phunky_womyn

I wrote a journal to an Elder. I took my thoughts and spread them upon the page. I re-read these unconventional thoughts. I tried to change them. I tried to re-write them, but I knew that these thoughts were true. I knew that they harbored so much more than I was willing to let loose. These thoughts grabbed me. They ancored me to my spirit and then they spoke to me. They asked me to listen to them because they radiated such truth. I opened my eyes and saw what had happened. For the past two weeks I've had so many questions. Many of the questions have gone unanswered. I realized what had happened. I reawakened. As if it were a dream. And I as reflected on these happenings, I felt more abused then ever before but at the same time, the orca swimming inside of me leaped up as if to say that not all is lost. There is something in the pit of you that lives on and it will never leave. The orca inside was planted for a reason. It is as though they knew that this chapter in life was coming to an end. The problem with people is that we are but many books, trying to combind them into one. Every day feels like a new, fresh page and at the end of the day it will be incomplete and tomorrow a new page will open.

I am in love...
But it is with everything...
It is just not one person...
Everything...

I have a cold at the moment. My sinus is clogged with mysteries. And I keep on looking at the tattoo I will be getting.

In December I may be a little bit kinky... go where I have not gone before... the opportunity is there... but will I take it? Only time will tell.

:)
Happiness is never as far as we think it is.

Ashliegh

It's a cold morning. The rain gets to me. I know that I shouldn't let it penetrate my navy blue hoody, but I do. I walk between the buildings filled with bashful faces. Women are thinking about their waist size and if one of them looked at me and seen what I was feeling, they'd see a grown woman in tears. I haven't been able to stop crying for two days. I am at a lack of words for describing my I cry. I've been thinking of Vancouver Island lately. I even went and developed the last of my photographed memories. Nostalic and liking it.

I'm in harvest mode. The tranfer from season to season could be the reason I'm in this state. After all, I am governed by all of this beautiful somethingness. Perhaps these tears are longing for something... longing for the spirit of summer. In all truth, I could just be sick. A mild head cold.
Peppermint always seems to make everything better. It soothes my stomach, warms my heart and calms me down entirely. Tears no longer dream of streaming down my face.

I know that I put Rob through hell with my grumpiness. He torchers me just the same with his minor illnesses.

I am starting to get anxious about school. It's starting to pile up and I am working 4 days this week... FOUR DAYS. Thats about... twenty hours of work... ten extra hours. I really can't complain. I need the money... As much as I enjoy seeing those large figures in my bank account, I know that it is only a loan. It's invisible funds.

On the other hand... its funds to go vacationing with... tee hee...

I've been looking at going to a couple of places for Christmas. Perhaps fly to Paris for two days... just to see what needs to be seen. I wouldn't mind going to Tuscany. Falling in love with it all over again.

There is sooo much that I desire... but I do not need all of it. I need only a handful of it.
Perhaps I'll go woofing for christmas. :)
That would be an exciting break.
I'll come back in time for New Years...
Last year I was sick. I fell asleep on a sofa at 10pm.
We had great sex on that sofa. I can remember all of the times almost as if they were happening right now... rightttttt.... okay, next thought.

I should really be reading my Bible. haha
It sounds kind of funny, doesn't it? I am studying the bible so I can become well versed in it. I'd rather know more about something I think is utter bullshit. A good story book... but bullshit.

Okay, I better end this.
I have to get some reading down before I head to work.
All my love!!

It has been a full month since my last post. So much and yet so little has happened.

I went to Vancouver Island. I drank from the ocean. My spirit was pirated by Orca's and I hugged a tree that needed it.

I visited my parents. Kissed my dog a hundred times over and realized that Alberta has an abundance of hick-ness I'd rather live without. There's country... and then there's... well... COUNTRY!

School has begun.
I now work at a coffee shop, chatting it up with others who can't wait to get their hands on an americano.

Sailing... I went sailing yesterday. I loved every minute of it. Being on the water is like second nature to me; this is something I realized when I was sixteen years old. Something I should have put more belief in as I grew older.
Perhaps next summer I can become a certified sailor... a captain of my own ocean bound vessel.

