Tag: poetry

Chapter Fifty – Ace of Swords

by Jamieson Wolf, posted in A Tarot Guide, Memoir, Someone Else’s Life

I had given the pages to Lisa ten minutes before, and I’d already had two cigarettes.

I hadn’t written a short story for such a long time. I had filled page after page with poetry, bit and pieces of dialogue, but I hadn’t written anything close to a short story since my days in high school. I hadn’t felt that I had anything to say as a story, but there were too many words in my mind, too many syllables sneaking past my lips that I had to find a way to get them out of me.

A story seemed like a good way to use as many words and letters as possible so that I could relieve the pressure that even poetry couldn’t ease. For every word I put down, ten more came to the surface. They didn’t fit in my poems, and it was as if these words found the form of poetry too confining, all shoved into form and shape. When I wrote poetry, I tried to follow the flow of the poem and convey what I wanted to say in as few words as possible. These words felt different. I could hear conversations between two people, and I knew that those words didn’t belong in a poem.

I needed to cut through the cloud of words if I was to get any kind of peace. Opening my current journal, I wrote the first thing that came to mind. It was a short story about a boy named Oliver that didn’t believe in magic, and yet magic was all around him. A troll showed up under his bed and the troll had a flatulence problem and kept farting throughout the story. When I was writing the story, I wrote what wanted to come out and had a fantastic time. Yet, when the story was done, I thought it was silly and stupid. Part of me had been reluctant to show it to Lisa, but she had seen me scribbling away and she wanted to know what I had written.

“You know, this is as good as Charles de Lint,” she said.

I blushed and mumbled my thanks, trying to find words that could express my joy at having Lisa compare my story to Charles de Lint. I knew that she meant it, too and how much she revered his work. Both Lisa and I loved Charles de Lint. My biggest influences for wanting to write in the first place were authors like Stephen King, Tanya Huff and Charles de Lint. I wanted to tell my own stories, but I didn’t think I had anything new to say. Lisa had pushed aside my worries. “Jamieson, every story has been told already. You just have to find your voice and tell you own.”

“If every story has already been told, then why would anyone want to read my writing?” I had asked her.

“Because they will have been waiting to hear what you have to say.”

I hadn’t been so sure, but I had sat down and written my story anyways, regardless of what the internal critic yelled at me. When I got to the end of Oliver and the Trolls, I wrote down the beginning of a new short story. I didn’t know where the words were coming from, but I didn’t want to stop their flow. As Lisa had sat there reading my story and flipping through the pages, I had told myself that even if she didn’t like it, I would keep writing. I knew that I had a story to tell.

“Seriously, Jamieson. I mean it. I mean, I love your poetry but it’s all dark and moody. This story is the first time that I’ve read something of yours that’s funny. I mean, you’re a brilliant poet and I love the spells you write, but this is the first time that you’ve done something funny. It’s so good. You got dark and full of shadows down pat, but I think you have a real gift with humour.”

That surprised me. Up until I had written the story, I hadn’t even thought of writing something funny, but it’s what came out. “I wanted to write about a boy discovering magic,” I said. “There’s no reason that magic has to be huge and terrifying. It’s all around us if we have the eyes to look.”

“Jamieson, the biggest magic in the world if laughter. I know that this story will make people laugh and there is so much magic in that. You need to try writing more. What happens to Oliver next?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, why not find out?” She clicked open her lighter and lit a cigarette for each of us and passed one to me. “I know that all artistic folk like you exist on another plain from the rest of us, you have to in order to hear what you do and be so driven to create. But I’m glad you cut through the doom and gloom a little and found your voice.”

She took a puff of her cigarette and let out a huge plume of smoke and I couldn’t help being reminded of the caterpillar from Alice and Wonderland who spouted wisdom in the form of a riddle. I wondered if I had finally found my voice, or at least another facet of it.

I thought of Alice going down the rabbit hole and I knew that by cutting through the fog of self doubt and writing something different from what I was used to, I was going down my own rabbit hole.

I wondered who I would be when I found my way out on the other side.

Chapter Eleven – Justice

by Jamieson Wolf, posted in A Tarot Guide

There was a justice on the street that hadn’t been in my life before.

In my life that had been, bullies sometimes went unchecked, those that were different were hurt and often there was no way to find retribution. The street held a kind of law and an unspoken rule of conduct. If someone was down, you held them up. It someone had been hurt by someone else, you stood up for them. I’d come to realize in a short time that you protected those that you were close to. It was just something you did without thinking about it.

