The Job Hunt

Some months ago, I remember hearing about how many reporters had been suddenly laid off at the Ottawa Citizen and the Ottawa Sun. While I felt no small amount of sympathy towards these individuals--some of which I'd met in the media industry--my first thought was, "Crap...the industry is about to get flooded with competition."

I was nearing the end of my job contract at my current location at the time and I was already on the hunt for a new position. Moving wasn't exactly an option for me so knowing that there would be other journalists in my area looking for the same kind of work I wanted really lit up warning signs.

It's been a bit of a struggle ever since.  I haven't managed to secure a position since my contract ended other than a bit of freelance bits here and there but nothing reliable for a proper income.

I have plenty of experience in communications but even that is a competitive industry when you don't have more than four years under your belt. So you do what you can with the skills you have: blog, write, pitch where you can and just keep on looking.

I'm luckier than most and qualified for EI but I'm really looking forward to a salary again. To say I've had cabin fever for a few months isn't a joke.  I am totally ready to work but while I send out my resume to as many outlets as I can, I seldom get any calls and when I do, I'm told I interview well but the position has been filled.

Even my bilingualism doesn't seem to help right now.

The competition is disheartening but I'm far too much an optimist to throw in the towel. I love to write and I want it to show. I'll convince someone soon, I'm sure of it!

I hope...

Goodbye

It's hard enough to say farewell
There's no use saying more
Even if I broke the silence
You'd still head for the door

We both know what I want to say
I can see it in your eyes
You want to say it just as much
Instead we'll say goodbye

So this is goodbye
This was our final day
Even if I said I love you
You’d still just walk away

Everything else has all been said
There's nothing left to do
Even though you're the one for me
And I'm the one for you

You told me not to wait for you
I'm trying to move on
A day, a week, it all goes by
I wish you hadn't gone

But we had our goodbye
And we had our final day
Even if I'd said I loved you
You'd still have walked away

This poem was inspired by the storyline of two fictional characters, just for the record.

Salvation

So unexpected, snapping me back into place
When once I wandered, not quite finding my space
How did it come to this?

And yet here you are and I have to hold back
Struggling to cling onto the resolve that I lack
How did it come to this?

This blissful distraction without limitation
Drives me to indulge in the greatest temptation
I trust that you suffer an equal sense of frustration
Why does it feel as if I've found my salvation?

I find myself reining in the fiend within me
Burning from those urges I dread setting free
Why would I run away from this?

Bittersweet desire engulfs me in flame
I cry out at night, calling out your name
Why would I run away from this?

This blissful distraction without limitation
Drives me to indulge in the greatest temptation
I trust that you suffer an equal sense of frustration
Why does it feel as if I've found my salvation?

The Queen of Crazy

Well she walks around like she owns the place
Just because she's got a pretty face
She lacks for brains but has the beauty
She's convinced that she is quite the cutie
She's sometimes known as the Ossan Lady
But she's actually the Queen of Crazy

She loves to pick her lowborn lovers
From the 'Reach's overflowing gutters
She takes her pick from all the trash
And goes for big boys, brutes and brash
Her white knights are all dressed in rags
Her best friend's a lordling who always brags
She's sometimes known as the Ossan Lady
But she's actually the Queen of Crazy

She claims to have all sorts of ties
Ministerial connections made from lies
Half the time she's stoned to death
She smokes too much and has foul breath
But if you dare her to a game of wit
She'll lose the game then lose her shit

So watch out for Her Dark-skinned Majesty
Dressed in her golden finery
Attended by sterling stupidity
She's sometimes known as the Ossan Lady
All hail to the bitchy Queen of Crazy

Insomnia

Here it is I lie
Another sleepless night
I stare at everything
Walls, ceilings, shadows
Here's the hour when
My thoughts drift to you the most
Yet I'd prefer to dream

Here it is I lie
The dawn drawing nearer
The memory of your face
At its clearest
It's been two months
I wonder sometimes
(I can't help it)
If you miss me just as much

Here it is I lie
In my bed, which we've shared,
And the memories keep me company
In the place that became yours

Is it Saturday or Sunday?
The days are now a blur
But I feel the weight of time
As it passes and yet I stumble along
Too strong to lament
Too stubborn for sadness
They have no place here

Here it is I lie
With my memories of you
Sleepless, awake
And eager for when you get home

The Impossible Dream

There is no pleasure without the pain.
Those words run through my mind, again and again.
With three other words that I'm aching to say,
That end up unspoken at the end of the day.

The pain that I suffer makes me want to die,
To leave this cruel world and go touch the sky.
To leave behind what I know and embrace the unknown
Because they say that the future isn't written in stone.

My tears fall in silence in the darkest of night.
I try to hold back, though I have not the might.
I dream that a day will come to me soon
Where I'll be held in your arms 'neath the light of the moon.

