Writing: And the Wheel Turns

I spent the weekend at a convention in Dearborn and had a magnificent and cleansing experience.  Along with attending a fabulous writing workshop with Michelle Belanger and Ellen Dugan that has me itching to write an actual story about something, this included a strong but vague urge to get back into my tarot cards.

For my third NaNoWriMo back in 2011, I wrote a story where my main character had to walk through the Major Arcana to gain her wings in the afterlife and return to Earth as an angel.  It was not well thought out, but it was a fun thing to write, and I think I petered out around Judgment (the plot was SO convoluted by then).

But as I’ve been listening to the Art History Babes podcast on Exploring Tarot to psych myself up, a fact caught me and blew my mind: tarot cards were used in Italy in the early Renaissance for playing a game where players were each dealt a random card, and had to make up a poem related to the theme on the card.

I did not know that!  How did I not know that?  I own a massive amount of decks, and this entirely makes sense to me!  It is a freaking revelation.  And so, I did a pull with the recommended layout for my deck, and BAM.  It’s a plot for that story I’m itching to write.

What kind of story?  Not sure yet.  But I have some cool things like:

  • A protagonist (the signifier)!
  • What has it always been like?
  • What question is nagging the story now?
  • What will the future of that nagging be?
  • What’s the best approach for getting from here to there?
  • How do others in the plot feel?
  • What are the primary challenges to be faced?
  • What’s the final outcome?

As I said,  mind blown.  Based on my pull, I could go Societal or Personal for this.

It could be a Societal “utopia is stagnant and is being taken advantage of by someone who wants to shake up the system, and does the populace view them then as good or bad?  Or does their working even escape into public at all, and the whole plot is behind closed doors?” plot.

It could also set up for a Personal “escaping gas-lighting” plot.  This wouldn’t be fun for me to write, but it would be damn realistic.  Those years felt hopeless at times, and I’m still processing it today.

And who knows?  Maybe I’ll write both of them.  Maybe those will combine, or intertwine and run simultaneously.  I think the possibilities are endless.

For now, it is time for sleep as I ruminate.  But tomorrow… I write.

Much love (and I am so freaking glad it’s finally close to spring!)  XOXO


Poetry: General Admission

You’re humming
Muttering the lyrics
Under your breath
In time to the beat
And I’m delightfully shy
Unwilling to break the spell

Lights race by outside as we fly
You fastidious with your turn signal
Though lanes are a fluid concept at the moment

Bonnie leaps to the foot of Clyde so fast
I laugh in surprise off the light
Only cut with the fact
That the faster we go
The quicker we pass time
And I don’t want that

Every breath hardly takes hold anyways
Laughing through the double roundabout
As you give me a wicked grin

You knew I’d enjoy that ride

Maybe that’s why you keep giving me general admission

Poetry: Flu Season and Poetic Forms

I’m sitting on a hoard of material to write about.  The images in my minds keep dancing and changing at the edges so much that when I focus on them, the words all melt away and it is just the haze over it, tasting of so much mead.

Not helping is the fact that I caught the flu?  I say with uncertainty because I did get a flu shot, and so if that’s what this was, it was a rather mild case.  But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t flat on my ass for about three days, and rather unintelligible and sleeping most of the time.

I know the dam will break open at some point, and a whole plethora will just fall out of me, but until then, I feel very sick of being sick, and very sick of winter.

That being said, I have been playing with some of my already-written work and poetic forms, because I’m trying to convince myself (slowly) that forms are not a bad thing.  Bringing things back around, have a bit of a runabout with a triolet (slightly tweaked).


I cannot keep a thing captive
I cannot hold the spark within my breast
And time is running through an infernal sieve
But I cannot keep a thing captive!
Precious moments held as sweet reprieve
The only stolen time where I can rest
But I cannot keep such a thing captive and
I cannot hold your spark within my breast

Poetry and Writing: Freeze and Thaw

The weekend was ripe with events that should translate well into words, if I can ever unfurl the damn cypher from my skull in a way anyone could make sense of.

I have so many single lines written down, none of which are really fitting each other, and are proving notoriously difficult to write a picture around, though this shouldn’t be hard.  Significant time with your muse is supposed to be inspiring and helpful for writer’s block, right?

Anyways, as I’m wandering through revisions (and rereading my submissions and experiencing what I’m sure are common doubts), I kept coming back to this line in one of my WIPs, and chewing on it.  Even though it’s not about my weekend, it describes it very well.

In the mean time, I’ll keep doing mental gymnastics in an effort to get words to paper, and I’ll try not to daydream about summertime too much (maybe just enough).

Much love, XO.


I ascended from your well-hidden lagoon
Restrung with your tight-lacing
Where pieces of me had sunk

Like stone fruit moments before

Poetry: Finding Inspiration in Dreams

Last night, I dreamed I wrote poetry that was so beautiful it brought a dear friend to tears.  A group of close friends and I crowded around a blackboard which my words were written on, each of us with a good pint of beer, and I gave a reading.  I remember imagery of the sun and moon, and the soul, but the line that made my friend cry was a line about a girl named Penny Royal.  In the dream, I remember thinking “I need to remember this line!” but I woke up with only her name.

