No different

Was that you on the subway this morning? I was standing on the platform and when the train rolled in I thought I saw you near the front. I boarded and began to walk up the train to see if it was you. I envisioned myself acting mischievously casual, sitting down beside you and saying, « Good morning, sir, » as though I see you all the time, as though it hasn’t been years upon years, too long. It would have been a nice moment!

I began to walk up the train, to see if it was you, but then saw an empty bank of three seats, a truly rare find on the morning commute. I sat down. I scrambled wit my telephone to send you a text before we went back underground and had no signal. « Are you on the subway? » I sent this in time. No response. Back underground, no signal. I picked up my book and read comfortably sprawled in my bank of three seats. 

The government is proposing policy that will infringe upon our privacy rights. The city is paving over the park to build another mall. The university is raising tuition. We sign an online petition and go on with our day, feeling good about having done our part. 
I lament that I do not feel aligned with the society into which I have been born. I don’t walk the length of a subway train to say hello to an old friend, gambling on the chance they it probably wasn’t him. 
The online petition failed, the years continue to accumulate, all is as it has been. 
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Self-Talk of a Potential Line Jumper

Of course, it doesn’t begin the way you choose. You’re born into some city, into some family, into some genetic pre-disposition. You accept the language, the lessons, the routines of your surroundings. You don’t accept it. It just is. It’s subconscious. And if you stay here, live this way, without taking a good look around, without seeing where you are and how things are done, without giving thought to what it all means, what’s important; if you live robotically, why, how could, the end be any different than a damn straight line? Straight as a razor’s edge to your jugular, dear. Understand? You ask: Can I choose, if not at least partly, the direction, ultimately how this life will end? The answer is yes. It takes realizing you have the choice, love. Do you realize you have a say? That you have one life and owe them nothing and there are other ways? Wake up, sleepy head. There is time left yet. 

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Leaky Faucet

I am the enemy, not him. This is always my conclusion. This is unfair. To me. This is too narrow. Now it is not the conclusion but only my first reflection. Then I am nicer, more objective, more fair. To me. To truthfulness.

I waited until I was resentful before I brought it up. This made it less than favourable to commit energy toward fixing. This I easily concede. I was, at least, in parts, at times, passive-aggressive, antagonistic, accusatory, negative, already gone. I could have lovingly stated what I needed to go forward. Together. With him. I didn’t. So I won’t know if it was the issue itself or my poor address of it that was the catalyst of our demise. I know that I can’t always be graceful and pleasant and fun to be around. I am a writer of many drafts before the heart-melting poem! I know that I have forgiven and stayed. I know that it hurts to read ‘so long’ through a mere note.

I heard the dripping tap. I made him listen and then he heard it, too. Perhaps more loudly and unforgivably than me. I rambled, as he said, about its noise and the slowly-filling basin and the water bill and the impending flood. Yes. That was me. Perhaps he inferred it was best to let the ship sink, then. That this was what I was saying. I didn’t say that. He did. I feel cheated out of my get-out-of-jail-free card, of old-fashioned notions of staying, trying, effort. Of enduring the ugly parts. Of empathy. Of forgiveness.

The giver of the writing assignment on love, conflict and joy jumped ship! The tap still drips. I hear it alone. So what is conflict, then? In this case, conflict is a cold and convenient good-bye.


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100 x 3 = x


What we say and what we do.
What we value.
Being genuinely happy to see
Eye contact.
The thought behind the gift,
whatever it was.
Feeling so lucky for all that you have,
and all you have not;
For all that he is, and all that he isn’t.
A feeling of peace just being in the
same room with him.
Seeing the beauty in his imperfections.
Your own, too.
It’s the person you turn to
when the sky has fallen.
When someone’s hug
can can save your day.
When home is not a house,
but between Those Two Arms.


Dear, Love,

Remember me? We’ve met before. A few times, actually. My parents were the first to introduce us. But then we met again (under much different circumstances!) back in highschool. Then I didn’t see you again for awhile, but our paths did cross a couple of times since then! Remember!? At least, I think that was you. It looked like you. Well anyway, I was wondering. It’s been awhile. And quite frankly, I really miss you! I’ll do whatever it takes! I just want to see you! You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.

Let me know.


Missing him feeling so proud on his arm his earnestness that makes me smile in the middle of the day his incredible vocabulary sexy as hell funny as hell his old-fashioned notion of caring he just keeps on being there. Next thing I know I am doing things I had sworn against vowed against tossed out the window when he came along and didn’t pass me by and by the time I noticed what was going on had already grown accustomed to his being there. Trying to define an enigma I know little if nothing about, trying to impress him.

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Christina’s Prayer

One time, it is a good story.
One hundred times, it is a good writer.


You don’t climb a mountain with your first step,
With your first step, you learn to walk.


The love of creation does NOT equal the rate of appreciation.
In fact, you must create at least one hundred things before you get one appreciation. Maybe.


Be patient, be prolific, believe in yourself.
Create one hundred things.

This can be your prayer!

Nobody is banging down your door, and you are NOT the best.
This does not mean they will not answer nor that you might be very, very, very good.


Say your name out loud, look at yourself in the mirror.
Note every detail you hate about yourself, then match each with a detail even you cannot argue is a virtue.


You are not alone and your cross is not the heaviest,
Your capacity for despair is a gift, you are strong in body and spirit.


It’s true, I remember, you have always been strangely aware of your existence,
The why and the what for and the what if and the whole big scary thing.

It’s okay.

You’re here and you have a big voice,
Don’t worry so much about your mother because your father is a good man.


Stop running, hiding, apologizing, second-guessing, crushing your beauty!
Your mother is a good woman, too, and it’s because you love her so much that you are so afraid.

No shame, no hate.

One time, you can be a girl, wonder why, who you can blame.
The hundredth time, you finally understand, you bear your unique and beautiful weight, you become a woman.


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Acme Corporation

How can he ask me to write about love and conflict seperately? And then finally about joy, also separately? Are these three enigmas not an inseparable trilogy, each volume making much less sense without the other? Inextricably intertwined giving depth and value to the other? Each a balance by which we can appreciate and survive their sum?

Not coincidentally, while out picking up a present for him, the assigner of the writing project on love, conflict and joy, I came across this little ditty that read: « Love me when I least deserve it, because it is then that I need it most. » Of course we are bombarded with all sorts of these little inspirational quotes and words of wisdom (some profound, some not so much) through mass and social media. But this one struck me.

We only hurt the ones we love because they are the only ones paying attention, who are invested. And because we don’t stop being stupid humans just because we have fallen in love or love or are being loved. It’s inevitable. Walking away will only lead you to another fallible human. But walking away is EASY. Being vulnerable is NOT.

He has a small habit of dropping two tonne bombs in the form of casual questions and innocently but actually expecting me to catch them gracefully like a feather; answer them.

What is love? Oh my. What a guy, what a guy.


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Micro Non-Fiction 02 : Mom

Homemade heart-shaped chocolate chip cookies on Valentine’s Day. Your amazing spaghetti and meatballs. How thrilled we were but how devastated you looked when dinner was crackers and honey. I remember ‘’I love you’’ in pen and the happy face stamp on the folded paper towel napkin in my school lunch every day. I remember Evie’s ‘’C’mon Ring Those Bells’’ and decorating the Christmas tree. I remember the Barbie clothes you made and the Teddy Bear earrings and your Stove Top cookies. ‘’Are you happy?’’ You would ask, worried. Oh, Mom! I remember these things, too.

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