My leg and my face; a short history of positivity.

Two weeks and one day ago I was skipping happily down the hall like a blissful school girl. Just because. And I tore my calf muscle. Twelve days later, due to my awkward limp, I trip and fall, scoring myself an enormous shiner that I hope evolves into « tough and hot » but for now is « gruesome and scary. »

Someone told me that I should « be more careful. » I disagree. Falling was not a result of carelessness but rather to my calf injury. My calf injury was due to an expression of joy and a freak accident that might have to do with age. I refuse to stop expressing my joy and goddamnit I refuse to stop ageing.

If anyone dares to say that I have bad luck, like someone did when I got mugged in Paris two years ago, my head will explode. When you go out and grab life by the balls like I do (this is what Good Friend John says about me) then in the natural equilibrium of life, a few mishaps and downfalls MUST occur. Anything else would be a perfect life and we all know that it is absolutely allowed to hate people with those.

That’s all these things are, my bum leg, my battered face; life’s natural price for not locking yourself up in the safe haven of staying home and doing nothing. This isn’t bad luck. This is proof I am living. This is the yin to the yang of my summers in Paris and vacations in Cuba and fifty-one marathons and getaways to New York and all of the mini, daily adventures, too. It is the richness of my life that allows me to accurately view my leg and my face as the minor setbacks that they are.

My friend Colin said the best thing on Facebook when I, of course, posted these latest exciting events of my life. When he saw that I had gone into work on Sunday, despite my leg, despite my face, he wrote: “I have to respect how unstoppable you are, Christina. Mend well.” THAT is my kind of thinking.

Have a great day, all! I know I shall. :)

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80 to 84 of 100

80

How beautiful it is
To be loved by a madwoman
Leonard wrote
I must agree

These careful men
These proud, these cautious men
Choose dignity over risk
They bore me

So very polite, so little passion
So much pride
Flames simmer as I wait for them
To do what’s right

The madman chases relentlessly
You hate to love it
You admire, you encourage
Don’t you?

Admit it
Though the insanity suffocates
It’s a sweeter death for love, isn’t it?
Than eventual kindness.

81

Perhaps I should begin again
Elsewhere
Like there’s such a thing as
Brand new again
Some place where
The story is new
And you and the prologue
Don’t exist
But
The past isn’t heavy, dear
In fact it’s my pillow of feathers
I need it to sleep
So be soft
Let me rest
Because of course I know
You are reading this.

82

I also have hearts
I’m responsible for
The lack of rings or words
Changes nothing
Humans love
By instinct
And so
The details vary
But
Neither of us want to hurt anyone.

83

There’s a chant in my head
And a chain on my soul
And it’s killing me dead
With its hard heavy hold

A piercing cacophony
Her words crushed my heart
A lingering and lengthening
Litany that starts…

And this is the point where
I tried long to list
The names of the boulders
That cause me to limp

But I wrote and I rewrote
Crossed out and cursed
Tried to turn evil
Into song, into verse

But my anger is but poetic.

84

One hundred percent effective
One hundred percent of the time
One hundred compliments
One hundred lies

One hundred soldiers
One lonely, beautiful sunrise
Long shadows, no shadows
Long shadows

Goodbye.

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Micro-fiction 14: Cosmic Coffee

My espresso machine is psychic. When I am not at peace, it makes a gritty, sooty coffee. When I am good, at one with my world, it makes a beautiful, creamy café. It matters not if you believe me. It took awhile to finally admit it myself. But now there is no denying it. Like yesterday. After I left you. And even though it was so wonderful to see you again, my friend. We threw our innocence away, and I fear it will estrange you from me. What have we done, I wonder, as I sip my mug of mud.

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75 to 79 of 100

75

I absolutely adore alliteration.