And writing...
I wrote everyday... if not more... in my a journal that sums up my trip very nicely. I haven't wrote in that book since I retured. Its as if the book ended when the trip ended. Really, what was I thinking?
I need a new book to document my thoughts. Perhaps this journal will take the place of what needs to be said.

****

Out of all honesty, I didn't want to leave Tofino. In fact, I had a hard time parting ways with it. I stood on its shores for quite some time, asking myself why I would want to leave such a place... then I asked another important question: Why wouldn't I? Answers came and went and here I am, back in T-Bay.

The courses I am enrolled in are brilliant. I can not seem to get enough of them.

It's always an adjustment to incorperate two lives into one. If you don't know what I mean, here's some insight.
I left Thunder Bay a completely different person and when I arrived, I wasn't the same either. I've been completely altered. My passion and ideas are booming. I'm in a state where I want to do the craziest things in life... live for the experience.
Life is to short to sit around bitching about everyone else... trying to mould yourself into the person a man wants you to be. You have to find yourself and live through the things you enjoy. :)

I've run myself down already...
I've overwhelmed myself to the point that I need another vacation...
But breathing will do just fine.
Time to sit and relax and reflect.

I once wrote a letter to you. It was one I never sent. On my desk it sat for days, burned into weeks, and it was only a month later that I smelt my words mould through the envelope. I never knew why I did not mail it. Why I never brought it to your door. Wasted words, a work of art, never adored by your eyes. I would have read it out loud, pretending that you could hear the music my poetry makes. You’d comment on its Cohen-ness and poke at my admirable faults. Like a girl without a clue, I’d sit there, in the old rectangular sun porch, with windows opened half a crack, waiting for the wind carry your response on its back. If the wind dies down, I’d turn to the thick rustic clouds, and wait for the rains to paint your thoughts on the side walk.

I could have sat there for a while after the sun had been swallowed by the earth. What is it that I would have been thinking about?

I’d think about my life and the choices I have made… or more importantly, the one’s I never made in time. I’d look in the mirror and wonder if I looked like I felt or if my passion for life was embroidered on my sleeve. And if my light shown through does it matter if no one else can see it? Sometimes I forget that I exist. Caught up in the daily grind, I forget to stop and think about what I am feeling or how something affects me. And if I am forgetting such vital steps in life, how can I effectively express what it is I feel?

There are those who speak only to be heard. There are those who do not speak because they fear the judgment of others. Perhaps if I spoke only when necessary, only when my heart was truly content with what I had to say and I could back up such feelings regardless of what the ‘others’ are tempted to say, then perhaps my words would hold more meaning. A thought well thought out is well worth keeping.

We are but unfinished works of art prancing down the promenade, paint brush in hand. Constantly changing and altering ourselves to the moods manifesting inside of us. We are more than the judgments places upon us, as they are often too naïve to see what it is you experience first hand, every day of your beloved life.

I wrote this not knowing why or how, but it was drawn from the passages of life written on the pavement before me, as I gaze out the old, wooden window. I rise to look over the ledge, only to find my old, dear self shattered on the pavement. Time has not erased the moment I died.

There are many things I love about my life.
I thought I would take this moment out of my pocket, unfold it as if it were a piece of paper and stretch my thoughts over its crinkled surface with a soiled pen.

I love waking up to the sun beaming through the windows and birds on the window ledge, feasting on sun flower seeds and other nutritional delicacies.

In the middle of the night I love rolling over and touching Rob; a light stroke of my hand over his torso and I quiver with happiness. He’ll stretch just enough so I can squeeze in to him and cuddle the rest of the night away. Into dream land I sail.

First pee of the morning: the bathroom door cracks open and Pixi greets me. Between my legs she weaves her body and I ask her how her night has been. She talks to me and I talk back; a conversation for champions.

I love feeling organic. As if everything around me is pure, natural, and in a state the divine had intended it to be.

I love the man who cans food; pickles and carrots and onions. He does it with such zest that I am in constant awe with him.

I love the landlords who bring me a box of garden goodies, freshly picked herbs and vegetables … my senses soar.