Dreams are the essence of the lives that we want.
They torture and tease, encourage and taunt.
I would live there forever if it meant you were mine,
To hover in warmth until the end of all time.

Your touch is a whisper that brushes my mind.
Your kiss is a treasure that I'm struggling to find.
Your smile is a diamond that shines with the stars,
And I stand alone, forced to watch from afar.

I reach out to touch you, to stroke your long hair
Yet my fingers find nothing and brush against air.
And my heart cracks and bleeds and it echoes my scream,
To know that our meeting is the Impossible Dream.

(Old poem from November 2003. I would definitely have made a few changes to it if it was written today!)

Sweet Dreams

This is my nightmare.
Tried, tested and true.
I built it with the remnants
Of my memories of you.

This is my nightmare.
Hope you'll stay a while.
I've got loads of nasties
That won't make you smile.

This is my nightmare.
Founded from regret.
Of the times that we've lost.
Of the day that we met.

This is my nightmare.
Tried, tested and true.
I hope that you'll like it
Since I built it for you.

Sweet dreams...

(I actually wrote this in October 2004. I really like it so I'm putting it here!)

Set the World On Fire

I stepped through the smoke
Into a world forgotten
Expecting to see you there
I gasped and choked
Standing alone
Adrift in a sea of insanity

I'm drowning and lost
What can I possibly do
The sands of time
Have taken their toll
Quills and ink are my only refuge

You've left me alone
Choking on smoke
I'm drowning at sea
When you once carried me
Over the water
Your strength was my lifeboat
Now you'd leave me to die
And I refuse to understand why

It won't ever be the same
You've probably forgotten my name
When I remember the rhythm
Of your heart when you slept

Now as I sink to the bottom
Of my ocean of sorrow
I'll have to get through tomorrow
Somehow in some way

I need to rise from the ashes
Of the pyre you built for me
And fly up on the wings of flame
If I fly in too close
And set you on fire
Then you'll only have yourself to blame

(This is purely fictional from a character's point of view, not mine.)

The Ghost and the Shade

One summer night within the Reach
'Twas then their fate began
Some claim she was a woman once
Some say he was a man

Drawn tightly by ethereal strings
To each one they were bound
'Twas long ago their living forms
Were buried in the ground

Such sweetness in her deadened gaze
His shadowed form stood tall
She was the Ghost of love denied
He the Shade and though he tried
She would not remain at his side
She would not speak at all

Her silence echoed through his mind
She never spoke a word
A voice that once sang like the breeze
Forever now unheard

He asked her name at every night
The shadows were his home
She'd never say but come what may
He'd never be alone

Such sweetness in her deadened gaze
His shadowed form stood tall
She was the Ghost of love denied
He the Shade and though he tried
She would not remain at his side
She would not speak at all

-WORK IN PROGRESS-

It's Just A Dream

Why is it that when I sleep, in those moments when I dream, I am a completely different person? The lack of confidence, of self-worth, either rises or fades and I am another being, an individual unlike the person I am when I am awake.

I am not lonely, never lonely, in my dreams. You're there, so close and so real, like sunlight on my skin after a gloomy day of rain and cold. It's just a dream but you're with me. We do those things we can't do when I'm awake and there are no limits. A trip takes an instant but the memory of it is still full and rich like the real thing. We went to the museum the other night, admired the paintings of ancient masters, laughed and got lost, questioned the visuals and asked each other "What does it say to you?" while trying not to giggle over how stuffy we sounded.

While we thought it was ridiculous, we still shared how the paintings made us feel, what we saw, and learned more about each other.

A blink of an eye later, we were in the park. The lighting was surreal, gold and silver blended to illuminate the flowers, giving them an ethereal glow as if they were all haloed angels in a rainbow of colours.

Then we were kissing and the swelling emotion in my heart paled in comparison to the emotions of real life. The love of dreams has no boundaries and no deception. It is love in its purest form and you can fall in love every night with a different person...or so it was before I met you. Now it's all for you.

It's morning, we're lying side by side in your bed. "Mmmmemory foam," we keep saying to each other and laugh, how we laugh! This is more memory than dream but it's not real. There's more light than ever before, drifting in through the window. There are no dust motes in the air, just illumination, our laughter, our skin touching as we cuddle and I'm left to realize, in a part of my mind, that it's just a dream.

There's no time, no schedule.  There's just us; you and me, close like we can't be in life, closer than we were before. No limits and no boundaries.

Dreams are the lives we want most for ourselves and the instrument of hope.

The List

I was re-watching a favourite video of mine just now and it reminded me that I have yet to write a list of things I want to accomplish.

