Thursday, December 29, 2011

auld lang sang: a year's new!

                      Note from my landlord. Note for life.

The year is behind us and it's time to reflect. Funny that even our ridiculously fast-paced city has a built in pause button. Take a moment, just one, and think about where you are.

You have lived another year. Gravity has had its way with your, ahem, appendages for yet another 12 months. And in these past 360 some odd days, you've probably done at least five things you promised yourself you had left behind in 2010 with the Olympics.

I mark life by the moments. At this moment (birthday, Christmas, end of a season) last year I was __________. And today I am here.

And this closing week of 2011, what causes me to pause is my beautifully untouched leather-bound agenda. What glorious terrifically scary unknown is ahead? Will I fill these pages with people and projecty goodness or will the margins be filled with Dog the Bounty Hunter (thanks free cable!) Will I grow and grow up. Become something new. Do something big. I hope like heck I do.

So here I begin my first 2012 challenge to myself. A weekly blog entry. Because writing is something I love and sharing is something this breath and these fingers were made for.

Call it a New Years resolution, call it Kim's Coincidentally-Timed Challenge 'O Fun. What do you want to be looking back on next December 29? What grace, joy, determination and justice can you build, spread and live in the almost-here 2012?

Here's to finding out! (Clink)

Sunday, October 16, 2011

fool ~ written april 2010

I have long played
the fool who, loving
only in jest,
delighted the raucous

outside of such jest
my tomfoolery
is met with disbelieving  
and fingers that

but for you
the foolish seemed
for you I cart-wheeled

in your absence
I return 
once more the biggest 
of fools
fingers point with derision
no longer

justified for mere
this heart’s earnest
is now a

but how can I disavow
such foolishness, for
only when I
was most fool
did I happen upon

Monday, October 10, 2011

move on

When things are hard, either for ourselves or the world around us, we can be found asking the question “How does one move on?”  The question is rarely, do you have to move on, or what’s the point in moving on? The assumption is clear, this is what comes next. Move on.

Perhaps this “moving on” is merely symptomatic of a linear perception of time or some version of personal progress.  A notion that the next thing will be better, that it is worth moving on towards. That we carry the lessons of the past, the things we move on from, into the moments ahead. That next time we will be wiser, smarter, kinder, better. That personal progress and some greater end result will make it all worthwhile. And without ever considering that an alternative exists, we move on.

But there are those dots on the horizon, people who dared to question the necessity and inevitability of moving on. It’s as if they came to a moment, or perhaps it was a series of moments, and the mirage of a better future was gone. Their past had shown them moment by moment, that nothing better, kinder, smarter or wiser was coming down the line. And without that vision ahead, they just let go; their hope in a future evaporated, and they lay themselves down.

People give up on moving on in different ways, but each looks a lot like death. Because the moving on, the not laying down on the path, breathing in dust and calling it a day, well that’s called living. And I am beginning to think we do not really want to become wiser, smarter, kinder, better; we want to find something easier. Because life is always hard, and easy always shimmers just out of reach.

It’s true that I have checked out the path, found some nice places to lie down, but I never actually stop. I never even want to, except for that one slippery moment. So perhaps I am one of the lucky ones. An unseen, unexplainable hand has determined who will move on and who will get stuck. I have been chosen to move on. But such a seemingly arbitrary decision makes me want to climb the tallest thing around, be it cactus or camel’s back, and scream into unseen. “What is the freakin’ plan here? What is the point if only some people move on? And why do you get to decide?”

Eventually I will climb back down, heart-weary and more than a little burnt. And I will know nothing more than I did before my tantrum. So I will go home, apply some aloe vera and sleep it off. And in the morning, when I get back to the path, I will move on. To the next moment, be it shitty or glorious, because somehow, for me, that’s not what really matters.  It’s my response, an action, faith. In something wiser, smarter, kinder. Better.

Step 1: Take one step.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

question: to create or to consume

“All children are born artists, the problem is to remain an artist as we grow up” ~Pablo Picasso

my consumption. feels. alone.
empty time filling i
ingest world newsfeed updates.
morning. night. i
the created asking
show me art made without intent.
a thread pulls tight.
your name and renown.
that stitch tucked way back
o created one 

Friday, September 16, 2011

a few of my favourite things

Joanna Newsom ~ Ys

the first chill of early fall

kitties that snore

the birth of  a new confidence

new friends

not having to scrape the corners of my mind or world to find art to experience, to do


humaness ~ written November 30, 2008

When it happened,
ended there was
darkness, your light
taken from this place

Before then, I had held
a radiance within
but now in this black
I am not even a flicker

And so (in secret)
you sent to me
your light
it touched my face

Caught in my ear:
“Those who mourn are lifted to safety
    The poor have hope, injustice shuts its mouth
        What did you expect, only good and no trouble
            Your God is no further than the closing of your heart”

So with heart in open
palm waiting, I sit
a mere creature with glints
of heaven inside

nothing ventured ~ written April 9, 2009

If you were less
to me
I would take you in,
lay it all bare
and hold tight

But as it is
I keep a reserve
revealing only fragments.
Any more
and I will not get all of me back