I love looking at myself and seeing exactly how I feel. These feet are grounded with roots running wild. And these arms are stretched to embrace.

I love looking at my feet, dirt stained from walking around in the garden. Smelling the herbs as the release their scented vibrations into the wind.

I love being loved. Being kissed and hugged, and well… the rest is x-rated.

I love being on a farm and talking with other farmers about their produce.

I love looking at a finished project that was, at one time, a distant dream.

I love dreaming of my travels, where I’ll jaunt to next, what ocean I’m destined to see.

There is much more that I love, but what I love the most about today, is that I fell in love with me. Some will read that line and view it as being egotistical. Others will read it and completely understand. In order to love another you have to love yourself, be content with yourself, sink into yourself and experience your own spirit. That’s when you smile. You’re arms tingle and you body shivers due to the intensity of yourself. You’ve evolved from the seed planted in the pits of yourself and you’ve sprouted anew.

We are born into a world of lies, illusions, and deceptions. My mother built my childhood on a bed of illusion. For the longest time I believed that I was indeed the child of the gypsies who lived on the moon. These days, I’ve felt a stronger connection with that story than I have in previous years. When I think of the moon gypsies, I think of strong, beautiful, independent women, draped in gorgeous fabrics dancing barefoot in a field of wildflowers. Their long dark hair flows in the wind, mimicking the movement of their hands. Today’s rant is not about the gypsies, but it is about what we are told as children and how it impacts us.

Wishing upon shooting stars, dreaming the unthinkable and becoming ‘all that I can be’ was a motto my mother stood by. I could grow up to be a strong, independent woman, following the footsteps of my gypsy ancestors. There are more women than men in this world, and women are no longer suppressed like my human ancestors. I could be brilliant because anything I wanted could come true, if I worked hard enough for it. These days, children are being told the same thing. Little girls believe that they can be the head honcho of a law firm and that they can walk down their streets at night, fearless.
It was only a couple of hours ago that I realized that women are still oppressed. My mother had phoned, asking when I was going to be in Alberta. I told her that I hadn’t figured out my schedule yet. She had no idea that I was planning on going to BC before I stopped to visit. She wanted to plan out the schedule for me so she could book time off of work. I let her know of my plans and she flipped out. What was her reasoning? The world is a dangerous place for a woman like me and traveling alone is completely insane. I could get raped, mugged, or lost. I needed to travel with a man because a man would prevent all of that from happening.

That’s when it hit me: Ladies, we are still living under the man’s thumb. Most rapists, muggers, murders are men. I need to travel with a man in order to keep these male monsters away. Does that make sense to you? I was told I could do, go, and enjoy whatever it is I wanted to. I could suck out the marrow to life – as long as a male stood beside me… or maybe it’s in front of me, because he leads. Why do we tell our children to shoot for the stars when we won’t let them step outside their front door until they are accompanied by someone else?

This is how we lie to our daughters. We give them the energy to dream, to build their independence and strength, and then we hope they fall in love so they’ll never have to use it. They’ll be bound to that person for the rest of their lives, too busy building a life with someone else and forget about whom it is they truly are. When they have children they’ll do the same. Is this what we have trained ourselves to do? Give the child the ammunition but hope fear leads them the other way. It drives me nuts.

I know that my mother never meant any of this. That she probably didn’t realize how I would take the words she was saying. It is not her fault and I don’t hold anything against her. On the other hand, I feel as if it is a mass paranoia. Fear has locked its grip around our throats that we lock ourselves in our homes, afraid of discovering life and ultimately ourselves.
I’m not going to be a statistic or live by someone else’s rules. I will learn my lessons as they come; we live through experience. Can you hear that? I have taken one of many steps to sucking the marrow of life.

