Permanent Record

Somewhere, somehow, and sometimes in the strangest places, everything we say, think or speak is jotted down. Whether in the safe house of our mind, in the hands of a loved one, or God's listening ear - You've been recorded.

The satisfaction of sharing your life with world is everywhere, being fed to us by the truckloads in commercials, movies and social networking websites. Even amongst close friends via smart phones or the old fashion game of Broken Telephone, words and images travel within seconds.

Just hit send.

I was speaking to a friend recently of how I missed the rotary phone. She laughed. I shared that through the agony of dialling someones' number, which at times felt like a century, it also gave you a chance to decide whether to go through with it. Unlike now where we just stroke a key - Done.

Actually, it's too easy. So easy in fact that few can handle the warped speed in which it flies. Some of us are sadly, too slow and dim, too excited to see what's about to happen. That such an impulse could later follow you like a menacing shadow for the rest of your life. You see, there are some things we do in life that will never be erased. There are some things that can never be explained away.

You've been recorded. Permanently.

In recent months there's been a disturbing amount of teen suicides. Girls who could see no hand of rescue from their plight, no way out from the quicksand that was trying to snuff them out. The love of family and friends wasn't enough to keep them afloat, because no matter how much love they received, something so precious within them died.

Dignity.

I couldn't imagine the amount of sorrow those girls went through. Their most vulnerable moments, being abused and laughed at, treated like a useless rag, then tossed, and on top of that used as a vehicle for others to parade as a joke or a badge of virility.

There is no joke. Men don't rape. Monsters do.

The carnality of a moment could make someone blind. I almost feel sorry for what those under age perpetrators will go through all their life. Stamped with a permanent record. Every job they apply for, every potential mate they come to marry, even behind the bars of a prison and later within their own heart - they and the world will know of their actions.

Maybe we have media to blame. Or should we blame the parents...NO. Let's blame culture. I don't care who is to blame - I think a re-education is in order. A re-education in morality and ethics. Of humanity and the God given knowledge that you can't have everything you want, in every given moment, no matter how carnal the desire may be.

Whether rape, murder or slander - it's permanent. And most perpetrators commit all three. 

A Lustful Eye

From the whom, through the birth canal, yanked into a room with razor sharp lights that sting and pierce the eyes, we're born.

And in the loving arms of a loved one, nestled close to warm flesh, the constant thump of a heartbeat bringing comfort, slowly, after a few waking blinks, the fuzzy picture before us becomes more clear.

Colours burst, sounds line up with images, and shapes begin to take on texture and temperature. It's crazy how the brain makes everything fit, like an endless puzzle, and the download never ends.

And as most of us are plopped in front of the mad box, flicking through images, ingesting what life should be, our tiny brains begin to sum up the reality of what is. But in this age the Mad Box is not alone...it has a friend. A more private friend.

Even as little as 10 years ago our eyes have seen less, our memories less rotted. At first it was a matter of convenience, where information could travel in seconds. Anyone could partake in the exchange. Not everyone was a part of this world, unlike now, where it's challenging to escape.

With the cyber world at our fingertips, most everything is a mere click away. It's easy to get lost, to wander and explore. I'm not against exploration, education and communication, not at all. But some interests can unearth a more perverse hunger: The interest in skin.

Before cyber porn became accessible to the masses, it was considered a dirty little secret. A lurid place disguised from public view, despite the life-size XXX signs that shielded the world from such adult behaviour. Innocence still had a fighting chance.

Unlike now. When typing in the word "boob" will lead you down the lusty trail to a world where flesh is for sale. Willing or not, someone's making money.

Few want to call it what it is: the seed to an illness. And slowly, where at first you just want to take a peek, it can easily become something more. That's the hook. Candy Man comes, offering up sweet treats, indulging your senses with a deformed idea of sex.

But it's pleasure!?! No one's getting hurt? It's not bad. Right...?

For some it is just a simple pleasure, I guess? Maybe there is no shame in watching it. So then why not discuss it openly, in public, say... at Timmy's 5th Birthday Party, your parents wedding anniversary, a baptism, or freely in the lunchroom at work where your Supervisor hangs out...

