Tag: writing

What Emerald Wants

The last six months have been a whirlwind (more on that later), and a lot of my time has been dedicated to my thesis research, presenting my thesis research, and beginning the writing or pre-writing phase. During this process, I have heard over and over again that my project is promising for a PhD, or that a certain university has its eyes on me and my project, or declarations of “when you do your PhD…” I have been asked to present in numerous classroom or public lecture settings. I have been asked to write a chapter based on my research for a book. I was asked to be part of a panel for a conference on Sacred Mountains.

From an outside perspective I have it all. I am succeeding in academia. I should be ecstatic and grasping at every opportunity that comes my way as a way to further my academic future and career.

But from an insider perspective? I am exhausted.

I don’t particularly like grad school. I think the research I am doing interests me (most of the time) and that I am going to have a good written thesis when it is done, but then I am done.

I’ve been going to counselling a lot recently. I completely burned out a few weekends ago. I spent four hours sobbing because I don’t have a dog. I went on anti-depressants. I’ve yelled at my girlfriend. I had a really bad panic attack on Friday.

I am overwhelmed. I am done being a student.

I expressed these thoughts to my counselor. I told her what everyone else wants me to do. So many people in my life right now are pushing me to do that PhD. If not immediately than within the next few years. I am being pushed to consider jobs in academia. I am told over and over again that I have a great project for a PhD.

That’s great. I know I could succeed in a PhD. I have no doubts about my ability to design and research an extension of my current project. I have no doubts that I would write and successfully defend a dissertation. But I do have doubts about my sanity. I would hate myself if I did a PhD right now. In doing that I would be putting everyone else’s wants before my own needs and my own wants.

“So what do you want?” This is the question my counselor asked me. At first I was tricky to answer what “I want”. It makes me feel selfish and I struggle with putting my wants over my shoulds. I don’t want a PhD but maybe I should do one.

So I started referring to myself in the third person. Because it’s much easier to know and express what Emerald wants. Emerald is someone else that I need to take care of. Emerald needs someone to speak up for her. I am both Emerald and the one making sure Emerald gets what she wants.

Yesterday I sat in a boring budget discussion as part of a conference. It had been a long day after a long night of delayed flights and no airport pick ups. I felt like I should have stayed and tired to power through the meeting even though my energy was low. I took a moment to ask what Emerald wanted. She wanted a hot chocolate, a small break, and food with more substance than the candy they were providing. I listened to Emerald. I got up and we went to a coffee shop around the corner from the hotel. We were happy.

I’ve been in a long phase of learning how to break from my student identity. How to be whole and happy without putting school first all the damn time. Emerald’s wants are just another step of that.

Here are some more of what Emerald wants:

  • Emerald wants to move back to a big city.
  • Emerald wants a place she can start making her home.
  • Emerald wants a dog.
  • Emerald wants to build a family.
  • Emerald wants a more permanent full-time job.
  • Emerald wants to dance again.
  • Emerald wants to write again.
  • Emerald wants to kickbox again.
  • Emerald wants to save money.
  • Emerald wants to get married.
  • Emerald wants a job where she can be creative.
  • Emerald wants to come back to this blog again.
  • Emerald wants to continue finding ways to be happy.

-Red Hot

If…

If I die young, strip me bare and wrap my legs in seaweed. Leave my hair down and tangled. If it’s not long enough, use seashells to cover my breasts. Or don’t. Throw me over the cliffs at sunset, or lay me on the ocean floor under the moonlight. Let the tide carry me out. Let my body disintegrate and become part of the sea. Tell the ocean I’m coming home. And let the people whisper of the girl who found beauty and magic in her fear of the water.

The Changing of the Guards

He was there for so long.

He stayed at the post past his time,

But it wasn’t admirable

It was fucking annoying.

 

He marched down the lane,

Towards the corner.

He never turned.

He never stayed gone.

 

He lurked and waited.

Sometimes silently, sulking away.

Or running rigorously with great roars.

Never allowing the new potential guards to take up the spot.

 

Years past, and he always came back

One way or another.

He ignored all the cues.

His leaves were never permanent.

 

The bells ring with a sense of urgency.