On the soiled couch I sit, where many have years before. A wooden comb in hand - running it through my long chocolate locks that are in need of conditioning. School begins in four weeks. Twenty five days until I venture to B.C. I sit here, not knowing what the clouds are saying about me, but I can hear them whispering.
The hippies return in the fall – they always do… and they’ll dance a slow, high rhythm to every song – even if it is hip hop, opera, or acoustic groves. They don’t quicken their pace; embracing the world their mind slips into.
I died last night and woke up anew. I looked in the mirror and saw myself threefold. Those who surround you strengthen you or weaken you – that is all there is to it. Holding my own, eyes fresh and skin clear – I walk away and into the wind. It kisses my face with its whispers and I trail on its lies. If I could open the door into my spirit, I’d let you see her shine. These eyes, they tell the story but most are too blind to recognize. I glowed when she came to visit me last week. She danced up to the counter, twirling like a butterfly, making its own waves. I threw my apron to the floor, I ran out of the building. Past people indulging in their parked cars, around plastic chairs I ran – to her I ran, and arms fled open eager to embrace. She said something I had longed to hear, something he rarely says… “Your eyes… those beautiful glowing eyes…” something I feel bur rarely hear these days… too much rests on the horizon that worshiping one another has been put on hold. Not that I mind – there are things I know, there are things I feel, and I live in these sensations.
I think I’ll hop into the bath, let my body soak and soak until it sweetly softens. Kale soup; perhaps that is what I’ll have for breakfast. Make some muffins from a recipe I wish I would have found only years ago.
No matter how much I stare to the stormy sky, I feel apart of it. I feels as if my spirit is frolicking amongst the grey faced clouds. And together we organize the next big thunderstorm, everyone including their neighbor will be conversing about.
There is a man who stands outside and stares every morning. At what he watches, I do not know. Perhaps he watches me, running around my house wrapped only in a white bed sheet, making coffee and preparing some tea. My hair flowing over my shoulders and on to my breasts hidden by the bed sheet.
Gardening is much like the social parts of our personality. We need to weed out the ones we have no use for. It does not mean they have no value or merit in our eyes, it simply means that they hinder our growth, steal our sun, drain us completely. There are a many weeds in my life right now, most of which will step off the face of the earth in 25 days. I get paid to tolerate these weeds. We are all flowers… but to some, a flower is a weed.

Long Days and Hard Nights

They thought the fog would clear up by now. The streets were vacant, aside from the odd dog in search of a bone he buried only a week ago. I remember her; the woman who walks in between plumes of fog. She would sing me songs as a child, hush me until I calmed. It was almost like she was sweetly surrendering herself to me. Her long, flowing auburn hair flirting with the wind and a white dress draped over he bones. Her wrinkles were kisses from the sun and her lips were filled with the morning’s dew. Memorized by her gentle grace, I left the window open, turned off all of the lights, and tucked myself into bed, listening to her sing.

**********************

My mind feels exhausted. These bags around my eyes make me less attractive and I reach for the pillow, place it beneath my head, and sail off into another world only to wake up refreshed. I can’t see the stars during the day. I wish I could watch them sparkle between the thin strands of stratus clouds, always reminding me of a palm print embedded into the sky. When the moon and the sun are in view at the same time, I smile faintly and laugh like a child amused by life’s simplicities.
Perhaps I’ll write you a letter. Tell you things my mind only knows about. I’d kiss your lips but that would be cheating and that is something I could do without. We could pretend that we were French, brushing our lips on one another’s cheek. A simple act made sinful, but we can both agree, the only vice for you worth having is ultimately me.
Time is sailing swiftly. Let’s drop our sails, turn off the motor and wade in the moment for a while. Imagine all that we’d experience if we only had the time. I wonder if Flounders will adore my flowery language like you do. I wonder if they’ll ask me write my thoughts on stone, so they can swim by, reading my ramblings… the true philosophers stone. Perhaps they’d bury this work of art. Sell it to the sharks. With twelve hours of day light, why do I feel like I’m always in the dark? Perhaps I’m hiding beneath my very own stone. A coward of sorts.

*****

Two days of play. Perhaps I’ll hitch my tent tomorrow, create a fake fire pit and roast marshmallows on humidity alone. There’s a fire ban on, rain has abandoned us. The earth is warming and the luxuries I enjoy are the root of the problem.

