Heartbeats

Repeat, please.

Mom, There's A Penis In My Pot

I've been watching these little "thingies" growing in the soil of my rubber plant for the last week or so. When they first showed the top of their heads, I thought my plant must be growing a new stem. Strange, I thought as they are bright yellow and look nothing like the stem already towering above it. Today I realized that I am pretty sure it no longer looks like the start of a stem. It is one giant clusterfuck of bright yellow penises. Multiple sizes and shapes, growing steadily as we speak.

What, the...

Clearly this one's way over my head, so I dial my mother who thankfully is of the green thumb variety. She's not home. I ponder these strange happenings some more and watch an episode of the IT Crowd to distract my mind from thinking of... what I was thinking of. She calls back. I explain the situation as best I could without laughing, or mentioning the P word.

"Ahhh", she says, "You have a fungi". Immediately, I feel the colour drain from my face and my innards contort in discust. This was no longer a matter of simple curiousity and amusement. This was war. Some infectious contagious monster was living not only in my plant's home but my home... spreading it's toxic plague! I DON'T THINK SO! I took that sucker in one quick pull and out the door he went.

Unfortunately there is another one starting to grow and I don't know how many are going to spring up...so she suggested to remove all the soil, wash the plant with warm water and fill it with fresh dirt. All should be well by then. One would hope. Mother knows best.

I'm hoping this FUNGI did arrive in the soil, as I was informed that the spore of the fungus could have floated through the air and landed in the pot. It is right next to the window after all. Or worse, it could have already been inside the house and bright yellow penises could be sprouting up all over the place. The floor, the couch, the kitchen table. In that case I'm on the next train outta here!

The Small Words In My Body

Believer I am, but admit it:
words will not cure everything.
Breathless unless in the mouth,
on a page, they are crushed black spiders.
They have nothing to do with the details
that make a life.
Every language is different and none exact.

Close the books then.
They cannot cure this.
On the shelf they clench
each other, spines rigid with silence.

This beaten leather bag,
my body, these buckets of blood and bone.
They are my own.
There's no way to drain or erase
myself.

Openings do not close.
My blood writes a story
I cannot believe.

I crash in a sea of white sheets.
I sharpen my scissors
and select a knife.
I clip and slice
the small words from here.

And the splitting cells,
the tale whispering in my blood
cannot protest
but shreds to silence.
I scrape out the scrawl, this mistake.

As with my kinder nightmares,
I forget just as I wake.

By Karen Connelly

Crabnapped

Leaving tranquility behind this weekend, I hopped the ferry and sailed across the Pacific to the mad-rat-race of Vancouver... to catch up with my mother visiting from the Prairies, my big sis & her kids from the Okanagan and a menagerie of local comical characters also known as 'the Relatives'.

We met at Crescent Beach for Greek at Pelagos, overpriced frozen milk at a sidewalk shop and a frolic in the sunny wet sand. My nieces had not yet seen the ocean, so this in itself was a huge thrill for them. Especially when the tide went out and we could walk along the sandbar.

Imagine their surprise while washing their newly collected shells on my uncle's patio, when out crawls a crab. Of course, this was the highlight of the evening as they fondled and harassed this poor discombobulated (I love that word) little crab. My niece insisted on taking it home with her to put it in her fish tank. She didn't believe us when we told her it would not survive the long ride to Kelowna, let alone being in a fresh water fish tank with other, larger, hungrier fish. We tried to explain that it needed salty ocean water... but her solution was to pour some tap water into the cup and dump in some table salt. Kids, they are so creative!

We awoke next morning to find the crab alive and well (somewhat) and it began again. The arguing, the crying, the insisting. Finally, she agreed that her aunt would take the crab back to the ferry with her and let him out on the beach. The things I get suckered into. Deep down though, the animal lover in me was relieved. Phew! All for a little crab.

They say their goodbyes and I crabsit the crab for a good portion of the rest of the day after they've left... Arriving at the ferry, I find that there is no way to get down to the water - as it was all fenced in. And of course, I could not just throw it off the side into the deep waters as it was still a young lad and the waters were churning. The crab had already been through so much!

So I carry my friend onboard and we sit up top in the sun. I read my book and take a break to open the hole-punched lid periodicly to check on the little guy, shielding him from the cold wind. By now, we've bonded. I tell him it's not much further. He knows I've lost my mind and other passengers look at me oddly. However, it is my mission of the day to get him to his new home safely. Once again, the area to the water is fenced off... so we drive, stopping along the way at one rocky access. However, in flip-flops, getting down there was treacherous, so we continued on to a more suitable location. Surprisingly enough, the crab survived the entire ordeal to find himself swimming away in the cool salty ocean waters of Nanaimo.

He didn't look back.

"As he got closer, he noticed that the figure was that of a young man, and that what he was doing was not dancing at all. The young man was reaching down to the shore, picking up small objects, and throwing them into the ocean. He came closer still and called out "Good morning! May I ask what it is that you are doing?" The young man paused, looked up, and replied "Throwing starfish into the ocean." "I must ask, then, why are you throwing starfish into the ocean?" asked the somewhat startled wise man. To this, the young man replied, "The sun is up and the tide is going out. If I don't throw them in, they'll die."

Upon hearing this, the wise man commented, "But, young man, do you not realize that there are miles and miles of beach and there are starfish all along every mile? You can't possibly make a difference!" At this, the young man bent down, picked up yet another starfish, and threw it into the ocean. As it met the water, he said, "It made a difference for that one."

Battlefield

Thought I had it mapped out but I guess I didn't, this fuckin' black cloud
still follows me around but it's time to exorcise these demons
These muh'fuckers are doin jumpin jacks now

Is this the edge of sanity? Destruction. Heart on fire, a blazing pile of sizzling muscle. The smell of burning flesh and bone fills the stagnant air. Hot. Smoke. Black clouds hang low. Smouldering sinews once beating, now charred. The soul lingers above looking down, hopeful of something worth saving. And the fire rages on...I've never been one to which making decisions come easy. I consider it one of my biggest flaws.... though should I put some more thought into it, I would likely come up with others more enormous in proportion!

When I was "younger", I made decisions based on my immaturity...flown by the seat of my pants. I didn't think about the consequences of my actions... I just did it and paid later. Smartest thing to do? No. But did I learn from it? Yes. Sort of. Kind of? I don't know really. I would like to think that I have.

As I've grown "older" (old, young, it's all relative), I noticed that it takes me ages to decide upon something. Am I now overanalyzing a situation? Making things more complicated than they really are? It is a conscious choice I make to choose to make a choice. I have to force myself to just pick something. Pick one. Pick the other. Go with your gut. Go with your heart. Go with your head. Go bury your head under the sand. Do something. Anything.

I hate that this inability to choose has so much power over my life. And it's not because I don't want to choose, it's usually because I see the good and tend to overlook the bad. And the bad is what ultimately consumes. I'm stuck with this perpetual habit or curse should I say. Unable to choose, or choosing not to choose. Someone once told me years ago that not choosing is also a choice. Wise words those are. What am I afraid of? Why can I not choose? What is holding me back? I think I know what the right choice to make is, yet I do not make it. Why?

This is insanity. Doing the same thing, over and over again.

I pinch myself to find I am wide awake and screaming.