I feel as though something every creative person struggles with from time to time is the concept of doing it for themselves or doing it for them. The “Them” I am referring to is the clients/employers/general population. It can be easy to get caught up in the idea of producing art or otherwise creating things for a paycheck. I mean isn’t that the dream? Being able to do what you love and being financially secure from it? At the same time though, can’t that be torturous if you wind up doing something thats only a fraction of the craft you love? Something thats diluted and watered down by the interjections of an institution of some kind? I myself do freelance writing and while I do enjoy aspects of it, I find that it takes away from the time I used to have to create in the way that I love to.

With that being said, I’m not complaining, only stating that in those situations you need to make sure you find a little bit of time to do what you truly love and balance your passion with the paycheck.

Heres my effort to do that exact thing.

I present to you Chapter one of “A Bastard’s Last Dance”.

The liquid that filled my mouth was thick and tasted of metal. My jaw was clenched tight as another fist swung into and connected with the right side of my chin. The blood I had been holding onto fled the vessel of my mouth with vigour as I fell. I landed on my left side supported by my hands and knees, the blood slowly dripping from my now open mouth. I had no words for the man standing behind me though he had plenty for me. I wasn’t altogether sure anymore why I was here on the ground. Not to say that I didn’t think I deserved to be but to say that I thought I had more fight in me. While assessing my beliefs in my combat abilities I felt the business end of a steel toe boot connect with the left side of my ribs. I am ashamed to say this is when I first cried out in pain. It wasn’t the two punches to the stomach or the two to the jaw. It wasn’t even collapsing on hands and knees in an abandoned warehouse where not one of my friends could find me. It was feeling the tip of that boot connect with my ribs and hearing the loud crack that went along with it. To clarify the audible I must confess that it wasn’t my ribs that cracked, though I imagine there are fractures. No, it was what I had placed in the inner pocket of my jacket that emitted the distressing sound that caused my outcry. The item to which I was affectionately attached had initially belonged to my father. It was his favourite watch that he had left me. The last object besides the DNA within me that connected us. I knew that the destruction of a material item such as a watch could never sever the bond or dissolve the memories I had of him. Though it was the principle of the item that I had wished to remain intact. As I rolled onto my back with the pain in my ribs pulsing through my torso I clutched my jacket where the now broken watch resided. It was neither the item or my possession of it that brought me to this low of a place both literally and metaphorically. It was something else entirely that can neither be truly possessed or otherwise owned. The man was pacing around me saying words that I both understood and didn’t agree with. He made claims of trespassing and theft though to which he referred could as I mentioned, be neither owned or possessed. As I lay in pain on the ground surrounded only by emptiness and the words of my villain, I managed to retrieve the pack of cigarettes i held in my right side pocket. He didn’t seem to care as I flipped open the lid and produced what was now a half sized cigarette presumably damaged in the struggle. I lit my small but equally as appreciated saving grace and took my first drag. I was overwhelmed with an awesome wave of calm as it soothed my aches. Intent on savouring my chemical bliss I let the smoke drift slowly through my lips as I noticed his ranting had stopped. Drawing my eyes back to his presence he stood now several feet away. All was as I’d left it save for the knife now clutched tightly in his grip.

“Well alright then”

I mumbled softly. My eyes floated back to the smoke still escaping into the world. I took another long drag, this time enjoying it more as my last. As he took another step towards me the plume of smoke I exhaled reminded me of a rose. A beautiful and elegant rose, like the very flower that got me into this mess. I closed my eyes to his advancing and basked in the memory. The warmth filled me as a pot of hot water and I floated away silently. Drifting away just me and my flower.


Worthy of Self

I’ve never claimed to know anything about anything else. I sometimes say things that I believe in and other times I say things that I think or otherwise have an opinion on. Those are sometimes wrong. Often times, I’m wrong, and I’m okay with that. I learn from it and I take it under serious consideration. I think I make a lot of mistakes, because well, I have to in order to evolve. I don’t think thats a bad thing, but what I do think is it can be exhausting. Lately I’ve felt overwhelmed. A little in a good way, and a little in a bad way. I can really feel my life taking me in a better direction than its ever been, and at the same time I feel emotionally nostalgic and reminded of everything that led me here.

I suppose moving forward is often accompanied by looking back. Just to be clear, I don’t mean looking back in any sense of regret or wishful thinking. I mean looking back in the way you look at a photo album, or read old letters. The kind of thing you do on a rainy day, or when you find out a friend is getting married. Specific example, but not literal. I guess I think it’s a good thing. To feel this way about my life moving forward and to be able to contrast it with my past. At least I think that’s what that means. As I said, I’m wrong sometimes.

With every new chapter and every new adventure though you’re reminded of the past ones, which is probably where I’m at. I think the difference between coming out of that reflection okay and succumbing to its depths is acceptance. Allowing yourself to feel those emotions and letting yourself absorb the weight of it, at least for a moment. I guess now is as good a time as any.

I can confidently say that where I am now is the happiest and proudest place I have been. With that being said, I miss some of the people I used to be good friends with. The ones who were there for me when things were difficult, or the ones who stood by my side when I felt alone. I don’t miss a few of the people I used to know, but they helped get me here. I miss some of the places I used to go to. I don’t miss my shitty former jobs.  I miss not feeling as though I need to be busy every second of every day. I don’t miss feeling directionless. Most of all, I miss my dad. I barely knew him, and I wont get a chance to fix that, but I feel okay now.

I am okay. I’m better than okay, and I’m not afraid of that anymore. To be alright, to survive, to be happy. Those things used to be so fucking terrifying. Like I did them, but I hated them, and thought I didn’t deserve them. Until I discovered a hidden truth. I do deserve them, so do you, and so does everyone. It can be hard to accept, but you have to.

Thanks for walking with me down this road.

Sorry for my language.

Closer To The Metal

I don’t often talk a lot to others about what it is I do or pursue. I like to keep things to myself and maybe one or two of my closest friends and loved ones. It’s a safety blanket, and I’ve seen too many of my friends make promises to succeed at something and then cringe and feel bad for themselves when they don’t achieve what they claimed they would.

I don’t know which is worse.

To never make a statement about your dreams, or over state them. I myself have a vast amount of things I’d like to accomplish in my life. There are many things I want to do and achieve, levels of success I dream of reaching. I’ve learned something lately though.

I had beers with a friend last night, someone who was vaguely aware of one of my artistic pursuits. As I began to open up a little more about what I truly wanted (maybe I owe a thank you to the Phillips blue buck I was sipping) it turned out we had similar goals and it was mentioned that we should work together. So maybe I’ve been close to the right idea but hadn’t perfected the execution.

I think I’m getting closer to something.

Share an idea, find likeminded individuals who dare to dream and create something. Anything. This world we live in, this age we’re apart of is the perfect time to start. Anything is possible. Take a blank page and make it beautiful.


I think there’s some sort of glitch. 

Not with the actual construct of education per se, but with the available opportunities for those in my generation who have pursued higher education. There’s obviously a lot of specific areas where we will always need people but what if one of those paths isn’t the one for you? 

Let’s say your an artist then, pick your form. Now do you go to school for that too then? Do you rack up an incredible debt for that education as well but for an even shorter time in school? 

What if you devoted all that time and money you would have spent on that school on your actual craft? 

I mean isn’t art subjective to opinion. As a writer I don’t spend nearly enough of my valuable time on my craft as I should, if I did who knows what is accomplish. Yet therein lies my question. Is education for art the right path, or is art the education? 

I think I need another coffee.