I was in grade four when I met my very first Lebanese person. She lived in the townhouses outside of my apartment building and attended my grade school. Chocolate hair and eyes to match: she was tall, thin and absolutly beautiful. I remember the day when she hollard to my eigth floor balcony, requesting that I meet her on her crumbling front porch. She was filled with so much excitement that she could hardly contain herself. Lebanon: she was finally going. Up until this point, the only memory of Lebanon she had rests in the ones her mother elegantly painted for her. In a box for safe keeping she pulled out currency after currency. She had been waiting for the day when she could walk through a market place, surrounded by people who looked exactly like her. She wanted to meet the people her mother conversed with on the telephone, she wanted to eat real Lebanese food that didn't come pre-packaged from A&P. She talked about moving back to the old country, putting grape leaves in her hair.
I wonder if she ever thought about war. Israel has imposed a sea and air blocade on the country. People are leaving their homes. Thus far 35 civilians have been killed in raids. I wonder, did she dream of the old country filled with war. I can picture her packing her navy green duffle bag, strapping it on to her back, pulling back her long milky hair and keeping it all together. She'd hold the hands of children who have lost their way. She'd help the elderly keep up with the nomadic Lebanese clan.

Here, I sit in the heart of Canada. I have not experienced war like they have. I have not experienced such merciless violence.

I wonder if she walks on the streets of Lebanon, with her mothers old currency in her back pocket and a picture of her family nestled in a pocket closest to her heart.

There is a website I seldom post my poems on.
A poet had responded with a poem and it delighted me to the point that I wish to share it with you.

He wrote:
The warrior archetype
fills/creates/informs
the figure at the keyboard

the blue van parked
the horse watered

My bow leans against
the kitchen table

(end)

So simple and yet so beautiful he writes.
And I, a writer of many words, tends to say absolutely nothing.

After falling asleep a number of times reading mr. Freud, I have decided to turn to another book. I couldn't get into it... bored stiff... so I went browsing for another novel to dip my thought stick into.

The lucky novel: A Blade of Grass by Lewis DeSoto.

Who is Lewis? He was born in South Africa but lives in Toronto and Normandy. He has been published in a number of literary journals. Of course there's more to him, but I haven't read the full "meet the author" section as of yet.

This selected quote spoke to me: "A Blade of Grass is written out of memory, not the facts of history but the emotions caused by history."

Until next time...

Actions are indeed louder than words. As a writer of sorts, I should be jumping on the verbal bandwagon, saying that words are the sword and are no contest to ones actions. After listening to Neil Young’s LIVING WITH WAR, than reading about a group of terrorists in Russia who killed over 100 children at a school some time back, I have begun to question peace and violence. It is easy to say, “Peace man! Peace and love!” Very easy to say and it is very comprehendible. But really, what is it doing, aside from giving some kind of blessing? The peace activist writes a letter or flutters around life spouting ‘peace’ ideas while the terrorist ransacks an entire community, killing hundreds of people. Words of peace have done nothing; it is action that gets the ball rolling. Problem being: those I have met who strive for peace only strive for the next joint or another sip of the blasphemous bottle. I think of those I went to high school with and those that I have met in university, peace is like a code word to make friends with people who have similar ideals who sit around, get high and do absolutely nothing. Intent. A tricky thing. We mean well and our message for peace is found in our flowery language but it’s like a soccer ball lying limp in the middle of a soccer field and everyone is sitting on the side lines, too concerned with them in order to do anything.

I discovered at a young age that you should live out what you believe. Little did I know, it’s one of the hardest values to live by. Hypocrisy runs through our veins. What else can you do. Sitting around and picking out the faults of others is not only wasteful but ridiculous. Perhaps this is just the evolution of my thought process on this subject, but those who do nothing also choose to do nothing, and that is an action. Whether or not the goal of peace is actually achieved or that people come together because of one persons determination… that is the ideal for me, and it may not be the ideal for them. Perhaps the role these people are meant to play is to toss out unconventional ideas but do absolutely nothing about the ideas they spew… perhaps their role is to inspire. I once became angered when I’d meet activists who weren’t active, or people who would call themselves things just to fit in… but that is there prerogative. People do what they think they need to do in order to feel like themselves, to feel welcomed in the eyes of others and so on.