76

Imagine
A winter’s afternoon
Wickedly, crisply cold
Sun unafraid shining
Through the window
To where we lay
Tangled and still
Eyes closed, wide awake
Savouring every silent second

Save our breathing

Save the moving of the second hand on the clock on the wall staring over us watching us marking each beautiful moment but the kind you find in an hourglass

Save for the soft dull buzz of the refrigerator

In a very small room
For a very short while

Heh
Tick
bzzzzzz

76

The truth of the matter is
I’m deathly afraid
And the low sense of self worth
For whatever reason it exists
Never goes away
It is simply kept at bay by
Really good coping mechanisms
So you’d never guess
And they’re always shocked
And it’s sad to say
But I’m really relieved
By fellow flaws
This inner dialogue
Doesn’t stop
Goes on and on and on
And I keep it to myself

How my confidence gets knocked so easily!
And the only way to cope by pretending I don’t care?
That it is not important to me when it is?

And when it’s not, I shine!
They fall at my feet
And when it is, I dull and stumble
And they wonder where the breezy, beautiful girl that they met went
And truthfully,

So do I.

77

A mother without a child
A wife without a man
Armed with a hopelessly hopeful heart
I stand

On dry, crumbling Earth
Crust and dust and wind at the edge of the falaise
And then again with the rain
Umbrella in hand without its vinyl skin

Sunburnt and drenched
Regard, blissful girl grasping!
Parched and soaked, 
Behold, wet, wistful wench!

78

Your hands on my hips
Your lips on my thighs
The gorgeous what ifs
The non-existent why’s 

It’s good that we fucked
Explored
Answered questions
Settled scores

From long before us
Deficits 
I create a thousand stories 
Of which only one exists

Fingertips and bandwidth
Soft lips and hands’ breadth 
That runaway train
No brakes, like this brain

Hallelujah the haggard halo
That vibrates with our laughter
And your soft cheek pressed to mine
Still so worth the awkward after

What we did is beautiful
And in the morning on our bed
There were no clothes laid out for us to wear
So like in dreams we went out naked

You held my cold hand
Kissed my trembling fingers
As I tried on cloaks of
Liquor, piss and vinegar

Handsome stranger
Sweet, sweet friend
Let us fuck on the thirteenth floor
Again, again, again.

79

Glory be the morning
Baudelaire and breakfast
Windy and wistful
This stumbled upon empty café
Coffee and clarity
These magical, melancholic moments
The chair across from me peacefully perfectly purposefully thankfully empty
This is the beautifully bewitched time of day where loneliness and his cruel consorts have never trespassed.

 

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73, 74 of 100

73

Eyes
Mouth
Brain

Light switch in a dark room
Tidal wave in the desert
White dust in a shaken snow globe

Eyes
Mouth
Brain

Gut
Legs
Loins

Terrible, beautiful, delicious thoughts
What you dream to do over what you’re taught
Is right good night SHOULD in this word your whole life rots

Eyes becomes doors and creamy lids and lovely lashes and tender tears and mirrors and never-ending and invitations and soul-claiming

Mouth becomes lickable lips and tongue and teeth and silky spit and feather

Brain becomes Creator and dictator and killer and saviour and breath and soul

Hands
Skin
Nails

Electric
Scratching
Grasping

Hanging
Holding
Healing

Eyes become visions sweet visions of wet bodies tight embraces buried necks and faces slowly tantalizingly sensual these visuals make it difficult but please DON’T RUSH THE PLOT.

Mouth becomes voice sweet sound of solace and source of ever-surging sexuality overpowering I surrender I GIVE ALL THE LITTLE THAT I’VE GOT.

Brain becomes heart
Half and gaping
(W)hole

This path
Of synapses
This legacy
Of lust
The history
Of the whore (aka the heart)

The genealogy
Of my genius
The diary
Of my divine demons
The account
Of my cunning

Cunt
Cock
Fingertips

Kiss
Fuck!
How can I see this man again?

See
Taste
Hear

Know
Touch
BE STARTLED

Light switch in a dark room
Tidal wave in the desert
White dust in a shaken snow globe.

74

The whore
The heart
Both figments
Of

Ridiculous imagination
Comfortable blindness
Ignorant irresponsibility
Of

Each our own fate
Each our own lives
Each our own control
Of

What can be
What is really happening
Who we really are
So

Cold shoulders
Should-tellers
Old, heavy boulders
Hark!