Fast friendships formed and these people cemented themselves into your life and it was like you knew them right away. It was like this with Angel. I hadn’t known her at all when I had first met her, but now I searched her out whenever I was at YSB or the square. She filled my life with light, and I tended to gravitate towards it, not to drink from it but so I could bask in her glow.

It was healing to be next to her and her warmth filled over into my life. She would often draw her chalk art on the pavement of the square and put a hat out to collect change. Her art was so beautiful and lifelike that it looked like it could rise up out off the pavement and come to life. I was amazed that she could create such beautiful art with chalk on something as hard and unfriendly as the pavement. It seemed like a wonderful kind of balance whenever Angel worked the chalk into the cold pavement and brought it to life. Angel found life in the world that hadn’t been there before, and I marveled as I watched her work.

“Did you want to write something?” She asked.

I shrugged. “Well, nothing I write will be as good as your art.”

She stopped drawing and gave me a stern look. “Don’t say that. You’re a beautiful writer and your poetry is incredible. Why don’t you write a poem to go with my drawing. You can take your time with it. Here,” she handed me a piece of white chalk

I held it for a moment, watching her bring a woman to life within a forest of leaves. She looked out at me from within the window that Angel had created for her, and I could see her looking up at me. I looked into the woman’s eyes and began to write her story, scratching the white chalk onto the pavement.

I watched as both of our creations came to life together, my words taking inspiration from her. “She looks like she’s looking up at me from behind a window.” I told her. “Or like she’s outside looking within.”

Angel nodded and worked window lines in front of the chalk woman’s face. Only a few lines had been added, but it brought the chalk painting alive for me, made the final words of my poem come out and tumble from my fingers.

“There,” Angel said. We sat back and looked at our piece of art, my words a balance to her world of colours. I hadn’t noticed, but the amount of money in the hat had grown quite a bit. When the day was over, Angel handed me half.

“I can’t take that,” I said. “I wrote my poem for fun.”

“I painted my lady in the window for fun, too. We both worked hard in our own way and should both get paid for what we made. Fuck, I made more today than had it just been me painting. We helped each other.” She put the money into my hand and folded my fingers over it. “I mean, you didn’t see the people going to walk by my art, but they stopped to read your words and what you had written. We did it together, Jamie.”

We gathered up our windfall and headed towards McDonalds on Rideau Street. We could treat ourselves to something. I usually got a Fillet o’Fish and Angel would get nuggets or a Big Mac. We could eat in the restaurant and be near a washroom, pretend that we were normal, just for a moment.

I remember getting our food and thinking about the poem I had written. Eventually, both the drawing and my poem would be gone, never to exist again. It’s not like Angel and I could take a copy of her drawing, and I hadn’t thought to write down a copy of the words I had left behind.

I was okay with that.

It was our give to those that had given us the money we had in our pockets. The art and the words belonged to them, and we had left our magic in the streets. I wondered if others would be guided by the flash of the woman’s blue eyes or the curve of the vowels I had penned.

In that moment, I thought of the chalk dust we had marked the pavement with like stars, waiting to lead others to where they would find their magic.

Chapter Ten – The Wheel of Fortune

by Jamieson Wolf, posted in A Tarot Guide

Rainbow was a consummate host.

He made sure that I was comfortable, and we became close. There was nothing romantic between us. Truthfully, it was just good to have a friend. I knew a lot of people on the street, but there weren’t many that I could call friend, at least not yet. It felt good to have a friend in a world that was so new to me.

I gave too much of myself away to other people. I had always been told that this was one of my failings. I couldn’t help it; I was hardwired that way, the eternal peacekeeper. It was the role I had been used to playing because it had been safer.  

I also knew when to keep myself safe and balance that with the role of a peacekeeper. I had put up a wall with Shades and I had been building it for a while. It was a way of keeping everyone happy and ensure my safety. I had been taught to do this since I was young. Growing up, there needed to be a someone to keep the peace with my father. It was easier than the alternative which happened all too often.

It was wonderful to have someone in my life who I could be myself with and not worry about romantic entanglements, protecting myself and trying to look for what was underneath so that I could see what the other person was hiding. Sunshine was completely himself and I had never known anyone like him before. I felt safe to be with him and didn’t have to hide anything about myself. I didn’t want to tell him my life story, but his behaviour towards me let me know that I could if I wanted to.

