The touch of death (The Death of Midnight)

We talked about another close encounter, and in the irony of all irony, we watched his death unfold before our eyes. He writhed in the street, helpless, spasms contorting his body, as blood spilled from his mouth like thick, scarlet, paint. Paint. That's what it looked like, paint. I kept my hands on his heaving chest, his tiny heart racing like the sped car that would inevitably be the author of his death in 5 - 4 - 3 - 2- 1 - seconds.


His chest heaved no more. There were no more spasms, no more desperate attempts to claw at breath. Just silence, as red, green and yellow lights blinked in the distance, and echoes of holiday laughter traveled from varying directions. But there was nothing festive about this death.

And as two bright, menacing eyes bared down on me, racing towards this makeshift scene of death and confusion, I picked the lifeless body up, still dripping scarlet paint, and leaving a three spots, a trail that would vanish before the first natural hue broke the darkness, I placed the tiny creature on the side of the gutter. The water, sparkling in the moon's halo, sparkled, welcomed him, as if he would take another sip. The liquid was clear, and ran happily, like a laughing brook into the darkness.

I looked at my hands, touched by death ... and holding up like a surgeon's .. or maybe Lady Macbeth ... wondered, can you ever really wash the touch of death from your hands?

I know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Sometimes.... someone else's words are all the words you need .....

I'd rather be alone ...

A Kind of Love, Some Say
by Maya Angelou

Is it true the ribs can tell
The kick of a beat from a 
Lover's fist? The bruised
Bones recorded well
the sudden shock, the
Hard impact. Then swollen lids,
Sorry eyes, spoke not
Of lost romance, but hurt.

Hate often is confused. Its
Limits are in zones beyond itself. And
Sadists will  not learn that
Love by nature, exacts a pain
Unequalled on the rack.

I used to be one of those women who wondered why some women stayed in abusive relationships. I used to wonder, why don't they leave. Then I saw these women in new eyes.

My eyes were not battered or bruised, but they were emotionally swollen shut. Closed to ugly words, and manipulations of hide and go seek with his emotions and affections. My lips were not cut, only bruised from my own crying, and every hot tear that rolled down my cheek I dried quickly. I did not want anyone to see... him that way. I did not want them to speak ill of my love. I did not want them to tell me what my heart, muffled and caged, had been singing softly -leave the bastard.

My arms only ached only for the longing to embrace him on nights when his phone rang out in silence, and eventually, the only kind words I heard was his pre-recorded, "You know what to do". I should have known what to do. I should have ... shouldn't I?

I thank God everyday for my support system. I thank God that I finally saw, and stood, and walked away. I can still remember his cries, and the sound of my heart beating so loudly, it muffled the sound of the sirens whirling into the distance, speeding to him. And before rage consumed me, I was filled with fear, loneliness, and grief.

i did not know then, but I can realise now, that as the ambulance sped away, I was not crying just for my loved one, but I was mourning the irreversible loss of my relationship. I felt alone and unsure. I'd grown accustomed to this pattern of emtional manipulation, unanswered phones, and drunken touches, words and threats. And that was not me. And in the death of this relationship, like a phoenix birthing from the ashes, I found me.

I found me, not at once, but eventually. I dusted off those ashes, stuck to my hair, my skin, my lashes. I bathed in a sea of healing and cool forgiving tears. I forgave myself, then him, then myself again. I allowed myself to lean on those around me, on those days and nights I could not walk, nor sleep, nor cry ... and in the still of the night, in that peaceful three-second rush hour pause, in that moment of serene silence, I found ME again ....

I took back my stuff that I thought he'd burnt and drowned with our relationship ... I took back my stuff that I thought he'd taken and hidden from me ... I took back my stuff that I thought he'd pinned and mounted on his wall ... I took ME back ....
As I lay curled up in bed  .... alone ... but happy ....

As these 16 days of activism continue, it is my hope that every woman who feels hopeless will have a strong support system of love and sisterhood surrounding her, and that she will eventually tap into that inner strength that may be hidden, but nonetheless present. 

A poster I photographed and designed for Gender Affairs.


Karen White - I'd Rather Be Alone ...

If I were purple......

I sometimes wonder if I were... let's say... purple - not a pastel, lavender, violet or plum, but the original colour wheel plan simple purple - if that Jewish lady from the Synagogue I visited would have looked and talked at me like I was an alien from another planet that had no command nor comprehension of the English language. I wonder if she would have singled me out from my Canadian classmates, or would have just let her eyes pass over me, lost in a sea of pink muffs, green and yellow and blue coats, and a host of multi-coloured hats ...

If my hair were hmmm ... let's give it a neon purple ... If my hair was neon purple, and fell the way sand falls through your fingers, and shimmered like a starlit sea, and if it felt like breeze pushing you on a windy day, would some people still stop, stare and touch? Would they still want to run their fingers through my hair, like when I had it straightened; or would they want to crunch it up in their hands, like when i have it natural, and like both times, still ask me, "Is this real?" ... I wonder ....

Let's say my eyes were also purple... not contact lens cat eye purple, but just purple, would people wearing Africa around their necks, and cloaked in colours of Africa, still look into my eyes when I shared my philosophies and opinions, or would they see past my purple skin and really listen to what I say, or is it that because I'm really some shade of black or brown, it makes me easier to listen to ... are they really listening to me because of this colour, or because I'm making damn good sense? Do you think they'd see pass the purple?




I sometimes wonder, if we were colours, if we'd all subscribe to one kaliedescope called the Rainbow, or would we do now, as we've done, and divide into different colours - red, greens, yellows, and then maybe each colour would further sub-divide ... and maybe, just maybe, for some self-constructed reason, the violets may think themselves more important than the lavenders..... I wonder ....

Measure yourself to yourself by yourself

I was reminded the other day, that the race I run is with no one but myself ... I determine the pace, the finish line and ultimately the prize. Do I always remember that? Hell friggin' no. But I am grateful for the support system that I have been blessed with that does remind me.

This was undoubtedly one of the worst years in my life. I thought 2006 was a fucked up year, but 2010 blew that right out of the waters. I thought 2010 was going to be my year. I thought I was going to own 2010. Albeit I;ve had some good times in this year, my ass is still sore from where 2010 bent me over. That's raw talk.

In pretty talk, I set goals, I had dreams, I was going to plant seeds for a future that I had mapped out. I was going to love harder, live freer, cry less and laugh more. I cried more this year than I had in any years passed. And in April, when I was at an all time low, lower than I;ve ever been in my life (and trust me I;ve had depressing moments in my years), I remember telling someone that the only thing left to go wrong with this year is for someone to

 die. Be careful what you wish for ... in August, the 14th to be exact, 4 days after my birthday, I lost the one man who has consistently been there for me .. that is until Alzhemier's took him away frmo me, and then Death's cluthes embraced him. Just thinking about it still makes water come to my eyes ... when every man I have known in my life, including my father walked away, Grandpa, my partner in crime, my candy caper partner, was always there .... I do not know how to fill that void ...

except with memories. I have chosen to forget the phases of Alzhiemer's when he replaced me with some woman named Sarah Tuiit that no one seems to know ... and I will remember the advice, conversations and good times...

that being said, I will try to look back at 2010 and remember the highlights .. travelling, meeting new people, falling in love (and out of it), seeing a dream come to life in the name of "When A Woman Moans", feeling inspired via books, movies, people ...

But most importantly, I will continue to remind myself, that I need only to measure myself to myself by myself. I will remember that I run with no one but my own dreams, ambitions, and inhibitions ... I will remember that each day is a gift to be lived, enjoyed and experienced ... and for that I am grateful ...