With The Lights Off.

One year ago, around this time – I was stooped over a toilet and on the inside of a seemingly endless remission. Remission from what is still to be determined. Last Halloween a friend and I were high and elated with our ironic gesture towards the seamless festivities. We drank wine and smoked. We watched Rocky Horror. We went out. I got too drunk and smacked my head on a light up box. This gesture would be my defining act of the year. With purpose, without meditation. I smacked my head upside the light – and still did not wake. Last year I wrote a short piece that shunned adult costuming; saying that it acted as a form of charade or anxious hiding to indulge macabre or personify another. This year I simply do not care. This year I say let your costume embody all that you are for the night, and for All Hallows Eve let your ugly be emphasized, or turned into a greater monster. This year I know I mustn’t hide or ignore the creature I’ve been well aware of, seizing me only nightly. On Halloween this year – we shall seize IT! My last year self might commend or slap my present self for turning around the notion of dressing up to escape our current, collective crisis – but if we can’t exist on a similar plane, then where? If the land of the dead is to inhibited by the “living” for one night a year, then lets play games – and fence over the fate of our world there. If the ugly, discoloured, blasphemous are laid bare once, as opposed to the constant flow of cover up, alternative facts, and curious stigmas – then let it be, let it live. Lets see what you look like with the lights off. – D



I’m rusty now as I sit alone in a wilderness cabin. The ideal writing retreat. My family is off on a venture. Two ambition-less dogs lay on either side of me. Black and white, ebony and ivory. Last year my family vacationed at this same cottage, whilst I was away. Alberta, thats where I was. Drinking in the constant sources of picturesque scenery and cheap wine. Meeting people and forgetting their names. Walking, pacing, wonderfully the same tracks everyday and remaining silent until the silence was too much; then another wine was had. My trip did not provide any resolution for my stir, but it widened the wound; In a gracious way.

A poem about waking up from a good dream.

So I had a dream about you last night
and, fuck
even now
as I write this
my throat is aching
urging for content
and recoiling from the bitter mirage
that bloomed
without mine willing it so
beneath a Christmas tree canopy
of lights and shadow play,
I sat
this is a dream world revised now,
So bare with me
I looked down and saw you there,
the face that haunts
and was so obviously you
olympic shock, and elation brimming
both of us conjoined
in the stare that lasted lifetimes,
our mutual disbelief
muffled the scene
as I scaled down the holiday exhibition,
you met me
held me, pressed me, hungry
so now the fantasy
of lust set alight
gnashes at the pertinent
the familiar
The change of framing
from that world to this
is viceral
and the dawn becomes
a scientist
an illusionist
and yet , there had been a kiss
then comfort
in knowing that things had changed
after the flood
and exact colours seized
so true to life
before my eyes opened
to a plane of black
and the liquid longing expelled
I am here
and I have awoken
to love lost.

Pre – leaving the house anxiety.

Is there reasoning behind the fact that I feel guilt going out tonight? In black and made up awareness; Super awareness. Icarus I embody as my pleasures perch atop the highest sun. I want to anticipate, without being obliterated. How fitting that we will watch a film tonight, about the infinite, finiteness, of humanity. (2001) The paradoxical concern that haunts my every move towards the next party, show, date, stand up point of conversational initiative. Am I doing this wrong? Am I promoting a self that is not true? Theres only one way to find out. The lye down at the end of the night will reveal all darkened corners. For now the wine is at a slight advantage.


(Have a Goodnight, everyone.)

A New Calendar

Why does my mood suddenly feel sporadic and light under half moons and drunked-ness? Where am I to go in a years time? How can I obtain a calendar that measures time in something other than years? I’ve grown tired of weeks turning into months. Solid and perpetual. Have we not yet seen that purgatory is built in measured days? Years? I’d rather come to evaluate life’s events from seasonal changes. The day the snow fell I fell as well, it was not until last weeks full moon that content returned. The feeling. I consider that this would not be applicable to work schedules, the duality is too great, too infinite. Perhaps that is what we need. Today I thought this thought under a half moon and damp daze. I thought it was time for a new calendar.


Considering Spaces We Left

What are these spaces that we decorate, exactly? Myself as a child was always compelled to adorn the walls with half – pictures and ripped magazine pages. Women with classic Ray Ban sun glasses, my families trip to Cuba. I’ve moved to Montreal and it’s the same beast, in a different costume. Now the work space and areas for decoration are separate, categorized. I tend to like sticking stuff to the walls mainly, but in synchronization. There should be balance at play. I wonder how the heavy images on my walls effected me throughout my teenage years; the over stimulation with angry consequence and conclusion. I specifically remember a conversation with my Mom where she entertained the idea with me, one that she had surely thought of before, that maybe the pictures very adding to my anxiety. I’m now sure that this is true, considering the fact that simply scrolling through a newsfeed gives me palpitations; but still I wonder. I wonder where this intrigue came from. I no doubt first saw it on some movie, a teenage girls room covered with pictures of friends and fairy lights. This was the beginning, after it spiralled out of control. I would rummage through Rolling Stones and glimpse signs of possible pleasures, possible other lives that could have been mine, or were yet to be. These “other lives” were pasted over top of family portraits and vacations, birthday parties. They were stand – still movie frames that I aspired to one day be apart of. The cigarette package, a tortured artist, full womanly lips. What were these artifacts of adornment to me? The beast now has been tamed, considerably. Adopting to a minimalist technique, I now have almost nothing on my walls. I ask, for nothing. Perhaps the indulgence of daily movies makes up for the lacking of beautiful women pasted here and there. I no longer need the reminder that beauty exists. This compartment, how contrary to the one I occupied a few years ago; A lifetime ago. Now I find myself to be a collector of other sorts. Music, books, art, plants and tea. Trinkets that can be buried. This is good, this is relief and a sign of maturing. What an interesting thing it is to consider the identity moving itself away from you’re teenage walls and into secret, compartments. Which person should I pull out today? I ask my Mother, what will I be?