Let us stop judging
Let us stop hating
Let us stop being
Afraid

Defences up
Explanations prepared
Facades fabricated
For

Protection
Avoidance of admissions of allegiance
Denial of duality
With

The whore
The heart
The lashing out
With

Body
Soul
The crying out
For

Love.

The whore
The heart
Both sins
Both betting on

A win.

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From where I’m sitting

An unlikely haven for a non-conformist to societal fads such as myself, yet I am happily perched atop my counter seat at Wendy’s Fast Food Restaurant near the corner of Yonge and College. Since it has become terribly uncouth to frequent (or at least to admit to frequenting) mega-corporation fast food restaurant chains such as this one, all the people in society that I find annoying (hipsters, gluten-free-bakeshop-seekers, yoga fanatics – just do it and shush up about it already – and other such ridiculous en masse persons) are not here. So while they excitedly chat to each other about the iPhone 6 in their laughably-long line-ups for an overpriced average-tasting Japanese cheesecake or a no foam skinny whatever degree shitshow latte, I enjoy a huge bay window view of passers-by in tranquility and, best part, with no pretentious, contrived bullshit.

That’s it. Here I am. Reading my book. Rant over. 😊

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69 to 72 of 100

69

What are you running from
She asked
Searching for the sinister

Fatness
Mental illness
Mediocrity
Boredom
Ageing

Offering the obvious, and
Smiling somewhat smugly
She replied

The haters
They will try to rob you
Of your simple joy

Because they don’t understand
The should-be-nothing
Risen for some reason

Throws them all for a loop
And instead of being joyous
She feels threatened

And jealous
But the should-be-nothing
Just keeps on running
Like the free and beautiful wind

And with levity
Comes wisdom
Wisdom is love is heaven is
The purest freedom!

Fatness
Mental illness
Mediocrity
Boredom
Ageing

Putting it plainly
Poignantly, with pride
The gone girl regurgitates

Oh, and exchanges her naive smugness
Embraces her questions and Her Highness
Loves her no less and invites her to the palace

Because hate
Is just the most stark naked!
And in this way
The most beautiful
Desperate
Cry for love
Of self.

70

Do we play the lottery
And not go to work?

I should be thankful
Grasp at your dangling carrot
Be so moved
So touched
So compelled
To reach out
Like you have not
Tell you I need love
Please love me!
Like a beggar in the street
Like a mutt in an alley
Desperate for a handout

Oh how tender the copy and paste!
Oh how touching the post and the haste!
Oh how fake the sentiment and the ubiquitous things you say
On your self-fulfilling falsely-deficit-filling obstacle-making toward REAL goodwill-taking on the book of Face!

And you said
It might do some good
And I vehemently disagree!
You see,
I am that one you speak of!
I weep alone
I read your one post
Amidst your million!
Of your dogs and home and family and friends and children!
I ask
Where is my invitation!?
Oh
So I should be
Pacified
By your
Facebook annotation

Zombie nation.

71

And other times
There are times
The haters gonna hate
In a slick way
Haters gonna demonstrate
The life they lead
Opposite
Of what they preach
Like a parade
They want you to come see
You come see
They so happy
Watching you watch thee
Eyes wide pan-fried at their trophies
They mistake our gaping mouths our do-withouts
For envy jealousy I too want these
Things, they don’t see
Our oral gapings, caves, holes
In fact reflect
Shock, disillusionment, alarm
At witnessing these
Soul rapings

Zombie nation.

72

I told him
You are very good
At whatever it is we are doing
He asked
Why is it whatever it is
And not…

I’m coming to Spain
I’m not coming to Spain
I’m sorry

I just walked and walked.

I am going to Boston
I am not going to the Ivory Coast
Because I love a good story and an electric who knows

I run.

I told him
I can’t do this anymore
I thought I could
I tried
He asked why

Because I don’t love you
Because it’s the thirtieth of November
Because the sky is blue
That’s why.

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