Get out. Get out. Get out.

The guards are changing.

Thank god.

 

I didn’t notice when he left

But I noticed her come in.

She didn’t spare him a glance.

She did what they couldn’t.

 

She walked past him and up to the post,

Turning towards my heart

And asking me if she could stay.

He didn’t get a say.

 

She stands at her post.

He hasn’t come back.

I won’t compare them because

They aren’t comparable.

 

She is strong.

She is dependable.

She is fierce.

She is here.

Home (In 4 Parts)

I

This is not home.

My chest feels tight and I stare at my mom.

This is not home.

Home doesn’t make me cry.

Home isn’t across the country.

Home doesn’t trap me between four concrete walls.

Home doesn’t remind me of a prison cell.

Home isn’t dirty with dirt of students’ past.

This is not home.

The walls are closing in and they’re leaving

They’re leaving

They’re leaving.

Home just walked away.

Home hugged me goodbye

Home told me I would be fine.

Home had to leave.

Home had to reunite with the house.

This is not home.

I’m crying while doing the dishes.

My new roommate will be here soon.

I count down the hours, not because she isn’t here, but because home is getting further away.

1 hour.

4 hours.

8 hours and we stopped at a hotel.

We love you.

This is not home.

 

II

Home.

The word is ripped from my mouth before I even know it’s coming.

Home.

But it’s not referring to the home I meant it to.

Home.

As in, I’m heading back to my crappy residence apartment.

Home.

Not as in, I’m heading to my family, comfort, and house.

Home.

The word tumbles out and along comes the guilt.

Home.

What would my mom think if she knew I called somewhere else

Home?

Why did I call somewhere else

Home?

I don’t want to.

Home.

That word was my last resistance to this new place – new

Home.

 

III

I’m back.

Back at home.

The real one – the OG.

The home where I’m comfortable and taken care of.

The home where my dog lays his heavy head in my lap and the other 4 animals make it too difficult to breathe through my nose.

I’m back.

And it’s a long visit this time.

A month back home over the holidays.

Home after a month of living through the November sadness on my own.

Home with my favourite people.

I’m back.

I don’t want to go back.

Back to the school and the stress and the question of whether or not this is what I should have done?

Back to feeling lonely and disconnected.

Back to therapy.

I’m back.

But it’s time to leave soon.

I can’t fall asleep and sneak into my mom’s room.

I whisper that I want to give up – that it’s too hard.

My flight gets cancelled.

I’m back.

 

IV

I can’t wait to go home.

Back home after classes for a short springtime visit.

Back to my dog and cat; my parents and the vault.

Back to the busy-ness of the city (and the air that hurts my skin).

I can’t wait to go home.

Back to my new apartment and planning for Hawaii.

Back to you and my friends.

Back to the red cliffs and dark blue sea.

Home is here and there.

Home is where I grew up and home is where I’m carving out my own life.

Home is Toronto day trips and home is exploring out East.

Home is the sense of urgency and home is the need to slow down.

Home is here and there.

I am split between my two homes.

The groundedness of the city and the freedom of the island.

The sight of flying above endless lights and flying above a calm sea.

How lucky am I to have two homes?

 

Walk off the Edge

The wind whips behind me, but no one is around. It’s so empty down here – different from the bustling nature of the summer and early fall.

I move further away from the city, leaving the noise behind; I step closer to the water, closing in on its calming lull.

There’s a wooden dock shooting straight out towards the sea.

Should I be here?

I step on the dock, waiting for someone to shout at me to get off. No one comes. I walk right out to the edge.

I could slip into the water.

Just lower myself off the edge and slip in between the pieces of ice. If it was warmer, I’d dip my feet in. If it was colder, I’d test a step on the ice. But it is neither, and both at the same time. Large chunks of ice, coated in their red dusting, are broken up among the rocks. Everything here is red. There’s a small space of unfrozen sea, and then a sheet of smooth ice.The wind sends the rain skating across the smooth ice.

I want to jump in.

I won’t.

 

I’m not sure how long I’ve sat here: listening to the wind, thinking of how sharp the ice must be, sitting in peace.

The water – it’s always been enticing. But here, in it’s half frozen state, I can see the danger too.

