Autumn evenings are wonderful.They have just a hint of magic. That subtle chill that creeps in. Just right with a slight breeze. A mist rolling in. Echoes of October’s mischief right around the bend. Walking these streets I want to pull the Neon from the tubes. Feel it dance along my fingertips. I want to feel the electric angels.
Even in this dead hour, the lights buzz on. The people slumber, but the city’s magic lives on. Traffic lights burn a never-ending rhythm, the flashing red hand a warning. Sodium vapour hums in its ever watchful gaze. Soldiers at the ready. I am the only living soul they see.
Bricks and signs and windows and doors and benches and symbols. Symbols everywhere. All things we pass by with such cursory attention in the day.
But now I just want to watch. To listen. To feel. I’m an observer in this world. But it all means something. There’s an odd sort of magic to it all. It’s all a semblance of life.
It’s funny what we gloss over when we hurry along. What other stories are hidden on these streets?


A picture I found on Tumblr….and it made me think…

I don’t know why, but this makes me think of people.
Somebody made this. Put effort into designing it, arranging every piece of wood and all the bits and pieces holding it together. Somebody painted it. Put little touches here and...


I don’t know why, but this makes me think of people.

Somebody made this. Somebody put effort into designing it, arranging every piece of wood and all the bits and pieces holding it together. Somebody painted it and put little touches here and there to show their love and zest in it, like the little handprint on the right. They bestowed it with character. With an identity. With beauty. Over time it has decayed. It has fallen apart in places. It’s still beautiful, just in a different way.

It doesn’t need to be how it always was, because it can still be beautiful in a different way. But if it isn’t taken care of, eventually it will all fall apart and crumble into that water. It will still be there, but lost under that placid surface.

We’re all people (I think…). And this makes me think about how people are. I don’t want you to crumble and fall apart. I want you to be beautiful. Not the beautiful you think you have to be. Not the beautiful that somebody else wants you to be. I want you to be the beautiful that only you can be. There’s only one person who can be that kind of beautiful. You.

So take care of yourself. Find people who will help take care of you. And help you take care of you. Because I don’t want you to be utterly shattered and buried underneath the placid surface of a lake. Buried where nobody will see you. Forgotten.

Be beautiful. That means take care of yourself. You’re worth it. If people don’t help you, forget them. Nobody has time to be destroyed. We only get to do this once. (Unless you are a cat, then I apologize, and you can get destroyed eight times before you really need to be concerned.)

But in all seriousness. I admire your beauty. I don’t even necessarily know you. I don’t need to. Appreciate that beauty. Don’t let yourself crumble away.

Take care of you. You are beautiful.

I mean it.

While the City Sleeps

An old poem I found that I enjoyed.



Outside and alone at 2am.
It was then I felt like a shade.
At that moment there was only me.
I had no friends then.
No family.
Just me and a sea of street lights and empty roads.
Darkened windows as the city slept.
Slept like I couldn’t.
Slept like I wouldn’t.

I could dance in the orange glow.
I could bask in the ever shifting green-yellow-red as the cars never came.
But I was just a phantom.

The kiss of drizzle was cool against my skin.
Yet I’d never felt more transient.
Ageless yet instantaneous.
Wandering. Watching. Waiting.
But for what?

At 3am the streets wouldn’t tell me.
The wind only whispered empty promises.
The trees rustled autumn longings
echoing across the empty yards.
And I echoed, too.
Empty just the same?

Yet I was full of the night. Full of its magic.
Its pregnant promises calling.
Full of whimsy and curiosity.
Shadows dancing.
Stories gathering.

How could I be so empty and full together?

At 4am, the sky gave up.
The rain tried to wash everything away,
but it couldn’t wipe me clean.
Did it think me a stain?
A blot on its beautiful brilliant canvas below?

I didn’t ask.
It didn’t tell.
We just watched one another.

At 5am, I broke.
My own rain couldn’t do any better.
Still empty. Still so full.
I found that place.
Doors and windows dark and closed.
I could peer at the lives inside.
I could wonder which I belonged to.
I could wait.

But it’s 6am.
I’m sick of waiting.
I don’t want to watch anymore.
I’m tired of this sickening feeling of being empty-full.

So I’ll light up those windows.
I’ll stir the lives inside.
I’ll find which ones are mine.
Next time.

Magic and Madness

Sometimes I wonder if writers ever get taken by the madness. The magic that they find, all trapped up within the world. In people, places, and things. In scents, smiles, and sin. In ideas, hope, fear, love, and anger. In the magic. Because that’s what it is. People laugh and say there’s no such thing. But I see it every day. I feel it. Sometimes, I can taste it and hear its whispers. Begging to be bled onto the page.

