My Thoughts

April 1: Endow

April 1: Endow 150 150 Akharla Mova

Escalate your patience

until it is steadily humming

past an old age home

full of open-mouth chewers.

Chewing cud like cows

on a field with nothing to do all day,

and you aren’t pulling your knuckle hair out

like a chimp.

Elevate your passion

until it is buzzing

slightly beyond your fingertips,

like a carrot on a fishing line

in front of a horse

barely out of reach.

Just enough to reach for,

every day.

Breed your loves

until they turn into too many.

Until love spills out of you fiercely;

just a gentle squeeze and all your sap

is on the floor for everyone to stick to:

uninvolved flies, paperclips,

an ingenious earthworm.

Abbreviate your curses

until they are reserved for deaths

and betrayals, instead of words

and words and failed relationships.

Curses are failings only

personal gods should hear.

Endow your fingers

with a nimbleness that sews hugs to sighs,

knits kneecaps for sufferers,

turns a strangled tear into the full-body sob they were on the cliff of,

your hands know these things already;

this martyr is a trip away from being drenched in the weight of other people’s problems, but a hop over a puddle reflects my underbelly,

lets me see the growths on my own skin.

April 2nd: Tender

April 2nd: Tender 150 150 Akharla Mova

There are only so many tender ways

of saying, “Don’t forget about me.”

Five involve The Breakfast Club

soundtrack. Two involve perfume.

One involves a sharp pair of keys,

a delicate paint job, and blasting Carrie Underwood.

And then, you just have to

bleed into their mouths while they sleep,

so when they look for their lost pulse one day,

they find two beats.

You have to impregnate them with memories.

“Remember that time, you had a nosebleed at my place?”

Woke up with the pillow crusted into place.

April 3rd: Finally

April 3rd: Finally 150 150 Akharla Mova

Drop down,


Weigh your responsibilities

like grocery bags

in each hand as the other numbs.

After a day of lifting

your chin,

rolling your shoulders


walking steady,

holding your smile

until your makeup creases

in your skin,

all you want is some silence;

respite care for the buzz in your brain.

Mental Fog

Mental Fog 150 150 Akharla Mova

Mental clarity is a far-off shore. I remember being confused in high school, but not about my passions. The things I was passionate about were clear as the sunshine.  I looked up, opened my arms, fell on the grass and felt warm thanks to my devotion to writing, to music, to friendship.

Right now, the day is foggy. Sometimes dramatic irony is the clearest way to explain something, even when that something is elusive and confusing as hell.

I don’t remember if what I wanted then is the same thing I want now, and whether what I want now has changed (already) or should change, and if it has changed, has it changed for the better or the worse? Have I sold my dream for hush money (ie. rent)? Is writing what I’ve always wanted to do? Have I ever questioned it? Is it even the right choice for me? Even if it’s not the sort of writing I want to be doing? Will I ever do the sort of writing I want to be doing – and will I, at that point, have enough knowledge and experience to actually write in a way that pleases my sensibilities, or will my fiction, my poetry skills be weak when I’m ready to put them to use? I feel as though they already are, and I’m not a year into full-time.

Full time. Didn’t the industrial revolution try to ensure a shorter work day so that we get paid more but work less, so that we have more time with our families? So that we’re no longer slaves?

We’re still slaves. Not like those of the past, to be sure (although slavery does still exist). But we only have energy enough for TV and dinner after working, after commuting. Is this what older people mean when they talk about “paying your dues”? This is utter bullshit. This indignation I remember from high school.

I’ve started thinking about trades recently. Before, I never thought I could reeducate myself, partially because I was hoping I wouldn’t have to, partially because who the hell “reeducates” at 23, and partially because I hadn’t given what I wanted a go. Others struggle for years trying to make this work, but I have always moved on quickly if something isn’t working, in order to figure something else out. Maybe that’s the right choice. Maybe it’s not.

The problem is that the answer rests on me, and all I have in answer is anxiety.

Does travel constitute as escaping in this case, and if it does, is it bad to escape “reality” in search of a bigger purpose?

Against Nature

Against Nature 150 150 Akharla Mova

You are a monsoon that everyone sees on the horizon,

And underestimates. “How bad can a little bit of water be?”

The natives are running. My heart is running, burrowing like a hedgehog into my spleen.

My feet stay planted on the ground.

Personal, Poetry/Prose

I want to live inside your voice,

Inside the guitar string strung by your hardened prints

And spend my days vibrating with lids barely alive,

Falling into dreams inside a sound like love feels.

I want to take the train today,

leave the city streaming behind me like a plain

that doesn’t know it turns people into chaff,

Discarded by the wind, not kneaded into the warm dough

with your troubled knuckles, with nicks near the nails.

I want to plant a garden, and rip it back up,

Wake up with a bee buzzing near my back,

Get caught in the drapes and sigh open the shutters.

Hear them bang against the peeling siding,

reach out a hand and pick a cherry from the apple tree,

and run to the outdoor dunny

in the morning mist.

I want to push at your skin until the wrinkles

iron out, like a dress shirt pulled from the floor.

