Author: Cadence Poetica

Cadence Poeticahttps://cadencepoetica.wordpress.comI am a lot of different things in one package. I am a geek, a poet, a thinker, a seeker. I am passionate, curious, resourceful, stubborn, independent. I'm an "extroverted introvert". I am a spiritual person. I believe in destiny, I believe in fate. I want to be a better person. I want to help make the world a better place. I see life as a journey, an opportunity for constant growth and learning. I like sushi and sea turtles, a good cup of coffee, fluffy cats, the shuffle function on my ipod, a walk on a beach on a grey day, a thunderstorm, a nap in the shade on a warm afternoon… Simple things make me happy, small moments of grace make me smile. :)

blog: could you be loved

I know how to love with every fibre of my being. I know how to nurture and build. I know how to be loyal. I know how to be the one that hustles to keep the ship afloat. I know how to forgive indiscretions big and small. I know how to hang on with tenacity until what I’ve manifested for the relationship comes true, or it all goes up in flames. There are no half measures with me.

But it’s not about that. It’s about wanting it to be my turn for once. It’s about wanting to experience something real and meaningful again before I shuffle off this mortal coil.

I want to be loved fiercely. I want to take someone’s breath away. I want someone to think I’m so amazing that they wonder how they got so lucky. I don’t want or need perfection, I just need commitment. I need to feel like someone out there thinks I’m worth taking a risk for. I need to know I matter. That I’m seen.

But even as I envision the way I want someone to feel for me, I know I’m not worthy of it… maybe at one stage I was, but now I’m just old and broken with nothing of value to exchange for being made the central object of another person’s desire. And so I just give up, content to sink back in a numbness that only serves to make me more numb, more disconnected from this weary, fucked up life.

…

You create these fantasies in your head that you are worthy of love
That someone somewhere could look at you, really see
And right away say, “Yes there! That one’s The One!”

You capture every look, every gesture, every humankindness shown
And pin it like butterflies with its ephemeral wings under glass
You think these will keep you warm when the bitter winds of loneliness moan.

blog: cvnt

I want to talk for a minute about the word “cunt”. And sorry, yes, this will be a sweary post.

It’s a paradoxical word, at the same time acting as both what is arguably the most offensive swear word and as a word that is quintessentially and nostalgically Australian. “He’s a sick cunt!” is one of the highest compliments you can pay someone in some circles of Straya, and it works well as a placeholder – “that cunt of a thing” – or as a reminder to someone acting a bit dickish to “don’t be a cunt”. Women use it to describe their sex in a “take the power back” kind of way. Couples engaged in sex acts might consensually use the word in their play.

And that’s all fine. I’ve become somewhat desensitised to all of those uses, and then some. I’ve dropped a few C-bombs myself. But let me make one thing perfectly clear: if you are a man and you call a woman a cunt out of anger or because you are all up in your feels, THAT IS NOT OK. Not ever! That act of gender-based violence is a HUGE red flag to what else you might be capable of saying or doing in the heat of the moment.

If a man ever calls me a cunt and actually means it as an insult, he’s dead to me. If a man calls another woman a cunt in my hearing, rest assured he is going to cop an earful. If a man calls another woman a cunt while speaking to me, I am immediately done. There is no excuse for it.

Even without looking too deeply into all the misogynistic connotations of taking a beautiful and natural part of a woman’s body, the part that brings us pleasure and helps to create life, and turning it into something to be treated as dirty, shameful and something to be ridiculed and hated…

Even just looking at it in its simplest terms, men use that word to subjugate and instil fear in women, to put us beneath them, to reduce us to our genitals and oppress us. They use it when lashing out because we didn’t give them what they wanted or respond in a way they wanted us to. It’s a ‘little boy having a tantrum’ word, but we all know how destructive little boys can be when they are challenged with big feelings.

