365 Attempts (At Life)

Harry : Wouldn't you rather be with Humphrey Bogart than the other guy? Sally: I don't want to spend the rest of my life in Casablanca married to a man who runs a bar. That probably sounds very snobbish to you... Harry: You'd rather be in a passionless marriage... Sally: ...and the first lady of Czechoslovakia. Harry: ...than live with a man you've just had the greatest sex of your life with just because he owns a bar and that is all he does? Sally : Yes. And so would any woman in her right mind. Women are very practical--even Ingrid Bergman which is why she gets on the plane at the end of the movie. When Harry Met Sally.  Still one of my all time favorite movies. I make it a point to try to watch it before New Year’s Eve, and partially blame it for getting so teary eyed at midnight when the ball drops and Auld Lang Syne plays.  But what is it that has me (and millions of other women) still thinking about Harry and Sally? And still opting to watch it ...

She feels the chilly draft of morning hit her shoulders and pulls the sheets up to her neck. Damn it. The duvet fell to the ground. Brrrrrrrr. Shivering, eyes closed, her foot sleepily searches for his legs under the sheets. She finds him and huddles closer, placing her legs onto his. There is nothing better than the warmth of his sleeping body in the morning. Nothing. She opens her eyes to look at him. He is so peaceful. He isn’t searching like when he’s awake.  He is just breathing dreams. She kisses his arm, and he stirs. He opens his eyes for a second, and automatically pulls her in tighter, kissing the top of her head.  Then his breathing gets heavy and he is fast asleep again. How does he do that? The room is bright for 6 am. And cold. Maybe we can stay like this all day. Nice and warm. Together. Maybe we don’t have to be part of the world for 24 hours. Can’t we just remain exactly as we are? His hand moves and runs through her hair, as though he ca...

what of this life? what of all this? if everything’s gone what can be missed? if the road is not built, who can then come? If nothing was made will it not come undone? if the rules are all changed is the game still the same? if the loser can’t win will the winner feel shame? who is at fault, when there’s no one to blame? what is the cost when nobody gains? if moments are lived why do they die? if people are free, why do they hide? what of this world, then? what of all this? if everyone leaves, what can exist?

Hello! Hi! How's it going out there? I gotta tell you, this post almost didn't happen. I drove a friend home, got stuck behind the snowploughs, got every single red light, took the really, really far parking spot (no others in sight) ran down the street, and up three flights of stairs. I kicked my boots off, threw my coat on the floor, stubbed my little toe badly on the coffee table (that keeps happening!) and turned my computer on. After 3 resets on the router (oy vey) here I am. Here. I. Am. You would think that I might have thought of something to say. I did. I actually jotted some notes onto my iPhone while my friend went to the washroom during dinner. And again at the many red lights in the car. I don't know why I even do that, I never end up using what I wrote. I want it to be fresh. I like to see what transpires organically when my fingers hit this keyboard. And tonight, I'm not sure what will. So many things are floating around my head. Mo...

we say a lot, we use many words. we think palpable thoughts, we thicken the air with want and questions. we breathe it in, we chase it through a maze. we get lost. we dodge bullets. we find our way out through separate exits. we exhale. we move forward. we move on. we forget. we forget?

Have you noticed, that due to consistently developing technology, personal contact is evaporating? According to most people, I’m supposed to want to try to meet men online. Apparently it is the new way to ‘put yourself out there’. But today’s new dating reality is that couples primarily meet and communicate digitally. It is intimacy through Internet. It almost makes it fictitious in some ways, like it’s not happening in real time. That worries me. I have no idea when it was that even I jumped the ‘virtual emotional’ bandwagon. All I know is that I’m uncomfortable with this realization. I love to express myself in writing, but is it the easier way out? Sure there are always specific circumstances to hide behind the choice of the written word (distance, secrecy, shyness) but if you have something important to say to another being, shouldn’t the words be spoken and not typed?  Does writing and reading it not dispossess the value and weight of the intended sentiment...