I think I’m going to try and write something with Penny Royal in it.  Poetry series appeals for obvious reasons, but part of me wants to try and write a short story in the form of her journal entries, and see how that goes.  It’s not something I’m used to doing… stay tuned, and we’ll see how this goes?

[In the same poetry dream, I then talked to a very wizened cat, black with grey whiskers and a jaw that didn’t sit quite right, who spoke some English.  I wanted to adopt him, but he directed me to a beautiful, delicate cat, mostly white with brindle patches.  She was beautiful, and I did not care I was allergic to cats.

The other dream I remember, I was parlaying with a group of coelacanths (yes, the fish) for peace in some dispute between them and my hometown, and their leader fell in love with me and pursued me through a rope course across my town… yes, fish can do rope courses, apparently.  Why coelacanths?  Things to ponder.]

Philosophy: To Live

Can an idea or a time be dead? Perhaps more so it is in stasis.  It lacks a chance at a true revival, so it casts an aura around itself that begs to be studied, analyzed until it is so overdone it surpasses being overdone, it ebbs back to simplicity again.

It is encapsulated by a sphere of work which magnifies the evidence surrounding its circumstances, and every thread leads us deeper into its labyrinth that tries to tell us we will never fully grasp what we’re looking at.

We cannot go back and live it. To live is to be present, and to be present is the best way to understand the primal element involved in living.

Poetry: Reclamation

I felt the fickle muscles strain with ache
Of constitution, like a poorly worn
Dress that adorned them in dust for one take
On that day long ago where we were torn
Cell from cell and with little promises.
Like we could build our destinies in such
Relief without a glance at how life is,
Raw and straining though we never may touch
Those dreams that left our childhood in red.
The former denizens have left us debts
Which fill the mind with existential dread
And deal us hands without a winning bet.
And if we say our words that prove us wise,
We’re shouted down for lack of tact and lies.


Just keep saying it.  Maybe someday, we’ll have repeated ourselves enough that even those in the back of the room won’t be able to deny hearing it, regardless the state of their conscious.

By then, our healing will be so far gone, they’ll find to deny it will cause them more grief than they ever caused us.

Poetry: Gradient

Hung in gray unseen that
Stretched for miles around
Trunks that thought they might see spring

Ate everything around
Engulfed in the hunger
Of all of us who could finally breathe

Humidity so welcomed
Though the lack of visibility
Caused multiple accidents during evening rush

And the snow melted
Into the rolling mist
That greedily kissed the tree tops with succor

Hiding the squirrels
That thought they might
Give their stash another mouth to help feed

The crow grimly perched
In shrouded branches knowing
That her sight would not be productive today

Heartwood that shook
A slow sigh out through
The tiniest twigs like new grass shoots

All of us eying spring


Wednesday and Thursday were deliciously humid, and I took three walks yesterday after work.  I walked around the park at work, got coffee and went for a walk around town, then walked around the block a few times when I got home.  I had to enjoy it before we had a rain -> sleet -> ice -> snow event today.

Anyways, the drive home Wednesday night looked very surreal as everything just kind of… bled into each other in a mass of grey.  As more and more grass appeared though, I didn’t care much, because it felt like spring was just around the corner…

I’m sure when we go out tonight I’ll  come back down from the optimism, but for now, I’m preserving myself indoors, with the dream that it might be warm again, soon.

Poetry: I Feel Numb Through

When I was a 90’s kid proper
Christmas Day swept in at a balmy 65 and
Bicycle tires rode at 65 to a freshly 10 year old mind
As other drivers nodded at me with their helmets off
On pavement crooked and so free of snow

And I know that global warming isn’t good for us
But exultation found in the sound
Wrapping paper makes when you rip it carelessly
Might be more easily enjoyed if
It were 65 outside and I could have any number of hopes
That the horizon line spreads itself thinner
Over hours every day on the march of time

Now winter is so cold I cannot stand up because
There’s so much not around me and the mind doesn’t reconcile
Great expectations with how dormant the ground under thick boots is
And so many blankets that never quite keep me warm


My SO is currently helping me play “how many layers do I need to stay warm?” and we are both failing spectacularly.  I am presently in long underwear and wool socks, footie pajamas with a hood, sweatpants and a wool sweater, fingerless gloves and a furry Woolrich hat with flaps snug under my chin, sheepskin slippers, and under two blankets and… I am still cold.

It will be 50 and rainy on Thursday here, and you bet I’ll be standing out in it gleefully for a while because it will be comparatively WARM.  Spring cannot come soon enough for my tastes.

PS – I’ve submitted to a few places recently.  I expect it to be a bit before I hear any word (if I hear any word), but if I do, I can’t wait to let you all know!  Fingers crossed…