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Oh please let me touch Every inch of this day I’m halfway through inking a sketch dreaming of speaking fluent French The future vibrates with all the poems I’ll never write and all the instruments I’ll never play I must break my curiosity into pieces small enough for my hands Let me hold something in my palm and not the ghostly weight of what’s left undone
For the last couple of days, I've been trying a piece of advice by super nerd and productivity expert Cal Newport to stop wasting hours staring slack-jawed at some stupid algorithm on my damn phone. The idea is pretty simple, as Cal writes on his blog When you get home after work, you put your phone on a table in your foyer near your front door. Then — and this is the important part — you leave it…
I wanted to test the media upload feature, and what better way to do that than with a cute photo of Matilda?
Look at the date of the last blog I wrote on here. June 19th. Oops. I got really excited about my BearBlog when I first built it over 6 months ago, but then life got busy and I didn't establish a sticky enough habit of writing in it. I went to Rome in July, August was full of events, September was Birthday Season, I was in Japan for all of October and in Canada visiting family for…
Why plant tomatoes, if they will one day freeze and die? Why build a home, if I'll only have to leave? Why gather books for the shelves, paint the walls, when those books and walls won't always be mine? Why work so hard, if it may come to nothing? Why wash the floors and the dishes, when they'll only get dirty again? Why love anyone, if they will one day find out how I really am? Why love myself?…
I asked ChatGPT to write a sonnet about breakfast cereal. Then, I gave myself 30 minutes to do the same. ------------------------------------------- This is ChatGPT's version: Upon the dawn, a bowl of simple grace, With golden flakes that greet the morning light, In silent kitchens, tranquil, I embrace The start of day with every crunchy bite. Each spoonful brings a symphony of cheer, As milk…
I see what you're saying. No, I mean, I literally SEE what you're saying. Well, not actually physically SEE it, but everything you say to me in a conversation is spelled out in mental subtitles in my mind's eye. I don't have to try very hard to do this, it just naturally happens. In fact, I can't turn it off. My brain has an odd little quirk called Tickertape Synesthesia. This phenomenon was first…
Nearly every morning, I record a "podcast" (aka. long meandering voice note) for a dear friend of mine. I'll be walking my dog before I start work, slowly rambling through the neighbourhood while babbling into my phone. I'll share whatever thoughts, stories and updates are on my mind, interspersed with interjections about the delicious scent of the bakery I'm walking past or the cute cat I just…
I am not my body. I am not my ideas. I am not my jokes. I am not my bookshelf. I am not my name. I am not my skin. I am not my schedule. I am not my CV. I am not my education. I am not my vocabulary. I am not my travels. I am not my bank account. I am not my childhood. I am not my hometown. I am not my nationality. I am not my fears. I am the notes scribbled by a stranger in the margins of a used…
Content Warning: This is a poem about anxiety and it includes frightening imagery and descriptions of intrusive thoughts. Reader discretion is advised. There’s an unemployed ghost in my brain who wants to write a horror flick In a mouldy nest of typewritten scripts she sits legs askew, dry fingers pressed to clacking keys setting the score, advancing the action, raising the stakes a disorienting…