I love lists, and I love manifesting. So it’s safe to say that resolutions are right up my alley. Looking back on so many things I’ve written over time that have come true, it’s hard not to believe in the power of putting your intentions down on paper.
My favourite example of this is when I wrote in my journal that I wanted to live in Halifax in 2 years. I didn’t know what 2 years was going to hold for me when I wrote that. I didn’t know how it was going to happen and there was a time when it was more than off the back burner – it wasn’t even on the stove.
2 years to the month I wrote that I pulled up to my house after moving across the country. That wasn’t a new years resolution, but it was something I was resolved to do.
I think what I like particularly about new year resolutions is that we energetically are at a time to let go of the old and start fresh. We want to move forward, feel unburdened. We thrive off that motivation to get going and get stuff done. We are more apt to notice what we do and don’t want in our life anymore because we have the permission to make changes without judgement from ourselves or others.
- DO THE SPLITS
- HOLD SELF IN SPACE IN A HANDSTAND
- GET AN EXCELLENT PUBLISHING CONTRACT
- ABUNDANCE THROUGH ART
- FIRST TRIP OVER SEAS
- WIN GRANT/ARTIST RESIDENCY
- CONTINUE DELVING INTO SPIRITUALITY
- MEDITATE EVERY DAY
- LESSEN REFINED SUGAR INTAKE
- PAY OFF CREDIT CARD DEBT
We make love with loud laughter and morning voices. With arcane apologies and face-cupped sleeps. We make love with our eyes dancing to meet each other across a crowded room and playing piano keys with my fingers while our hands are embraced. Every ache I have for you adds to it an increment, and I find that my fantasies are just adventures I want to go on with you to find more things to add to our trail mix of memories. I still need the stars because I need to do everything on earth with you and then some, but know that you’re the only reason I need anything more than you. We are enough – all the poems of other peoples dreams and realities in a concentrated cough syrup to soothe the aches I have for you. We don’t have to touch but we make love and I will embezzle your attention to make a currency in aureate messages just to buy it back again. Whenever I am reminded of you, we make love and I’ll find you everywhere -in everything- just to do it again.
A fake plant will never bloom,
But it will also never die,
and what a price to
pay for eternity.
Creaky stairs to the basement of my brain. The workshop desolate, covered in cobweb thoughts spun thin; unclean, unused, unbrushed. The terrors if the basement of my brain too hard to face. The memories stored in mis-happen boxes; unlabelled, unorganized, unopened. And it will take days and years to purge myself of this space. It will days and years and broken dolls, black markers, old photographs, sun-bleached-fridge-posted-magnet-wrinkled-art, too small and too big clothing, notes from my grandfather and his wife – never received or never sent – because it will take days and years to make this space constructive. No one knows my possessions – the printed pages, stained and weathered by my fingers grasp and the salt of each time I held them and remembered and wept until I filed them from myself deep in the chambers of nothing where I keep secrets from myself. And in the attic are secrets of others. Not forgotten just buried under dust and boarded up windows that scream for light everytime I peek my head through the doorway to see that there are no ghosts. No ghosts that I clandestinely wish were there to seek their revenge or confess their sins, but all that’s left are the imprints of my imagination like disfigured footprints on the grey ground. The imagination that brings alive the things kept under ground of what now strangers never told me and I am lost, lost, lost. But I open old trunks filled with skins of who I used to be and try them if for size. I play pretend with feelings of the past; in broken mirrors that caused me more than seven year of bad luck because there is nothing that can act as an emollient for my need for things to be how I wish they were. And when I tire I lay down in blankets of old nightmares and pretend that their your arms holding me instead beause, really, it’s the same thing. It’s all the same thing. The unwritten books under the creaky stairs and the worn out skins in broken dressers; paper thin in the thighs, too tight in the soul, loose in my control. Torn up sheets covering the outline of some places I may have been, open from when I screamed your name, and called his with the conviction that the jealousy it could create would bring you back. But I know you are lost as I am lost, in your own attic reading the words you could have wrote, flipping through pictures of memories never made, but at least you have that. The would haves and should haves. I’m left with the could haves and if I maybes and the tears and pain and I will never unboard these windows because I don’t need to shed light on what I can’t see, I already see enough of what I dread, and although the shadows scare me the dream that you’re still hiding in them is enough for me to bear it.