservation is all you know. You tape your mouth shut and hide away in far off corners. You deny and refuse to acknowledge anything that resembles your childhood. You love the wrong people for the wrong reasons and reach for substances that numb. Anything to free you from the reality you never asked for.
The innocence of a child irresponsibly trampled and discarded by arguments and selfishness. Your youth…
Aspiring writer. Mental Health Advocate. Trying to navigate my own brain.