A reverse living of every day so we can live

every day over again in just the same way.

How November Went

How November Went 150 150 Akharla Mova

Oh, November. You were a trying sort of month, in that NaNoWriMo hell sort of way. Remember when I wrote that post about how, by now, December 1st, I will have 50,000 awfully positioned words and a fancy online badge made up of a variety of pixels to validate my effort?

Yeah… that didn’t really happen.

Fortunately, this is a failure that I think that I will be able to live with. I have written 17,637 words in one month – more than I have in the entirety of the past year (for pleasure), and that is a huge achievement for me. I’m still hoping to finish this story — wherever it is taking me, since I clearly have no idea — before 2014. Or at least before I go back to work after our university-enforced break on January 6th.  I think that having 2 weeks off will provide enough incentive to write like a motherfucker as well as knit like one.

This Is Wednesday

This Is Wednesday 150 150 Akharla Mova

Today is one of those days when so many things get thrown at you that instead of buckling — because hey, you need a job — you listen to really old music and try to prioritize, while failing at it miserably.

I spoke to a lot of people, and all I can think of is the intarsia knitting sitting in a cubby in my apartment, my sweet little puppy napping in her crate, and my boy picking up some  groceries on the way home. I’m positive that the joy I feel about that entire sentiment will fade with time, but right now, it brightens me, lightens me, and gives me hope for the weekend.

9-5 is only horrible if you don’t have a good book to read on the way (I’m halfway through the Hunger Games after day 2 of reading it). Actually, it’s still pretty horrible, even if you love everyone you work with.

Reading Into My Future

Reading Into My Future 150 150 Akharla Mova

Life in the city has been tiring. Work is 1.5 hours away and that means that I am snoozing on the subway so often that my coffee often perks me up in unexpected ways (ie. by staining the clothes I wear on my lower extremities).

But, in my petulant need to come back to reading for pleasure (through hell or page-at-a-time-madness, which is hell), I’ve been reading when I get enough rest to actually focus on the words swimming in front of me. During university, I had the excuse of reading for school to put off my leisure reads, but now, no more! I am an educated adult and I will do as surprisingly many of other TTC riders do on their morning and afternoon commutes: read.

I finished off the heavy American Gods, my first Neil Gaiman, and thoroughly enjoyed it. I’ve always loved mythology – since my first Classics course at the University of Toronto – and loved having the characters react to modern times in this novel. That being said, I should have been prepared for a more morose read than I received. It was depresso. Mucho depresso, and that made it slow going, although it picked up enough for me to finish.

Now I’ve started Little Women, after a futile search in used bookstores for The Brothers Karamazov, and not wanting to buy because this damn book should be everywhere. It’s a funny contrast to all the articles I’ve been reading about the early influence of “women’s work” and how it influences future political opinions for boys with sisters. Curiouser and curiouser, but the two pieces of writing are most definitely at an odds. I guess what I mainly appreciate is being able to read both and analyze them for their merits. No, Little Women might not be the biggest equal-rights text of this century, but it doesn’t have to be. It’s a classic, and I’m hoping it’s not because of the age-old gender roles, but because of the characters and the ways in which they overcome and rise up from their problems.

But I’m only on page 49 so far, so we’ll see. By the way, did you know I’m on Goodreads? Let’s be friends, although I’m not as great at keeping it up as I am Twitter or Facebook, but I try to make sure to keep it updated, especially when I come across a juicy quote or two.

I’m hoping that my next read can be either Manage Your Day-to-Day: Build Your Routine, Find Your Focus, and Sharpen Your Creative Mind, or Adulting: How to Become a Grown-up in 468 Easy(ish) Steps, because HEY-OH quarter life crisis, I’m-a comin’ your way!

Hopefully I will be coming your way (you, reader) much more often than I am now. I’ve more or less gotten settled in my “honey-bunny”‘s and my new place (although there are still things everywhere, except that I’m thinking this is more a result of our general messiness than anything involving lack of space), and work and whatnot, but it’s just a matter of hammering out a routine now.

That routine has clearly involved reading, but now it would be nice to add back some exercise and writing in. Sigh.

7 Days Till Sanity

7 Days Till Sanity 150 150 Akharla Mova

Why wear flip-flops

when you can wear

your sanity

on your sleeve, and

throw a throw

over a shoulder?

Saunter in like a perfumed

old heiress

in furs.

You are worth

all the dead animals.

You are worth the

guilty conscience.

The omens silence themselves

while reading literature and

looking into history,

like a witch into a crystal ball.

Only sees the wart.

6 Days Until Penitence

6 Days Until Penitence 150 150 Akharla Mova

Nobody told me

that you breed compassion

from humility.

I thought it was born from

other people’s imaginary insight

into the troubles of your poor, difficult life.

Nobody told me

that your grow love

from love and labour. I thought

it was bred from gifts and baubles,

and nice dinners

that you couldn’t quite afford.

Nobody told me

that connection is not always

evolution or solution or eternal.

I thought once you’re friends,

you’re friends, and that was it.

So I had to tell myself.