Having never felt the need to impress, to fit in, to meet people who think like me… I can’t sympathize with those who have such inklings, but what I can do, is be respective of their needs. Most of this rant stems from thoughts about an ex. Boyfriend. Lazy as can be. Needed to have eyes upon him in ordered to feel as if he was needed. The pedestals that people are placed on, just to feel human and adored by other humans. Boggles the mind.

We were murdered in Gunflint at the Windigo lodge. Nestled in the changing woods we played sexual games in our rustic, semi-fantastic slanted wood cabin. Behind us stood a man with a boat and a beat up Chevy, dangling the key to our safe zone on the tip of his middle finger. We thought nothing of it until we woke up from our nightmares with wounds across our bosoms, gushing blood upon the freshly washed bed sheets. Our bodies were dragged down the spoiled cabin stairs, through the puddles filled with acid rain, into the back of the boat and hauled to the waters edge where we were dumped in the middle of superior never to be found again. What a night. The bruises on my back ache with madness and the wounds have begun to infect themselves. Murdered we were, in Gunflint, dead enough to live to tell it.
**************

We have returned from the Changing woods at last. Such history they harbour within their concentric rings. As much as the forest sang its beautiful songs of temptation I found myself weary of what darkness lie beneath its sunny scapes.

Grand Marais delighted me, as usual. I have fallen in love with the artisans that cluttered the street, bringing their art to the surface. I watched a dog walk a man and a child chase his 'rat', weaving in and out of art enthusists. I fell in love with the kind of culture I crave and am not satisfied with, living here in Thunder Bay. Where are my artists? My writers? My actors? Where is my Blake and Huxley? I can not find them anywhere as 'anywhere' can not be found.

Whole Foods Co-op. I felt as if I had walked into a world I once belonged to. I often feel that in a past life I was a maided of the herbs, a woman who knew how to cure any sickness by walking through the forest and extracting the medicinals needed. Perhaps that is why I am utterly fascinated by them now. A medicine woman, I must have been. A wise medicine woman... okay, lets be honest... a sarcastic, crazy, herbalist who lived in solitude and only contacted by those in dire need of my fruitful assistance.

I would eat at the Angry Trout Cafe a hundred times over if I could afford it. What beautiful food they have. I was fully satisfied with my 20$ meal. I was full from 11am to 8pm. I had no desire to eat. For 9 hours I was purely satisified.

JavaMoose Cafe. I prefer it in the off season when travelers do not squeeze their rumps into the limited number of seats. I remember writing there only a year ago, in April I recall. I was one my way back from Missouri ( a beautiful place) and we were there early. We sat there for three full hours watching Superior roll her body onto the shore as if she was trying to seduce the wind. I wrote such beauty that I can not even recall what it was I had written.

Sacred Sage. Finally, my search has ended. For so long I have been in search of white sage. Robert and I smudged ourselves this morning and I never felt more alive. I wanted to buy more and more and more of it... so I would never run out. But now that I know where to find it, how to make it, why be a glutoneous? I should not drain the bounty that brings me much pleasure. I shall share the bounty with those who wish to be delighted by it.

Planetary Designs.
A woman from BC lent us a mug... it was a french press mug I used quite frequently for tea. This mug traveled with me for many for many and for these months that man she had given it to had not seen or used it as he pleased. I have been looking for a mug to call my own, to enjoy, to savour, to use to the fullest. In a trading post where nothing is traded, just purchased, I found siting with a bunch of others. It immediately became mine. But with all things, it will decay and lost its flair. It is the nature of things. Much like the changing forest.

Here I am, home again. The sun had beat me down. I found myself wilting in the basement, tired and spoiled from the heat. The simple of joys of the day had exhausted me so I shall restore myself during the next couple of days.

From now on I will be on a reading spree. I had taken some time from reading (books that is) due to work and the ever terrorizing Milo. I will be giving a brief introduction to the book I have chosen to read for that week, my thoughts on it, and whether or not your faint hearts can handle the literature my eyes surrender to.

This weeks title: Sigmund Freud's 'The Future of an Illusion'.

Commentary to follow once the work has been consumed.