<Creative/CONtrol

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.

Advertisements

A Song to Cry To

This is my fourth attempt at writing this line. I think thats because I strongly dislike starting the conversation. Even here, by myself, to a potentially non-existent audience. Which is a very good point as well right? If there is no audience then why write. I am sure some of you are asking why I write these at all. Maybe I bore you, or maybe my writing is boorish. Either way. For those of you actually reading this, thank you. Oh, and I probably like you. Maybe a lot, or maybe only a little. Part of that is because you’re choosing to read this instead of something else which would probably be more rewarding.

Something I like to do a lot is make statements. I also love asking questions. However if any of you were to ask me whether or not I enjoy either of those you’ll probably get a response similar to “No, I don’t like either of those. Why?”.  Which is an entirely perfect example of who I am. At least at this exact moment or at least who I pretend to me. Its kind of fucked really. (Sorry mom, bad language is bad.)

The truth is, while I claim to dislike people, conversation and small talk. I actually like those things. Its probably some deep seated fear of abandonment or failure that prevents me from reaching out or actually participating. I’m trying though, and learning and growing (you know, grown up stuff). This really does feel kind of syrupy and sweet though doesn’t it? As if I’m writing some tell-all in the hopes that any one of you will relate and think that I’m interesting. Unless that comment is just me self-deprecating in the hopes of also relating and hooking you in because of some twisted fascination you may have with people who talk too much about feelings.

Regardless. There was a point to me starting this thing, and even a point to the title. If you bare with me I’m sure we will make it that far.

Okay.

I guess I just wanted to paint a picture. It’s sometimes thought of that crying is a sign of a weakness or sadness or any other thing that is anything other than beautiful. I disagree with that. A lot, and for specific reasons. As I’m sure a lot of you know, its an incredible release of emotional build up and can be extraordinarily therapeutic. Also, Its healthy. Whether you’re genuinely sad or not, its sometimes just the thing you need. I don’t necessarily mean that you should garner a habit for it and stock up on kleenex. Just that maybe if for some reason you feel a pull in that direction maybe you follow it.

I myself fight it, instinctually. Sometimes it seeps through and other times its bottled.  Either way, something I appreciate as I grow older (cliché, I know) is when you find a song that just splits your heart open and eases out those tears. I’m sure every one can relate to that. Thanks for listening, or reading I suppose.

Life is exactly what you make it. The only things truly in your control are your actions. and your reactions.

Sorry if I come off as pretentious. I promise that in life I’m more deer in the headlights and less modern day wanna be philosopher.

 

Came Back Haunted

Alice woke up at the time she had grown accustomed to. It was 8:45 in the morning and the space in the bed beside her was empty, as she had grown accustomed to. It hadn’t always been like that, and wouldn’t much longer be that way. She rolled over in bed and stared at the calendar across from her. Today was the day he came home. It was marked in a black marker and she had memorized the date. Alice hopped out of bed quickly, with a grace and elegance that could only have been rehearsed carefully. Bounding into the ensuite washroom, she leaped into the shower, and began getting ready for the day.

Continue reading “Came Back Haunted”