It's not just sex. Not that at all. Somewhere in the mix of all the naked images, the gasps, the moans and slapping skin - someone, whether they know it or not, is being victimized. In front of the camera or watching it in the privacy of a bedroom (phone) someone is paying the price.

It makes sickos get sicker, and the healthy run the risk of becoming ill. And it all begins with a titillating peek. Whether a stash of filthy mags hidden in the closet, which I must say, when spoken about with utmost honesty between men and women I know, when they happened to come across it at a tender age - it took away their innocence too soon. 

And it's not like yesterday. Porn shops hardly exist today. It's all online. And with such variety out there, the corruption is endless.

I'm not saying that porn watchers are corrupt, but it does corrupt a perception of reality. It isn't real. It's only there to pleasure the senses. But some watchers take it a step further.   

As a woman I fear for my safety, now more than ever. Never used to be that way. My friends share the same fear. We also notice a change in many men. It's slight, but it's there: The objectification.

If porn nurtures a fantasy, in time, a watcher may wish to take it a step further. And pending their degree of self confidence... that's where the trail of innocent victims pile up. Young, frail, or just going about your business - it happens. We hear about it on the news everyday: a sexual assault on a female.

But no one seems to be getting to the root of the issue.

Even Ted Bundy, the famed serial killer of the 70s confessed that despite his upbringing which was in a loving home, his interest in porn, that later turned to a deviant lust, is what corrupted him. It all started with an innocent peek. 

So, when little Ted was growing up, a time when pornography was a serious no-no. You couldn't get your hands on it without being seen as a pervert. Unlike now... just a mouse click away. No one has to know.

Victims breeding more victims.

...I don't know what else to write, because I don't know how it will end. I don't see an end. Perversion is lucrative.

Most lawmakers are men. Perhaps if we hear of how many men are being raped everyday, at the same rate as women...it would just make more victims.

Perversion is lucrative. 

Watch Me Baby!

It's a game. A race to deliver to the finish.

Victims? Oh, yeah. There are victims.

Butchers? Yup, definitely not for the squeamish.

With body parts scattered along the way. Rape kits covered in dust.

The NYPD, SVU, FBI and Ryan Hardy are on it.

But how many more?

How many more women have to lay victim for the cutting room floor? 

It's getting old. Read old.

I feel sorry for the girls waiting by the phone, hoping with fingers crossed to be Dead Girl #5, Rape Victim 1 or Whore in Red Dress at the end of the day.

Must violence breed entertainment?

I used to enjoy shows like Criminal Minds, but then it got bad a few seasons back, and now it's just too violent. The Following seemed okay, but again, too violent. Just violence.

Perhaps entertainment is just catching up with this world and its fall in humanity. Where people just kill one another for sport, for fun, in a spark of anger. Where the thought or belief in a just God doesn't enter the mind once.

Or perhaps the vice that many share, the need for constant stimuli should aid in helping shift the violent glare with shows that dare to show (I'll say it) love and care for humanity, minus the brutal slaying. Unless it's Buffy (Sarah Michelle Gellar) kicking some Edward Cullen ass - I want something different.

How about The Love Boat. Fantasy Island. The Cosby Show. Night Court. Life Goes On.

I don't know...?

And it's not just violence. It's the over-sexualizing of women and men, teenagers and kids.

Do we need a re-education in humanity, innocence and civility? Cause it's just getting so bad out there.

I grew up in the 80s & 90s where TV shows weren't only about sex and slaying. There were options. You had Family Ties or Miami Vice.

Now there are none. What's going to happen to the innocent eyes of today when they grow up tomorrow?

They've never been given an option. 

An Off Day

I was an angry bird today. Snapping the fingers off many. They bit me. I bit back. I'm usually not one to bite in return. I usually don't address it.

I think it's the hunger. The hunger for what I once knew. What I've been away from. I hear it calling now and then. Like a once beloved friend calling my name. I miss their company.

My writing is...it's like a puzzle right now. All the pieces are there, but the main picture is getting fuzzy. I need to reconsider Gabe's motivation.

It's distressing. Money, it comes and goes. The boys, they come but I want them to go. The men...think I'm jailbait. The ones that desire jailbait, they lose interest fast after swapping words with me. I know how to say "no" and mean it. I may act dim, for fun, cause being serious can feel stuffy, but it's an act.

