Monthly Archives: August 2014

Some illustration work. Done with vermillion-red, emerald, and sepia; ink-and-ye-olde-quill.
Character used with permission.

“Mordikai Garaile – Before the Scars”



The Monotonous Sound of Peace

The world creaks on its axis.
It is a discontent that sometimes stills my hand, mid-stroke.
It is a pitted, spinning merry- go-’round in an amphitheater of stars.
It is not a secret sound.
The patrons that live in the rafters offer their rusted cries:
Round and round, merrily and merrily!
The bent ushers raise their hand-me-down rifles and blast away.
The flighty patrons fall.
The scraping, for a moment, is drowned by gunfire.
The ushers begin to shoot at nothing.
The crows cannot hear the creaking even in their graves.
My hand resumes.
The world groans on its axis.
But sometimes I cannot hear it.


Throw back your head
Dismember those hesitations
Those self-disparaging hints.
You are not fifty years
Stuck in adolescence
Your thoughts ache.
He takes your hand
She cups your face
You are struck with it.
You arch like a bow
The arrow releases


The legs of our journeys intersected
At first at once, then again in surprise.
It wasn’t until we ran parallel
That I discovered the truth in our paths;
That we would only cross and come close
And, like asymptotes, we’d always be
Just that much apart and nothing else.
This wasn’t some terrible revelation.
We’re not ourselves.
We are each other.
A yin/yang dichotomy.
To intersect, but never to converge.
Convergence would dissolve we into me;
Us into I.
Better to have some adventures apart
And have new tales to tell
Than be stuck forever, miserable
And traveling the same
Agreed-upon road.

There You Are

There you were, as you are now,
Except there wasn’t a filled book between us
And we didn’t pass the pen to each other every other turn.
You were healing and I was breaking
And we could teach each other so much
About one another without so much tedious introspection.
We could fall into one another.
We could pour ourselves onto the floor.
And we wouldn’t dry our bodies after each dip,
Hoping something of the other would stick.
The right one that you make so many mistakes to find
We could find in each other.
Partners. Puzzle pieces. Tired metaphors.
There you were
And you didn’t know our story yet and neither did I
And you debated about even starting.
Would it even be worth it?
To trade one love lost for another lost love,
Would it even be worth it?
You debated about the ending before even seeing the start.
But I told you yes.
I wouldn’t take back that word for my world.
There you are, as you were then,
Except now there is a filled book between us
And we don’t pass the pen between ourselves anymore.
We stare at the finished volume of what’s written
And you debate if it’s worth a sequel.
But I don’t say anything,
And you already know my answer.

The Bird Made Some Thingys

I made some little bags! Each one got better with each rendition. And even though every subsequent one was more complex than the last, the process became faster and faster.

I usually have no idea how the final design for a bag will turn out. I go to the craft store, pick out things that catch my eye, then organize them by theme or texture when I’m surrounded by epic music and rain sounds at home (which are actual YouTube playlists, believe it or not.)

Then, possessed by somebody who knows how to sew better than me, I thread a needle and begin. The fabric comes together in four layers and the thread is doubled for strength. The only weak part lies in the pull string, usually.

Fifteen minutes passes and the bag is turned right-side-out and I awake from my trance, baffled that something has come out of my absence besides my own consciousness.

Besides it being a time-suck if I invest in a lot of bags, it’s also therapeutic. I disappear for the time it takes for me to complete the bag. I think about nothing, not even the music or the audio book (if one is on.) I don’t even focus on the sewing. There’s no secret joy to be had… only an idle sort of peace.



I made these bags to maybe give to friends or to hold potpourri. But now I realize I don’t have as many friends as I have bags, and not enough potpourri to fill the extras… Maybe I should start on making clothing again? This Jay is without purpose yet again, it seems.