If you still don’t understand what I’m saying, take this as an invitation to do some reflection on the power of words in the arena of gender-based violence. And maybe, for some of you, an invitation to do better.

blog: life is but a dream

I have very vivid dreams; a lot of the time my dreams are like movies in my head where I’m not represented in them at all, and there’s no deeper meaning. I can tell the ‘mouthfeel’ of these dreams are different. I watch fictional characters react to situations and I wake up thinking ‘damn that would make a great story’. I’ve even tried to write those stories, but there’s never enough meat to flesh them out.

Other times my dreams have very overt references to my life. The kinds of dreams you wake up from and know exactly what they mean, why those themes would have been on your mind, and what (if anything) you’re supposed to take from them.

Then there are others with meanings that are older, deeper, harder to pick apart. Recurring themes that keep popping up in my head; my brain’s way of communicating the issues I struggle with chronically.

One recurring theme I have is around houses and possessions left behind. For example:

I will dream I left behind an apartment in the States with a lot of stuff in it (I actually did leave things behind when I moved, and have no idea what happened to it all or even what exactly I left behind), or I dream I am in the US trying to locate or gain access to the apartment I had when I was there last.
I enter a building where I used to rent a room and suddenly can’t remember if I got all my stuff when I left, but can’t find which room I used to have so I can check. Or I’ll remember that I DID leave stuff behind, and gain access to the room, but the room will be empty.
I’m at my parents’ house which has a granny flat or large garage where my stuff is stored. Sometimes there’s urgency because they’re moving / have moved out of the house. If I go in the granny flat/garage, it’s either too dark to see what’s in all the boxes, or I can see it but it’s all so jumbled up that my mind can’t really process the actual things in the room.
I’m renting a new house, when suddenly I realise I still have a lot of stuff at the old house that never got moved across. Or I have access to an old house that I used to rent, and I go there but it’s empty and everything’s different.
I’m renting an old house that is literally falling down around me (ceiling caving in, walls with huge cracks in them, water damage and flooding, etc). This is slightly different in that there’s no element of owning material things, but I still include it in my ‘house’ dreams.

In most of these dreams there’s a sense of things that have been left behind but not a clear sense of what those things actually are, so no real way to tell if I’ve lost something valuable or not. And it all revolves around housing, and usually family. Houses in dreams often represent your ‘self’ or how you view yourself, so to me these dreams are about how unresolved issues from my past impact my current sense of self or areas where elements of my past are holding me back.

A therapist would have a field day with me, haha.

blog: diary of a depression

– TW: Depression

1. (Sunset)
As I sit here on my front porch, looking at the sunset-pink sky, I count my wins from the day. I count them methodically, robotically, not expecting much. I count them to keep from feeling like a failure. I count them to keep the shadows at bay. I count them one by one, taking deep breaths in as I name my triumphs –

… I am surprised at how many I find.

2. (Chores)
I’m feeling a little better this week. I’ve vacuumed the floor. I’ve cleaned out my fridge. There was expired food in there from months back, highly perishable stuff – it’s a wonder I haven’t died of salmonella or botulism. I didn’t know yoghurt could turn that colour.

It was not pretty.
But it’s done.

3. (Social Media)
I feel better now that I’ve isolated myself, cut out a lot of the superficial interactions so prevalent on social media. Doom scrolling, karma farming, etc. People who only know how to contribute by tearing something down. People who are only listening for their turn to speak. The online world is full of thirsty bitches, yet the constant flood of content paradoxically leaves us parched.

4. (Meme Culture)
Unfortunately a boycott of social media also cuts me off from potential new connections. It cuts me off from friends. I don’t mean to offend anyone, or imply that their feelings towards me and our friendships are shallow, or that our interactions are superficial.

But when a meme post gets 32 likes, and a cry for help none, you have to wonder…

5. (Friendship)
I think about those people who, if you were to ask if I thought we were friends, I’d say – yes, sure, of course, I’ve known them forever…

When I realise I haven’t physically seen a lot of those people for a couple of years, in some cases maybe even close to a decade, it raises questions around whether or not I’m just sentimental, clingy and delusional. Am I holding on to something that isn’t even there anymore?