But not having time to write, and working in a space that kills any creative buzz - it's a slow death. It sucks that there's no one to talk to about the craft. Like, someone that will help you tear a part what's not working. Someone who wants to.

I miss my friends that have gone away. When a mess, a baby, a plane ride or marriage get in the way - friends split. More time to self investigate your inner mess and deny obvious flaws. Medicate with sugar and coffee. Do a good deed to cancel all the wrong. Am I alone here?

Thank God today's almost over.

It's just...

I think there's something off...with me.

I'm reverting back to my childhood these days, refusing to grasp adulthood, whatever that means.

I don't have a filter. No edit point. It is what it is. Zero pretending.

I feel sixteen - caught in a stage of wonder, just waiting for everything to make sense. I don't think it will ever make sense: Life.

I don't mean to flirt with you: man, woman, dog, squirrel, uptight fella who never smiles. I just do. Teasing is fun.

I still believe in that dream, the one I had  8 years ago. That man in black, walking in fields of milky snow. That man who searches for me as much as I search for him...Uh, yeah, I'm here by the way. Hurry up!

Short men frighten me. Angry people turn me off. Yet I seem to attract both, like moths to light. Perhaps if I turn my flirtatious laughter to that of a hellish cry, walking on ten foot stilts, I will attract a worthwhile catch...I'll mull it over.

I think I do have a type. Never thought I did. Hmm...

I never make a promise I won't keep. I take secrets to the grave. I want you to be happy and I'll always have your back. I think you outta know this.

I want to try a smoke, just once, but I'm afraid I'll like it too much. But I'm also allergic.

I don't know if I have an addictive personality. It's possible. I'm stubborn as hell and won't believe anything you tell me. I drink coffee three times a day...Am I addicted to caffeine?

I sometimes fear that man in black is dead, or just tired of looking for me. Like me, tired of the journey.

I want to be gotten.

Broken

Trust.

When it's gone, it's gone forever.
Words have weight, not one syllable light. Never A vowel silent.
Careful who you share your words to.
Some hearts can think of no one else.

The chit-chat, gossip, the undone ramble.
Nerves gone affray, nothing to hold onto.
Intent driven by fear. The need to be wanted. Needed.
Forgive and move on. Learn and move forward.

Broken telephone line. Broken truth.
Childish lips drip, dripping on.
The he said, she said, they said script.
Written by someone untrue. But what's true?

Again, learn and move on. Don't harden your heart.
Pebbles, the mistake, the knots. The dirt.
Truth will unravel in perfect time. Trust that.
Stay sweet, stay you. Don't look back.

Look back to learn, if only that.
People are messy, faults spilling over.
Perfection is perfect only in its spelling.
Again, another word to fight.

When liars sleep, they sleep well.
But their heart thumps fast, afraid of you.
Few will come clean. The adult yet to bloom.
Don't be mean, they just don't know.



Never prove what you already know.

RAGE

And in a pit of rage you wait. Beneath a constant cloud of black. No picture of sun to lead the way. You wait.

Cold wind leaves marks across my face, reminding me of this life that is dang-stank hard, lonely, and damn challenging when you have passion.

Voices pitch and wail, a few hundred smiles change hands, it's another day in sales, and my bones are ever slowly withering away to dust. There is no loyalty - this great big sea is filled with sharks. Even the guppies will claw a mighty bite.

The pavement calls. Miles of it. Seducing to be walked upon. An affair I miss deeply, especially when the weather begins to frost over. Cafes are the best places to hide when it's cold. Bury in a stash of words. Forget troubles.

The men are plenty, but still none hold my gaze. A few passing slow smiles. A few "get to know you" questions. "Yeah, the Peppers rock." "I'd like to write obits." "What's your name?" A subtle wink and half-curled smile.

Ease down, hun. You look like you just graduated - High school.

The end seems long yet not far behind, catching up close, like a speeding train. Another year passes, the faster the speed increases. Where did the year go? 2012 was a mess yet enlightening: I never want to live in LA.

I have much to do today.

The Quiet Pull

You know when happens. You can catch the exact moment it does. The silent connection that flows from one end of the room to the other.

What causes it? That magnetic pull. When two eyes out of a sea of many meet for a long pause. A duration where even the noisiest of rooms grows silent. When you're not aware of anything or anyone else.

