courage, and grace too.

the lyrics of your life can be struck by a single chord.  your heart a cadence of melancholic refrain.  the soundscape that is the song can capture your sentiment in a triad of moments – transmitting you back in time through the power of nostalgia.  such a melody lets you linger there in the space…

730 days sans moonshine.

july 24th has become an important day in my life.  one of my three darling sisters was born on this date.  seven years ago i explored – and continue to embrace – a vegan diet (with the exception of the odd butter tart and seasonal mini eggs of course). it was also on this day…

songs are like tattoos.

reckless daughter: a portrait of joni mitchell by david yaffe has been my late night literary lullaby for the past few weeks.  like many free-spirited millennials who cite “river” as their favourite christmas song, swoon over her chronicled and convoluted romance with leonard cohen, mimic her leather and lace ensemble, and embrace her folk lyrics as…

with you…under white linen sheets.

with you.  under white linen sheets. is where i want to be in bed.  no longer alone. where we lay awake full in love free of heartbreak. wrapped in sunlight where we can live out our dreams in each other’s arms while kissing beneath the stars and chasing moon beams. we’ll smile from the happiness…

the affects of altitude.

i have left my heart atop a summit approximately 5,280 feet elevated above the canadian okanagan .  it is there amidst the champagne powder and bluebird skies where diamond days are lived and adventure awaits.  it is there where familiar strangers meet again to converse in out-of-bounds proximity; where life is determined by how many turns you…

we …

we fall from grace. we save face. we resolve our faults. we discover unfound flaws. we heal even if we don’t feel. we fall while standing tall. we run despite never finding our stride. we cry in our lost efforts to try. we rise and shine in a gloomy dark. we smile through the pain….

manifested romance.

he is not a potential suitor but your attraction to him is spurred by irrational emotions.  it is neither lust or love — it is merely aching, perpetual loneliness.  the hangover of an empty bed.  sleep with yourself.  an affair with dignity before you can expect another to genuinely lay next to you. “being single,…

aunt gladys.

she’s a piece of nature that gladys.  she lures you in with her sassy cat trail, seduces you with her serene view of the world and then slices you down with her hairpin hills. her name is aunt gladys and she’ll send you and your comfort levels out of bounds. a beginner skier i don’t…

conversing with a cowpoke.

Patti Smith is my philosophical cowpoke.  She appears in my drifting dreams; dialogue with her occurs  while I sleep.  Much like the “mysterious cowpoke [who] chanced upon in a dream to determine the course of the rock poet’s memoir, M Train,” Patti Smith reminds me, much like her cowpoke does, that “it’s not easy writing…

my own conversation with warhol.

i like my alone time.  serene solitude.  quiet moments where i can manifest and ponder.  however, sometimes in my restful respite the odd lad or lass pops in to offer his or her companionship.  he’s an artist or she’s a muso.  he’s a pop culture icon or she’s a rock legend.  i seem to appreciate…