I've said so a few times but I'll reiterate it here: Neil Gaiman has been an idol of mine for quite a while. I've always wanted to be a writer and now, in most ways, I am that. I've been kicking myself lately because I'm supposed to write something every day and I had convinced myself that I'm not but, in truth, I write more often than I realized.

In most of the computer games I play, I've rolled characters on roleplay servers. This means that I plunge into the lore/storyline of that game by creating a character and playing its role accordingly. There's lots of improvisation involved as you often don't know what the other characters around you--controlled by other players--will be like.

I feel roleplay in MMORPGs  (massive multi-player online roleplaying games) has given me a lot of insight on how various characters work. I've used my imagination and attempted to create interesting characters while following and remaining true to the preset lore of the game.

So yes, I do feel like I write often.

As for a list, I thought about it for a long time and here's the things I want to do:

--publish 5 short stories
--write a fiction novel
--write a true crime novel
--write a movie script
--become a regular writer for a magazine

It's a short list and while I fully intend to keep looking for a job, I want to work on these things in the meantime.

Here goes...

Random Thoughts

It's not often that I get nosebleeds. Usually, it's in the middle of winter, when the air is dry and snapping with static.

At least mine are somewhat predictable. They only happen after I've blown my nose. I remember when I was young, my cousins stayed with us for Christmas. My little cousin had a nosebleed in the middle of the night. It surprised me that none of her blood ended up on the pillow.

I had a nosebleed tonight. It's been  very long time since I saw the bright crimson splash of it against the pale tissue. I stopped the flow by twisting my tissue and shoving it up my nostril. It helped.

Nosebleeds are strange but they give a good reminder on the bright fluid we hold within ourselves and the thing we have in common.

Our blood is precious. Spilled, it takes a life. Shared, it can save one.

It's strange what sort of thoughts a nosebleed will bring to mind...

Goodnight, Little Princess

Melody first saw the man by his silhouette in front of the window. He had nice hair. It reminded her a bit of an old Ken doll's hair, the one her mom had shown her once at a thrift store, but the man's hair was nicer and dark brown, like Easter chocolate.

He smiled nice, too. His eyes were sky-blue and filled with kindness. He sat up on the window seat and held his hands out to her, his smile warm and inviting. Melody stepped forward and took his hands. They were warm where hers were cold.

"Hello, Little Princess," he greeted her. It made her smile, which made him laugh.

"How did you get in here?" she asked.

"Magic," he whispered back, his eyes twinkling with merriment. "Are you ready to go?"

Melody looked over her shoulder, towards the hospital bed against the wall. Mommy and Daddy looked very sad but somehow she knew they would be okay. Her belly bump had her little brother in it, she saw now.

She saw herself in the bed, her flesh wasted away. Cancer was never kind, that's what she'd hear the doctors say when they thought she was resting. Melody looked to the man and smiled sadly but nodded her head.

He kissed her small fingers. His lips were warm too.

"Goodnight, Little Princess," she heard Daddy whisper behind her.

"It doesn't hurt anymore, does it?" the man asked, looking happy when she nodded. "Then let's go, Little Princess."

He glowed, bright as the sun, and then they were gone from the hospital and all there was, was joy.

Racing Thoughts

She ran across the grasslands, her feet carrying her across the land. The earth was just weakening,  the sun slowly spreading its heat across the plain. The ground felt cold beneath her bare feet, her toes digging into the dirt to sprint her forward as she picked up speed. She sped up as if to outrace her own thoughts, leaving them and their burdens behind.

She ran like the wind, feeling her body cut through air, feeling it trail like chilled fingers across her skin. She pulled it into her lungs, using it to keep herself going, her chest rising and falling. She gave thanks to the spirits that what they gave helped her to be alive.

She ran, blood pumping, her heart thumping against her ribs, the heat rising in her body from her race across the grasslands. The sun continued its ascent, warming the land and bringing lives out of their slumber with its heat, it's distant fire. This was also a gift of the spirits, this fire of life and light. Her skin glistened with dampness, her own body heat rising steadily.

She ran to the edge of her world, until the earth gave way to the sea, and she ran into its welcoming arms before plunging head-on into its embrace, feeling the water surround her and steal her breath. She surfaced in an explosion of spray, whipping her head back to clear her hair from her face, crying out in exultation as her muscles tensed from the change in their surrounding.

Cleansed and refreshed, she swam back to shore, walking back to camp, letting the sun warm her body and dry the water off her skin.

Goodbye

I feel the warmth of her love around me. She's hundreds of miles away but I feel so near to her. Every breath I take carries the faintest whiff of a memory. Her old house, always kept clean. The scent of the hot chocolate she would make for me when I visited after school. I've never been able to find the same flavour since my childhood.