One evening, we were both scribbling away in our journals. He had given me a spare one of his as I had filled up my notebook, even with the extra paper. “I still think that my journals are going to be published some day,” he said softly over the music of pen scratching. “I wonder what kind of people will read them? Who they will be? Did you ever wonder who will read your words?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know what story I want to tell.”

He shrugged. “You have to let yourself live, Jamie. You think too much. I can see it in your eyes. You’re always trying to think past the next few steps, what comes next. It must be so tiring. You have to just live day by day. Don’t worry about tomorrow before you live today.” He handed lit a cigarette and passed one to me, lit one for himself. They were slim 100’s in a gold and black carton. I felt fancy and so literary when I smoked these cigarettes. They reminded me of black and white film stars.

I sat there looking at the blank page in front of me. I knew that I wanted to start a new cycle for myself. I also knew that I had been lucky to find Sunshine when I arrived on the streets. He had been a friend from the word go. I looked at him writing out of the corner of my eyes as I tried writing some words. He was completely himself and I knew that if I was going to make it out here on my own that I would have to look at myself in a different way.

I was not a victim in any of this. Though the place I had known as my home had been taken from me and nothing was like it had been, that didn’t mean that this was horrible. I had found safety with Sunshine and I had found my freedom again. I had left home on my own when I was sixteen and I been okay. I could do this again. I didn’t have to be afraid anymore. I couldn’t be afraid if I was going to make it and the thing of it was that I knew I could make it and that I had already made it by not going back to my stepfather grovelling at his feet for him to take me back into a house that had never really been a home anyways.

Looking down at the paper in front of me, I drew a door. I flipped to the other side of the page and drew an open doorway. The smoke from my cigarette made it seem like there was fog coming from within my words and all I had to do was see past the mist to find where my words had been hiding.

Taking a drag from my cigarette, I put my pen to a clean sheet of paper and let my words free.

Chapter Nine – The Hermit

by Jamieson Wolf, posted in A Tarot Guide

Sunshine lived with two other guys in a two-bedroom apartment.

It was this squat building painted a burgundy too dark to be considered gentle and there was yellow trim everywhere on the outside of the building. The building looked tired, but damn it was trying. “It’s not much,” Sunshine said. “I get a large room with a window that looks out into the alley. There are sometimes that I like to sit there and listen to the music that the evening has to offer.”

He gave the old building a wink. “Still, she can be temperamental like all old places are.” Giving me first a shrug and then a saucy wink. “At least she’s trying!”

The lobby was a one room with a jumble of mailboxes that looked strangely like mouths. I was reminded of the doorknobs from The Labyrinth for some reason and wondered what kind of a world I was about to enter. There was graffiti in the stairwell that had been there for years. The words had faded to the point where they were unintelligible. In certain sections of the stairs, it looked as if a painter’s pallet had exploded: the stairs were covered in bold blacks and yellows, arcs of magenta, vibrant oranges faded to the dusk of dusk itself.

To my mind, only the fey folk lived here or those desperate to live. It felt like home to me right away. My stepfather had taught me to recognize the signs of what had once been a good building. This building may not look pretty, but I could see what the building had once been underneath the grime, crumbling stone and faded windows. She had been a jewel in her day. The wood held the stories of these people that had come before me. I may not be here very long, I thought, but it would be home while I was.

Sunshine’s roommates nodded at me when Sunshine and me came into the apartment. “This is Dan and Mike. They’re nice. Their room is that way. They don’t want anyone knowing that they are a couple, so mums the word, honey.”

We passed by a kitchen, the bathroom and then ended up in Sunshine’s room. He was right, it was a spacious room and the window to the outside world was huge. I could see the deep blue of the dusky sky and it brought me comfort. “Come here, honey. Look, it’s like a window box. You can even sit in there and write. I like to do that. I write in my journal sometime, you know? I know that it will be published someday.”

He went over to his stuff and pulled out a roll of foam. “I don’t have a lot for you to sleep on. My mother got me a futon, but it’s only a single. I can give you this to sleep on? I’m sorry honey, I wish I had more.”

I took the foam with reverence. “Thank you, it’s more than enough. You’ve given me so much already.”