6. (Stigma)
The stigma of mental health is still all too real. We’re supposed to use euphemisms, say things like, “I’m not feeling very well”, “I’m struggling a little lately”, “I’ve been having some intrusive thoughts”. We’re supposed to keep a brave face at work, around family, in public. We wear our masks like armour, until they become our actual faces.

7. (Executive Dysfunction)
We’re not supposed to admit how hard it is just get out of bed some mornings. That it’s been four days since we last showered, or that despite having a fridge full of food, our daily intake has been a donut and some cheese crackers because that’s all we had the strength to muster.

8. (Grace and Woe)
I was born on a Tuesday, but I was born a day early. Because Tuesday’s child is full of grace, but Wednesday’s child is full of woe, and my earliest memories are forged from chaos and destruction.

9. (Weekends Are The Hardest)
It’s only the start of the week, and I don’t know what this one will hold for me. I don’t really make plans anymore, I’m too hard on myself when things don’t happen the way I hoped they would… I don’t reach out to anyone, I’ve tried but everyone is always so busy with their own things and then I just end up feeling like a bother or an obligation. I don’t mind being alone… I’ve always been alone.

I might take myself on a date.

10. (Hold On)
Hope is a powerhouse word; so much strength resides on those four letters. I hope I can get a handle on work this week. I hope my household stays healthy. I hope people will be kind to me. I hope I will be kind to myself. I hope I can hold on to hope, and put some wins on the board.

Hold on… please hold on to Hope.

blog: stop telling me that it’s easy

People often say things when giving advice – “It’s easy”, “If I can do it, you can do it”, “You just need to try harder”, “You’ll get it next time”, “If you wanted it badly enough, you would find a way”. I get that they mean well. But sometimes people just CAN’T do things, or at least, can’t do them as easily. Everyone’s ability levels are different. We know that. Why does our attempt at support not reflect that?

If you tell someone that the thing they’re struggling with is ‘easy’, if you say there’s no reason why they shouldn’t be able to do it, then by that logic if they continue to struggle, you are saying THEY are the problem. There’s a good chance they’ll internalise that and feel like a failure, especially if it comes from someone whose advice they trust.

A better form of verbal encouragement would look like, “I’ve done something similar in the past, can I share some tips I learned along the way?” Or, “I’m sorry you’re struggling, what part are you finding most difficult and how can I help with that?” It’s okay to acknowledge someone’s shortcomings, if they themselves are acknowledging it and seeking help. It’s way more honest and authentic and builds more trust than some empty platitude.

Another radical idea would be to offer practical support instead of advice, but we’ve wandered so very far from the concept of ‘it takes a village’ and now it’s every man for himself. Nobody wants to ‘feed a man a fish’ because we’ve been taught that letting people work things out for themselves is more beneficial in the long run. But the reality is that some people won’t have a long run, if they can’t overcome some of the hurdles at the start of the race.

Words are important. The language we use matters. It can be be hard to train ourselves out of using phrases and auto responses we’ve used and heard others use our whole lives. But to truly empower someone you have to meet them where they’re at, and let them know that you’ve got their back win or lose. That’s what really counts.

Change is hard. Growth as a person can be uncomfortable. But finding better ways to support each other is worth it.

blog: i miss kissing

I miss kissing. To be fair, I was never a huge fan of snogging for hours on end. But it’s been years since I’ve had someone to kiss who also wanted to kiss me.

I miss kisses hello and goodbye, daily kisses with lips that press passionately against mine. I miss the feeling of gently pulling someone’s tongue, warm and wet, into my mouth. I miss that feeling of deep connection when two fully clothed bodies press against each other, exploring the nudity of teeth and soft faces and the heated crevasses of necks instead.