Always, always, there's the memory of her linen closet. It's mentioned on those questionnaires that her grandchildren fill out asking what their favourite scent is. I still don't know what she used to do to make it smell so wonderful.

I feel comforted feeling her nearby, like she's taking care of me as we all brace ourselves to let her go. All that's missing is her famous soup, served in a bowl made of clear, brown glass. No one can resist it and I'd do anything to have some right now.

She's 97, this woman who means so much to so many people. She has the name of two saints and a heart as bright as a diamond but as gentle and loving as only a good mother can be.

Her voice once warbled as happily as a song bird though she watches more and speaks less these days but she's still our mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. We have such memories of her that her voice and her laugh still echo in our hearts.

She has loved so deeply that her husband's portrait remained by her bedside every single day since his loss. When I think of what a strong woman means to me, her strength and determination shine through. She raised nine children and I lack the words to express the kind of wondrous people my aunts, uncles and mother are.

And now she's fading, her light dimming slowly and softly like a star near its end. I am surrounded by love for her and from her, despite being far away. She is with us, almost visible when I close my eyes.

This is my way of saying goodbye.

Weather Memories

It happened again today. I stepped off the bus and crossed the street. I took a deep breath and the scent in the air, the wind in my face, brought the memory to mind.

December 23, 2012...

I'm in Norway, spending Christmas in Trondheim. The wind is blowing gently, cold but not too cold. I'm walking in the city centre, on my own for a great adventure of Christmas shopping where few people speak English. Christmas decorations are subtle and humble. It's overcast but it's a beautiful day.

I blink, the memory fades, I'm back in Ottawa. Like a special memory associated to a special scent, a moment of weather draws me back to a moment of my past, letting me relive that day from a few years past or a decade or almost my lifetime.

Happiness

Happiness is the warmth of a melted piece of chocolate on your tongue except all around you at the same time.

Happiness is coming home out of a cold day and wrapping yourself up in a comforter straight out of the dryer.

Happiness is pulling on a clean, long-sleeved shirt and being surrounded by the fresh scent of your favourite person (not soap).

Happiness is waking up thinking you have to get up soon but discovering you've only been asleep for a few hours.

Happiness is fresh berries you just picked yourself out in the summer sunshine.

Happiness is going home after having been away a long time.

Happiness is taking a walk on a bright autumn day when it's cold but the sun keeps you warm.

Happiness is seeing someone instantly smile when they see you.

Happiness is looking at your twin sister, knowing exactly what she's thinking and both of you laughing over it.

Happiness is scratching a dream off your to-do list.

Hoodies In the Rain

Damp cotton drenched in drops from the sky. It was all that kept her from being exposed to the wetness coming down in torrential torrents.

Drip, drip, drip.

Shoving her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie, she stood out in the rain, head bowed as though receiving a blessing. Her hoodie did nothing to keep her dry. Soggy socks would be stripped from her feet as soon as she got home.

Even her front pocket was wet. Her hands  didn't notice one single difference between being in the pocket or out of them aside for being cradled in a wet cotton pouch. A tiny difference, then.

The back of her neck felt hot and clammy. Her long hair kept the damp cotton away from her skin. It felt horrible, it felt strange, it was uncomfortable.

She blinked, then flinched and blinked again after getting a drop of water in her eye. Even her eyelashes were wet.  Good thing she wore her contacts that day.

It was enough for one day. Time to go home, back to dry clothes, comfort and soup.

Writing at work

The hills leading down to the coastline were the colour of wet tobacco, dark and rusty brown, peppered with grey-painted houses of the local residents. Slate-coloured clouds formed the backdrop to the scene, an old eucalyptus tree's sickle-shaped leaves dropping to the ground as the wind shoved against them.

And constantly, constantly, the shshing sound of the ocean against the shore greeted visitors to the beach, even before reaching the sight of the coast.

Winter in northern California is all about rain.

Spring is so green and thriving. Orange trees bloom, filling the air with the delicate and fragrant scents of their tiny white blossoms. Plum trees flower with pink-tinged petals that drift down like large snowflakes when the wind blows too hard. Fruits and vegetables thrive and the farmers' markets vendor their wares, buyers thrilled with all the pickings they get to choose from the harvest.

In the summer, the heat and sunshine transform the hills to golden, the grasses drying out and turning yellow as the sun warmed the land and beat down relentlessly for months. Plenty of folks think that's why California is the Golden State. But the Pacific Ocean is at its bluest blue, teasing swimmers to the waves, only to have them flee from the cold water.

Fall is brief. Leaves go from green to brown with barely a hint of yellow, orange or red, and promptly release their hold to drift down and cover the ground. The rakes come out and leaf-stuffed bags get dropped at the curb, waiting to be taken away by waste management trucks.

Then the rain returns and the cycle begins anew.