“You go on and make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back. I’m going to see if those two guys have left any food in the house.”

While he was gone, I took a seat in the window. If I wanted to, I could have opened it and dangled my feet out into the alleyway. Instead, I was content to sit there looking at a slice of the moon that I could see. There was a haze around the building that seemed to take on more life the darker the sky got. It’s like the building wanted to shine for all those that might need her.

I sat there and tried to focus on my own light into my words. I sat there, holding my pen and paper in hand and just enjoyed the moment instead. There was no other sound except my own breathing and Sunshine in the kitchen.

I knew that the world held the dark and the light and that I had a choice to make. I could let what happened with Shades dim my light, I could disappear into the uncertainty of this world and let myself become lost within it. What did I have anymore but my own will? I could choose to let that go, too and embrace what may come.

Or I could choose to dust myself off, get up and not have my life determined for me by a man. I was in a place of comfort with someone I trusted, and I hadn’t had that with Shades. I thought of the steps that I had taken and the path I had chosen for myself. I would see this path through to the end, no matter where it took me.

As I looked up at the sliver of the moon I could see in a dusky blue sky, I promised myself this.

Sunshine came back into the room holding two mugs. “Good news, honey! They didn’t finish everything off.” His smile was infectious as he held up the two mugs. “Chicken noodle soup!”

Chapter Seven – The Chariot

by Jamieson Wolf, posted in A Tarot Guide

I spent a lot of time at the YSB.

It was a home away from home really and gave me a place to get away from Shades when he was in one of his moods which was happening more and more lately.

The YSB was a haven of safety in a world that felt new and frightening. It was a place where the waters seemed to stand still around me and I didn’t feel like I was going to be taken out to sea. Whenever I was with Shades or out on the streets, I hear the steady ebb, flow and wave of water around me and within. My emotions were uncertain of where this path would take me. The waters only calmed when I put pen to paper.

I had taken a notepad and pen with me when I left home and I had taken to writing in it when I found myself lost. I would often go through the tarot deck that my brother had given me and wrote down my thoughts about certain cards within the Ancient Egyptian Tarot. It helped me to understand them. The scratching of the pen would calm the waves, and it was like the words were leading me home to myself.

I would sit in one of the chairs at the YSB, talking to friends, reading books that I found on the bookshelves, delving further into my tarot deck and writing. Interspersed through the nots about tarot and my thoughts, I would write poems, casting my words like stones upon the paper.

Words had been my comfort for so long. I had found my way in the world through them, and I had written voraciously since I was a child. I had to write; it was the way I found my voice when I felt that I didn’t have one. All throughout high school, my writing gave me the comfort I needed. I didn’t even realize I wanted to be a writer, or that I was one. Writing and words were just part of who I was. My pen had been quiet, but I had begun to take the journal out from time to time. There were only a handful of pages left, and I had to keep my writing small, but even so, they came out in a small torrent, and they carried me along, letting me know that they had my back, much like my cards. The words let me know that spirit was always there.

I looked at the pages left in my journal and wondered what I would fill those pages with, what words would fall out of me and find their way together.

One of the workers of the Youth Services Bureau stopped by my table, a woman named Rebecca. I later found out that all of the people that worked there were social workers. They were some of the very best people in my life at the time. They took care of me, each in their different way. Some would sit outside with us while we smoked cigarettes and others would walk around making sure we had food, or we had been able to take a shower.

She gave me a kind look. “What are you reading?”

“It’s my journal. I’ve been writing in it, but I’m running out of room.”

“Well, that’s awful,” she said. “You don’t want to stop a story or a poem in midsentence.”

I shrugged and gave her a weak smile. “There’s not much I can do. I’m running out of paper.”

She looked at my face and she could see the longing there. The pen lay on the table in front of me, but I didn’t reach for it. She saw my hand twitch and gave me a smile. “Hold on a second, I have an idea.”

Rebecca walked away for a moment and rummaged in the desk where the social worker on duty would sit. She returned a few minutes later with a few sheets of paper. She had folded them in half. When she handed them to me, it felt like she was giving me water or the breath of life. I could hear my pen click in joy on the table.

“You can’t stop story before it’s done,” she said. “You can fit them in the back of your journal so that you can keep writing. If you need more, just let me know.”

I nodded. “Thank you,” I told her, knowing no other words.

I slipped the paper into my journal and let the torrent of words take me forward where they would.