In so many ways, I’ve been made to feel lacking, less than, not good enough. I’m no longer waiting for my prince to show up. I no longer feel adequate or worthy enough to even throw my hat into anyone’s ring. The trauma I’ve endured this year has finally broken me. But… I still yearn for intimacy, even while believing that I don’t deserve it.

I guess this line of thinking started because I was thinking it will be New Years Eve soon, and while I do have plans to attend a party, I assume this will be yet another NYE without a kiss at midnight. Silly, I know. But if I could get a holiday wish this year, it would be for someone to kiss as the clock takes us from one year to the next, to share that moment of time-outside-of-time, to feel human again for a split second so that maybe I can carry some of that magic with me into the new year.

Yes, I’m superstitious… just shut up and kiss me! 💋🥂

poem: kinfolk

When I think about where I’m from
I think of fat bottoms encased in high-waisted stretch denim,
Babydoll crop tops, daisy dukes,
And sitting around a picnic table on a late summer’s afternoon
Drinking everclear and southern comfort and acting like we were grown.

I think about the familiar ritual circle
of shelling peas into a well-worn metal basin

-plink- -plink-

Drinking sweet tea from mason jars while engaging in casual racism…
Gossip about that ‘negro girl who works down at the Piggly Wiggly’
and my uncle who won’t own a red truck because he says red is an N-word color.

I think about how they pronounce words like
iron and wash and libraries –

“arn”
“warsh”
“liberry”

And say caricature phrases like

“fixin to”

and

“I reckon so”

but make fun of me for my lack of accent
as my roots start to dissolve.

I think of the unloaded shotgun always propped
in the corner of the closet where we played dress up
I can still smell the leather of Mamaw’s shoes
The roll of cinnamon certs in her handbag
And the oddly pervasive woodsmoke aroma of a farmhouse that had no fireplace.

There was a snake under the table once
It blended into the rug, rough and tightly coiled
Like the alzheimers coiling itself invisibly around my grandmother’s brain.
Nobody saw it until it moved but then
We moved and there were screams and
Someone chased it out with a broom
When I think it probably just wanted somewhere warm to lay.

I think of Papaw’s hands,
Big fingers that liked to crumble cornbread into a glass of milk
Calloused hands that preferred to shake hello and goodbye rather than hug,
But so gentle with the barn cats that played at his ankles.

I don’t remember the last time I saw my grandparents
In my memories it’s always late afternoon
Bleeding into evening when the fireflies come out
And you catch them in jars with no thought to their fate,
Just a fleeting piece of nature to be devoured and consumed, like me –

The last bud on a
Dying branch of a family tree
I neither know
Nor understand.

poem: i am

– Written as an exercise during a writing workshop on self and metaphor

I am a deluge –
Erupting suddenly from within
Floods that bypass my parched throat.
I cover everything and pull it under,
Drowning everything in grief tears.
I am over-saturated, spilling
Untidily into other peoples’ lives.
I am a deluge.

,,,

I am a bellyful of hope –
My waters ebb and flow.
I host abundant life in my womb;
I hold secrets only dreamers know.
I have colours you’ve never seen,
I glisten and glean in the sun.
I am a bellyful of hope.

blog: Figure.09

– TW: Depression, Su*cidal Ideation

I’ve got some music videos playing on YouTube and Linkin Park’s “In the End” came on. Maybe I’m just over emotional today, but staring at Chester’s face on screen I started to tear up and think omg, if only he knew what an impact he had on so many people and what a legacy he has left behind, would he still make the choice that he made?

But then I think, he had to have known, at least on some superficial level. But it wasn’t enough, and we need to get that the choice to stay or go is always a personal one. Too many times people think “if only I’d done more or made them feel more loved and needed, if only I’d shown them how special they were and what they meant to the world”. But we can’t put that on ourselves. No amount of love is going to save someone and stop them from going if they truly want to.