A simple seedling was carelessly planted in plain, flat soil by a stranger's hands. Through unruly climate, and in small spurts, the seed miraculously grew into a small tree. With the light and love of the sun, it blossomed and before long its branches grew vibrantly green leaves. But as swiftly as the buds came, the sun was hidden away by dark clouds. The tree soon recognized that rain also helped it grow, and that it should be grateful for those few rays of light that so seldom appeared. With persistence, through those dark days, the tree developed at double speed and its branches became heavy with flowers and fruit. Years passed quickly and the tree flourished to majestic heights. Its deep roots spread through the earth with great resilience and haste, tangling up with other seeds, urging them to life. Soon separate individual trees grew alongside it and the tree was so proud to witness each of them bear their own assortment of fruit. The sa...

Nostalgia. You’re dangerous. You rifle through my memory as though it were an open book. You’re a song. A scent. A moment in time. A room in a house, a spot on the beach, a path in the woods, and a taste on my tongue. You’re the hot sun on my skin. You’re the perfect thunderstorm raining down hard on my rooftop. You sneak up on me. I love that you do that. You bring a smile, a tear, and even the fluttering butterflies in the center of my belly. You bring me back to where I cannot go again by any other means than your haunt. But it’s reckless; holding onto you, Nostalgia.

The ghost of Frida Kahlo came to visit me in my sleep. She sat on the chair by my bed and painted my portrait in the dark. Her bracelets jangled with every brush stroke, and in the shadows I could see flowers in her hair. Glistening. I was careful not to move, afraid she would purse those famous eyebrows together, shake her head and leave. I measured my breath, listening carefully as she began to sing a traditional ballad. A song about a sad dove, believed to carry the soul of a broken man, crying at the open window of his lover’s home. As Frida hummed, invisible guitars accompanied her. The melody left her lips and transformed into a hundred fireflies. Dancing. Louder and louder the music strummed, the room ablaze with colour. I felt delirious, as though I was floating in midair. But I still lay on my bed and Frida still sat on the chair. She continued to paint, gliding her brush in time with the music. Then she stopped. She glanced furtively, back and forth, from the canvas to...

I am a victim of my own dualities. I am two things at once. I am a perfectionist. Meticulous to a fault. Like a detective, no detail escapes me. But I can be careless and ignorant, too. Closing my eyes to what I choose not to see. Oh yes, in matters of the heart, I could not be more dualistic. The Cynic duels The Romantic on a daily basis, for as long as I can remember. I have hurt good people and left them, because I could predict every failure. And I have let people fail me and hurt me quite ‘good’, because they were unpredictable. I am warm and affectionate. I am frosty, with biting words. I will laugh louder than anyone in the room. I will cry harder, too. I will jump right in with a big splash. Or I will stay 2 feet away from the water, careful enough to not get wet. I will look upon marriage, as I do, with bewilderment and little faith. But I will crave companionship with that ‘one’ special person. Every day. I desire wholeheartedly. I scorn myself for my desire. I will t...

I can feel you. You're on the other side of the room, leaning up against the wall. Looking at me. And you paint my skin red with your eyes.

Her cigarette falls from her fingers and onto the ground. She watches the sparks hit the pavement like a silent firecracker. She never actually smokes them. She’s not even a smoker. She just likes the hiss of the match bringing it to life. And because she can relate to how quickly it burns. She can relate to being set on fire and unsmoked.

Sleep, you are a fickle lover. Some nights - all night- I get to blissfully bask in your glow. Other nights - last night- I wait for you, and you never show.

Tonight I am in post war Paris, at a busy café. I am distractedly having wine at a table, when the radio begins playing Lucienne Boyer’s “Parlez-Moi D’amour”. And I suddenly get the strangest feeling that I have been here before. I have been in this room with these strangers. I have already smoked this cigarette. I have felt this draft from the door opening and closing and I have felt this flush of heat on my chest from the wine. I have smelled the lady’s perfume at the table next to me; and I have noticed the face of the man she is seated with, whose eyes met up with mine for a brief second before looking away. I have been in this moment before. But I have been never been to Paris.

Oh Lie. You do so much more for me than Truth does. It's like the two of you dance the tango, seductively inside my brain. But mostly because, for me, it's a case of : "betray thyself" or "display thyself". Telling a lie is protection. A safety net. A fire extinguisher. A hiked up red tango dress. Telling the truth is surrender. A tight rope. A lit match. A clown suit. I told the truth. Bozo doing the tango is not as sexy to watch.