Words aren't necessary. Words could muddy the magic.

Sometimes words are okay, like, if the person in question is bold enough to walk across the room and say, "Hi, I'm...(blank)."

That happened once. He was bold, ballsy, enough.

Another longish pause as our hands clasped for a shake.

I was at work. He was at work. It wasn't the greatest time to chat one another up. I leaned to the side to get a better look as he walked away. We were going live in a matter of minutes, so yeah - bad timing.

But that magnetic pull...it's something "magical" isn't it? I feel silly calling it Magic. But it is. Cause it happens, like almost never. At least for me.

There are attractive men all across Toronto. But very few hold my gaze. It's that silent pull that leaves me speechless, where uttering a single word feels like a daunting feat. Me, a shameless flirt, dead for words.

So what is it? The pull. The silent draw... destiny? Where two souls are bound to cross paths? Meant to cross paths? And what if nothing comes from it but just those long seconds of silence. Is it to be left for another time?

Timber - You Hear Me?

And in this land of trees. Trees of all sorts: Tall trees, small trees, prickly trees, well-rooted trees, and hollow trees; we all fit in the mix somewhere.

I made the grave mistake of giving my number to a fella (I was at work). This is what history will note as a bookmark: Never to repeat, at least when passing a number so casually as I did. I never give my digits out. I must have been very tired that day.

So, he texts me some obscure dittie. Not saying anything valid, but in is mind it may have meant the world and sounded very profound. It wasn't. I write, I understand words, I get why people use them.

I didn't answer the text.

A day...? Passes by. I think nothing of it. It doesn't even register as a second, third, twentieth thought.

Remember. The text said nothing valid, no question. It read more as a statement. I literally shrugged when I read it.

So today rolls around, still rolling, and in walks the same guy. He asked me if I got his text?

Seriously?

He keeps asking, follows me as I'm walking. I replied, "no".

I'm at work. Don't bother me. Don't ever corner me. And never demand anything, especially when we are strangers. He told me to text him back.

I nodded. I walked away. I'm working. I don't have time to chit chat and make small talk, which I hate doing. I don't like 'fake' talk of any kind. It's either an honest conversation or no conversation.

He texted back. I haven't read it.

Aggression and demands are uncool and just freakin' insane when you don't know the person, and just the same when you do. 

Timber.

Never Shed You

People often mistake me for someone who is much younger. Much much younger. I think I mentioned this before...

How much?

Let's just say I often attract 17-21 year old boys. A fact that causes me to shudder, stutter, and reel back in physical pain. I sometimes second guess everything I know about myself, left in a helpless wonder.

It's hard enough to meet boys, MEN my own age, let along pretend the ones that do admire from afar, or the ones that do gawk up close, or the more silly ones that spew poetic words trying to reel in a cheap catch, don't exist.

It's just the right one I don't see yet.


But back to looking younger-

The fountain of youth has been ever kind to me. I think it's in every fibre of me, to tell you the truth. My sister often asks me when I'm going to dress my age - I don't know what she means? My mother constantly hopes I'll wear flowery dresses and conform to the staples of a prude librarian. We have very different taste.

When I'm alive, it's my body. When I'm dead - go to town.

I just came back from seeing John Taylor at a book reading. A book about his life in three parts. It was so awesome to see him: so happy, so content. He made me smile, just him being there, seeing him well and full of life.

There are some people who will always be a part of your life, no matter what. Sometimes they don't even know it, and I don't mean in a psycho, stalker sort of way, which I have also experienced and would never wish on anyone. But in a way where there's much respect and admiration/adoration. Adoring someone is a nice feeling.

I've adored few people in my life, and those people never change.

Now back to shedding-

And when I am grey and old. A time when I will no longer admit a birthday has passed. Bestowed in bland conservative slacks and a proper blouse to cover my naked frame. I will be dead.

But before this tragic day should arrive, I will continue to wear my fav rock shirts. I will listen to music loud and skip around the city in busted chucks. I will flirt and laugh with strangers, which I do just cause it comes naturally. I will enjoy my cupcakes and dream, and continue to write scripts that will one day be noticed. And lastly, I will continue to be my undying self, cause myself is something that has no monetary value. I will never be bought.


Never shed.