Then again, maybe I’m just taken by the madness.

Just words.

Words. Funny little things when you stop and think about them. So small, but so powerful. Nothing or everything. Momentous or inconsequential. The beauty of words I believe is their power. What power they have – if you consider it, words are the vessel that moves our very society. They can uplift a hurting soul. They can cut down scores of people and fill them with dread and despair. Or resuscitate them with a breath of hope. Words are how we communicate. And with that – they are one of our greatest tools. Greatest weapons, or greatest hopes. For good or ill, words hold vast power. My perspective anyway.

A Piece of My Heart Broke

A piece of my heart broke.

I love stories.  I love learning and information and knowledge.  But above all, I love stories.  I have always looked up to my Pa Pou (Greek for grandfather).  He has such character.  He is strong and idealistic and possesses such depth.  There is a depth there I can never hope to know.  He has such stories within him.  He has lived an incredible life full of hardships and happiness and travels and tribulations and wonder.

I’ve caught glimpses and morsels of the story of his life through my conversations with him.  I’ve wanted to be able to write his memoirs or even just to jot down all of his stories.  He has experienced so much where I have seen so very little of this complicated world.  I regret spending so little time with him.  Distance is a difficult barrier to battle.  A part of me wishes I could drop my life as it is to spend time with him.  To learn of his stories and scoop them up before it is too late.  To learn the depths of who he truly is.  He’s my hero.  He always has been.  My mother went to visit him.  She wanted to record some of the stories of his life.  He refused.

Several years ago I talked with him for several hours learning of his life.  It was for a school project, but I loved every minute of it.  I have never wanted to do a project so much in my life.  But even then I only got a taste, a sample of what this man has done and experienced.  When I talked to my mom about her visit, a part of me froze and whimpered, choking at the news.  He wouldn’t tell them.  Wouldn’t let these stories be recorded.  She told me I might have better luck if I went there myself.  That he might open up for me.  But the distance keeps us apart.  I’m not there.  And I find myself  buried in work and school and such.  My heart cries out to reach out and do this thing.  This project I have put off and put off seeking a better time to do it, when I would be less busy.  I’ve finally realized life will not slow down.  But I can.  Or…maybe speed up…my metaphors are getting soggy now.  As a weaver of tales I have always been fascinated by my Pa Pou, his tales and his story.  He is an extraordinary man.  I look up to him.  In some respects I would even venture to say I idolize him.  And as time passes and he grows older and I grow busier I fear I may never get the chance to spend the time I need to with him.  To connect with him, his stories, and my heritage.  Each time I feel a piece of me crying out, breaking, falling away.  And yet, I do nothing to change things.


I can’t go on doing this.  I need to find the time.

You Are Alive

Strange.  Writing about writing, yet I can’t help myself.

You are effervescent within me. I sit here with these thoughts writhing within me. Aching for release. Screaming for their chance to surface. I love the way you feel inside me. You are tales of love, despair, grief, anger, hatred, fear, hope, and more. I love the way you dance about the planes of my consciousness. I am afraid to let you out. I fear to break the seal and uncork the raw emotion and experiences that seem so real within me, for fear that they won’t be translated correctly. That their memories and imprints within me will be tainted.

Yet they must be tempered. Raw and unfettered, you have unbridled strength. Ataxic and tumultuous, you buck with power and vivid feeling. Yet you must be formed, coaxed into a more fitting shape. Hammered and heated and cooled, hissing as your fiery essence is kissed by the waters of refinement. Over and over, you must be carefully crafted. Yet you must be able to live. The life you hold within you is precious. Paramount to the artificing you undertake. If this spark of wondrous life is lost or maltreated, all is lost and the craftsmanship is for naught. Your meaning must live on.

This is what I love about you. This is why I love you. Because you are alive. You are not words on a page. You are not the excrement of a blinking cursor on the screen or simply the leaking fluid from the tip of that pen as it scrawls across the page. You are alive.
This is why you are so important to me. I fear to miscommunicate your intentions or your emotion. Your life. Yet if I do not weave you into this tapestry, who then will know of your story? You will be unable to reach out and touch those who may need you. Those who desire you. You cannot temper yourself. Though you threaten to burst with such power and energy and life…you are so dependent upon me. And so it is my responsibility – my duty – to take up this mantle. Artificer I must become and create a vessel for your life, your love. So that you may take flight and go where you must. Though I love the way you dance and flow within me, this is not where you belong. You do not belong to me. You belong to them. You are alive. And I cannot hold you back. I will not keep you strained and confined within me. You will soar, because you are alive.