Besides, this sweetness
when eyes meet
and the sharpness
in turning away
do seem risk enough

And yet, while tucked away,
both brutal and lovely parts
are each only half
what they could be
if you were less to me,
or if I were more

new skin ~ written September 20, 2010

The dream transforms
but I will awake
in new skin, taught and shiny
watch the tears just run off

I will know I can have you
but I will pass
and be left
surface to core
softly impermeable

I will not know
that this softness when I dream
misses you
(though it does)
I will awake in new skin
let the dreams just run off

careless ~ written January 14, 2011

 A beaded purse
tattered from
the shattered, appears
on snowy path
and you ask how
 it came to be
The little
purse, worn
from keeping
such things
in your palm, revealing
shiny, hard
a thousand
You walk a while, then
purse in warm palm
slips through
fingers so entrusted
looses soul-splinters

suitcase ~ written February 21, 2011

I packed up
all you left
A suitcase and
the stuff that made
it full
        It’s by the door
It seems
a little cold
bare, but you’ll
get used to that
        I certainly did
In losing everything
you left, I find
that you never
really filled

what do i know ~ written March 20, 2011

The funny thing about life and knowing is that you can only know what you know. You may be told things are not the way you see them, but you only know what you have actually lived.

And call me cynical, call me distrusting, call me afraid, unable to make a commitment, but if any of these things are me it’s because of where I’ve been.

This is what I know. I know that people leave. Sometimes they die and sometimes they choose to leave; sometimes they choose to die. The point is, they leave and you are still here, left with fragments: emotion, memory and the stuff that makes a life. The stuff people call baggage.

And this is what you have and what you know and no one can tell you that this isn’t the way things are. You know differently.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you,” declares the Lord, “and will bring you back from captivity.” ~ Jeremiah 29:11-13

Oh, please, bring me back.

we grew up in water ~ written July 24, 2011

We grew up in water. Like crayfish, scratchy-clawing our way over and around rocks, what we did and why we did it as elusive as it was intuitive. Beat by the summer sun, we dunked under water to soak, sink, rejuvenate.
As evening fell, we would shiver-shrug our way up the beach, trailing sticks, riverbed pebbles dropping from wrinkly palms, in search of someone to scoop us up in itchy blankets and then, thrown in the back of the station wagon, we’d push-crawl over each other in a desperate attempt for supremacy.
And space.
Finally curling and flopping in whispery, algae-damp piles of tired on the seats, the floors.
We headed home.

Today, I wrote just to get these images and stories out. I wrote about two of my favourite things, water and sun, and then I had a deja vu moment...had I written this before? As it turns out, I had. Well, almost.
Fall 2003
I remember the grit between my toes, in my ears
on my hot dog
and the sun’s touch on my freckled cheeks
as you showed me where to look
for sand dollars

I remember the taste of salt
water on my tongue
the way it stung my eyes and how I loved
it regardless
the way I loved you

There was the day that we
with our small, grubby hands
worked for hours sculpting
a masterpiece that in one crashing moment
dissolved into the sea

I remember the allure of the froth-blue waves
as they dragged us deep
into their midst
leaving us gasping, our laughter turning
to salty hiccups

I remember the day that you left
how everyone brought mom casseroles
and how I was so mad
knowing you had gone
without me

Today the feel of my sun-toasted legs
reminds me
of the glimmering heat of past summers together
just two kids splashing about
eating purple snow-cones

Today I place a sand dollar in my palm
surprised how small it now seems
and I trace my finger along the star
soaking up summer
for the both of us

dreams that lie ~ written summer 2011

Never believe
dreams are
more than what
they are
(I open eye
and it’s you)

                              What do I know

Maybe you
means more
than others
mean anything
(The question
                                Why you

The ceiling
it hasn’t a clue

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

saw felt heard was

To speak into space
and be heard
is all I ask
But I fear not dare
so the words
falter and lay silent
dead dropped
as I crunch them in my
before they be
Before I say
that we
must speak
be heard
long for an us
that is us
when we
moved on
forget deny
I was here I
saw felt heard was

new places, new thoughts

The best thing about starting again is that everything is fresh. The hardest thing is that everything is an unknown. I mean at first you don't even know where your tooth brush is. Then you find it but the paste is nowhere to be found. The chaos of boxes is not a symbol of the chaos in your brain, but is actually there, physically clouding your thoughts, movements, ambitions.

And so I begin. Or did. The learning, the sorting, the giving up of unnecessary life clutter. Now what to do. Who to be. New start. You can do anything, be anyone. Who and what will that be?

Am I
Stubborn and thrifty-A Scott through and through.
Seeking truth and meaning-A soul not yet full.
I am.
Will I
Sing, write, breathe-A voice discovering breath.
Question with wonder-An intellect with places to go.
I will

It is only new for now. Blink. New no more. So I will throw myself all in-not wanting to leave a toe or even knee-cap behind. Forward.