And Chester wasn’t some kid, he was 41. That’s old enough to know your own mind. He’d been through enough shit to make an informed decision. Of course, oh my God, of course I wish he hadn’t. I’m crying just now thinking about it. I guess I’m just saying, we can’t lay the burden of life on the shoulders of those who don’t want it. All we can do is love and cherish our loved ones for the time we have with them. And if they go gentle into that good night, we can carry their memory forward so their light in this world doesn’t dim.

That’s for benefit of those left behind, but I think the souls on the other side would appreciate it too. 🖤

poem: electric dreams

Dear Dr Freud,
I must admit I’ve never been a fan
There’s something kinda creepy
In all that Lolita jazz
I mean yeah, I have daddy issues
(And mommy issues,
And issues with people in general),
But I assure you my cigars are just cigars,
and not the least bit Oedipal
But you must have been on to something
Especially in the field of dreams
Cos when I turn to psychoanalysis
To put myself to sleep
I find I’m counting penises
Instead of electric sheep.

poem: i don’t want to die today

– TW: Su*cidal Ideation

I don’t want to die today
And by that, I don’t mean
That I’m in any danger of dying.
It’s just that today, for a change,
I’m uncharacteristically apathetic about my demise.

I lean back against the train carriage window
Examine the passengers
In the other train speeding alongside
And idly think, what happens if we collide?
But today my brain is not interested
In hypothesising how many pieces of me
would be left to find.

I wouldn’t say I’m in a good place,
Just a numb place, a space
Where neither life nor death hold sway.
Today is not the day I go home and put a gun
In my mouth
Today is just the day I switch on the television
And zone out.

My subconscious keeps counts
of headstones that mark the graves of everyone
Who’s ever believed in me
Helped me be more than I thought I could be.
I can’t help but feel that I’m letting everyone down;
No matter what I do, I seem to drown.

But today is not the day
I linger on the street with one foot off the curb
It’s also not the day the voice assuring me it gets better
is loud enough to be heard…

Today is just a day for just existing.

blog: doing a runner on God

Imagine you’re young, dumb, and dating someone way too good for you. They’re smart and beautiful, courageous, generous, kind, loyal, and honest. They’d go to the ends of the earth for you. They believe in you and your potential. And all they ask is for you to trust them, and be the same.

But you – you’re selfish and self-destructive. You’re riddled with demons and vices and addictions. You’ve already made mistakes. You know you’re not good enough for them, and it makes you feel resentful and dissatisfied even when things are good. You start to nitpick. You start to act out. You cheat on them. And at every turn you’re met with forgiveness and second chances.

Finally, your guilt causes you to part ways. You thought it was for good. Your future relationships range from toxic and abusive to nice and almost (but not quite) perfect. There’s always something missing. You eventually straighten yourself out and get most of your ducks in a row. Time passes. You keep up with your ex through mutual friends – you find out they’re doing great, and you’re happy for them. Life goes on.

Then you have a chance meeting, and it’s clear there’s still something there. After all this time, they’re still the amazing person they always were, if not more so. You begin to think, you might be good enough this time. You become friends again. You know they’re holding the door open, waiting for you. And you think, maybe you really can rewind the clock, get back some of those lost years, become the person they always wanted you to be. You start to get acquainted with hope.

Then you look in the mirror and you see all your scars, the imperfections and flaws your life choices have brought on. You realise you can never change the past, or undo your mistakes. You have been forgiven, but deep inside you’ll never be able to forgive yourself or quiet your demons.

You’re in the bathroom at the restaurant you took them to. They’re waiting for you at the table. It’s decision time – what do you do? Do you walk away? How can you move forward, when forward means taking yourself right down to your foundations, and starting from square one?

It’s tempting to just put up with the life you built for yourself, it’s not perfect, but it’s safe and familiar and it’s solid. But how does one – how CAN one – do a runner on God?