simple symmetry

April 2, 2014

(4 comments)
 photo DSC01865_copy_zps7fe48bc8.jpg


xx

i once told myself i'd never write about you
not about the mornings spent together
or the first time i noticed the soft edges of your eyes
i promised to never pen the number of freckles scattered across your milky surface
or share the peculiar ways in which you breath in the middle of the night
i never wanted to describe the warm corners of your neck
or illustrate the winding folds along your hips
i had no need for your hands to be the basis of every narrative
or the desire to seek your lobes whenever i felt cold
see, i knew your fleshy scars would destroy not flourish
the same way your bitten finger nails were never allowed to grow
the tip of your kisses would smother me underwater
and the yellow in your eyes would fill my lungs with salt water
therefore, i would not place you in the centre of my art
for you are a flaw and i need no reminder
that what you do is tarnish and ruin
and i refuse to be amongst your past lovers
painting a face that never mattered

xx

finding unfinished poems from last year and positioning plants in every corner of the apartment,
welcome April.



Stuck between chapters

March 27, 2014

(6 comments)


Women Who Run With the Wolves - Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Ph.D

"An icy attitude will put out a woman's creative fire. It will inhibit the creative function. This is a serious problem, yet the story gives us an idea. The ice must be broken and the soul taken out of the freeze.
When writers, for example, feel dry, dry, dry, they know that they way to become moist is to write. But if they're locked in ice, they won't write. There are painters who are gasping to paint, but they're telling themselves, "Get out of here. Your work is weirdly strange and ugly." There are many artists who've not yet gotten a good foothold or who are old war-horses at developing their creative lives, and yet and still, every time they reach for the pen, the brush, the ribbons, the script, they hear, "You're nothing but trouble, your work is marginal or completely unacceptable -- because you yourself are marginal and unacceptable."



So what is the solution? Do as the duckling does. Go ahead, struggle through it. Pick up the pen already and put it to the page and stop whining. Write. Pick up the brush and be mean to yourself for a change, paint. Dancers, put on the loose chemise, tie the ribbons in your hair, at your waist, or on your ankles and tell the body to take it from there. Dance. Actress, playwright, poet, musician, or any other. Generally, just stop talking. Don't say one more word unless you're a signer. Shut yourself in a room with a ceiling or in a clearing under the sky. Do your art. 

Generally, a thing cannot freeze if it is moving. So move. Keep moving."




                 There's this opportunity to do something different and wonderful and brand new sitting on my doorstep. I have no clue what to do with it just yet. See, for months now I felt inadequate, confined and limited. Completely unenthused, withdrawn and drained. A part of me packed up and walked out the door. Yet everyday my creative spirit begged and grovelled to return. I shut down without wanting to shut down. Going about my day sleeping, waking, eating, commuting, talking, typing, working, and dying. A routine that smothered a fire I worked hard to light. But what did I expect? That's what happens when you stop watching and adding fuel to the embers. The fire extinguishes. It took the end of a day to understand just how frozen I've become.  There's now a yearning bubbling and touching the tips of my fingers and I would be lying if I said I wasn't feeling scared. Not even a whiff of a plan is in the air but at least I finally understand. I need to be mean to myself if I want to survive. A different kind of mean but mean nonetheless.

I think I'm scared. 

Badley


A quick hello

July 15, 2013

(12 comments)
"Do you know where the wild things go? 
They go along to take your honey, la, la, la 
Break down now, weep, build up breakfast now 
Let's eat my love, my love, love, love, la, la, la"




Summer has made me her bitch and between crying, celebrating, and working I've barely had time to snap pictures (or look decent enough to bother taking any). But here I am, spending the last 20 minutes of my lunch break to drop in and say hello! For the last two months I've been working on a project with a very special lady and of course, I can't share just yet but keep patient. We're both working out the kinks before releasing any information (eeee so excited that I've had to remove 10 exclamation marks). Anyway, I was recently featured in the Toronto-based magazine Xquisit where I said silly shit because I'm through with taking myself seriously. Okay, time to get back to work! Sorry for any spelling mistake. Miss everyone. xx



a note to myself

May 15, 2013

(9 comments)
What is it exactly about taking risks that causes you to feel so petrified? Is it the thought of jumping off the edge into something unknown that makes you quiver? Is it the outcome  that intangible conclusion  that makes your heart flutter? Can it be that you're afraid that the foundation you've built may be compromised? The probability that if you take the next necessary step, you'll end up falling. Does it have something to do with completing this on your own? That this is your decision to make and no one else can make it for you. What exactly causes you to feel so petrified about taking a chance? Why are you inconclusive as to what you want to do? Why don't you already know the answers? Why can't you make the decision? 

What do you want to do? 
Sleep Forever by Portugal. The Man on Grooveshark

Badley



she is

April 21, 2013

(3 comments)

She called me three days ago and before I heard the soft hello, I knew that something wasn't right. I felt it in the pit of my stomach as I sat in a pile of dirty laundry. I felt it coursing through my fingertips as I gripped the phone tighter in an effort to hear her whispers. But I didn't recognize the extent of the damage and I didn't understand the loneliness. Because you never want to admit that distance is a problem, you never want to own up to its confinement.

**

It’s terrifying to hear that depression is the culprit. Somehow, the words creep through the phone and into my bed – making itself comfortable and it's presence admissible. It is a tragedy to have to reconnect through gut-wrenching fears. Yet, there it is hanging in the air – the implications derived from isolation – and there's nothing left for us to do but to sit and listen to the other cry.


she is my best friend. she is all the memories and all the secrets. she is the tough times and all the times we laughed the hardest. she's the one sitting in the parking lot with me so I don't have to cry alone and she's beside me for every 5am conversation. she is the late night drives and every mixed CD I ever owned. she is my best friend.

**

Maybe this reads like a terrible Chicken Soup for the Soul  but the reason I wrote it is because of a simple phone call that wasn't so simple. And the only reason I'm making it public is because whoever she is to you, I hope you never forget to call her and tell her how much she's loved.


Badley
images by Petra Collins via


everything to give

March 1, 2013

(11 comments)

images by Dan Mountford via 


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