I find myself being at once a thalassomaniac and overcome with a wave of thalassophobia.

I want to immerse myself in the sea. I want to bask in all the peace and calm it offers. I want to capture this feeling of quiet that I feel at water’s edge and carry it in me. I want to feel the water on my skin; the waves a cool embrace.

I know the dangers too. The unknown that lurks below its surface. I could freeze in the water today; a numbing squeeze rather than a silky hug. Jagged pieces of ice that could impale me with one strong gust of wind.

I slowly stand up from my spot on the edge of the dock. One last look out at the water – one last moment of quiet before I turn towards the city and my anxieties come crashing back.

The biggest danger of all is the lure – the pull to the sea; its welcome. The whisper, “Join us. Just one more step.”

walkoffedge2walkoffedge1walkoffedge3

Thoughts

You’re not in my darkest thoughts, but you’re definitely in my dirtiest.

Sheets tangled around our legs,

Your whisper in my ear,

My tight grip in your hair,

The feel of your tongue on my —

 

You don’t consume me, just appear when I’m lonely.

When someone asks me about you,

When the holidays come and I want someone,

When the throwbacks remind me how close we were,

When the realization hits me that we could have been something if I had just —

 

I’m happy for you, until I’m not.

I was too quiet, then too casual, then too late,

She’s adorable and I’m really happy you two are together,

I think about you to torture my soul,

I wish I had taken the chance when —

 

No.

You’re not there all the time,

But you’re there enough.

I think you’re my new favourite what if.

I am a writer.

Fall in love with a writer.

You’ll be preserved for forever.

Every little thing you do – the things you don’t even think about – will be written down for everyone to read. How you duck your chin into your neck when you feel shy; how your laugh sounds like little bells chiming together; how the sunlight caught your eyelashes just right that one late Sunday morning.

A writer will take the little things and show the world – and you – your beauty.

Fall in love with a writer.

They hide behind their words, but once you speak the language, my god.

You’ll be introduced into a world of emotions deeper than you could ever imagine. You’ll see right into their core, their heart, their soul. Once you speak the language, nothing is hidden.

Fall in love with a writer.

And watch them cut themeselves open to bleed for you.

Words on a page are not just words on a page. These are the deepest secrets, truths, and thoughts of your writer. This is pure blood, raw emotion. It’s overwhelming and intimidating and oh so real.

Fall in love with a writer and you’ll never be the same again.

Don’t fall in love with a writer.

Everything is a fantasy.

Even their written down version of you. It is not you, but the you they wish you could be. You will never live up to their version; you will never follow their script.

Don’t fall in love with a writer.

They’re experts at manipulating words. You’ll find yourself tangled in webs of emotions that they made you feel just with a few well chosen words and points of emphasis. There are lies and exaggerations down every hall, and a laughing writer around every corner.

Don’t fall in love with a writer.

Especially if you don’t plan on staying.

You’ll be preserved forever. In between the pages of their book. Everyone will know it’s you because writers don’t forget, and writers like chaos.

Fall in love with a writer and you’ll never be the same again.

I am a writer.

I mince words. I am a fan of manipulation.

I tell lies.

I will make you feel things.

I will make you hate me and yourself.

I create your wildest fantasies and can tear them all down with a few lines.

I am a writer.

I will love you more than anyone else.

I will bleed.

I will hide my feelings in subtext. I will show everyone you’re beautiful.

I will notice the things no one else does and will treasure them for always.

I will make you love yourself and me.

I am a writer.

Fear me.

Love me.

Poem

I’ll be your poem,

If your tongue can be the pen.

Write your words across my chest

And down my neck.

Let me hear the rhymes play behind my ears

And the rhythm sway my hips.

Long lovely lines licked along my lips.

Slow sultry sentences stretched on my skin.

I’ll be your paper

Your audience

Your craft.

You be the poet

The speaker

The heart.

You’re moving gently down the page; pen

Pressed against paper so soft

Dip your pen in the ink.

Swirl it around

Find the spot.

The passion over takes you

Faster and faster.

The sounds of pen touching paper create the music you get lost in.

Almost there.

One more line.

All of this

Is mine.