Adventures of An Abstract Painter

A Painter's Journey as an Artist, Writer, Teacher and Poet

Day 8: Anxious

Prickled Skin.

Like a cactus.





Palms sweaty.

Rub against your pants.

Moisture builds between the wrinkles of your hand.

Skin is blue from your jeans.


Shallow breath.

In. Out. In. Out.

In-Out. Out.

In. In. In.




Head is a buzz.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzzzzzzzzzzz.

Too many thoughts.

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

They bounce off the inside of my skull.


Bounce. Bounce. Bonk.

That one hurt.


Ears Ringing.

Everything irritates.

Click. Click. Click.

Put down that pen.

Put it down.

Stop clicking it!

The heaters by the window hum.

So distracting.

Stop Humming!



Skin itches.


Like a cactus.

I scratch my elbow.








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Day 7: Nightmares

I toss.

I turn.

I roll over.

I wake up.

I close my eyes.

I see darkness swirling the inside of my eyelids.

I’m panting, frantically.

I take a deep breathe.

I try to calm myself.

I drift off, again.


I’m running.


I scream.

I wake up.

I cry.

I have trouble breathing.

I am scared.

I am alone.

I fluff my pillows.

I turn over.

I fall back into the darkness.

I’m falling.


I wake up.

I look at the clock.

It’s 4:43 a.m.

I sigh.

I am exasperated.

I feel my heart beating in my throat.

In my wrist.





I look at my clock again.

It’s 4:47 a.m.

I sigh.

I turn over.

I close my eyes.

I shake.

I take another deep, long breathe.

I feel a tear roll down my cheek and seep into my pillow.


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Day 6: Paper

Something about paper.

I love it.



Note pads.

Birthday Cards.




Parchment Paper.

Linen Paper.

Art Journals.

Glossy and Matte Paper.

I love it all.

I even have a collection of notebooks and diaries in my house. I don’t have writing in most of them. I just like them.

I’ll see a notebook in a store. Sitting on a shelf. With a shiny new leather cover. Or a colourful textured diary. I’ll open it. And I’ll touch the paper. The paper inside. I’ll take it off the shelf and I’ll flip all the pages back and forth. I’ll run my finger across the surface of the paper. Back and forth. I’ll press the paper between my index finger and my thumb, to feel how thick, how substantial the paper is.

Then I will buy it. I will take it home. I will write my name on the inside of the book. And then it will sit on my shelf. Forever.

I don’t know why I have this obsession. I love it. I have drawers of bits of paper that I liked the colour, feel, thickness, texture etc… that I just hang on to it. What do I need it for. I even had a origami book that had an assortment of paper MEANT to be folded, but I refused to fold it. So all of this beautiful paper, just sat on my shelf. Again…Forever.


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Day 5: Writer’s Block

“What to write about…”

Giuliana clicked her teeth together impatiently.  Why couldn’t she come up with anything.

No inspiration.


She thought she had started this new routine very strong. She was writing everyday and being super passionate about what she was writing about. She was genuinely excited to start writing.

Then…Day 5. Nothing. Completely out of juice. She sat there…at her desk. She was in a class that she should have been listening to, participating in etc…

Instead she just sat. She sat and looked at her blog. She sat, looked at her blog, tried to write and then stopped. She sat, looked at her blog, tried to write and then stopped…and then she…switched tabs…to Facebook.

She watched videos of a fluffy, blonde, wiener dog who gave birth to a litter of puppies, coincidentally next to a cat who had also just had a little of wee grey tabby kittens. The video was called “The birthing room”.

She watched a “Life hack” videos about how to de-skin garlic by shaking them in jars.

She switched to her blog.

She stared at her blog.

Her caret on the  overwhelmingly white screen, blinking at her. With attitude. Almost taunting her. Teasing her. Begging her…to write something. Literally anything would do.

She tried to write a poem. Then she back spaced.




She switched back to Facebook.

She wished her friend “Auguri and Happy Birthday!”.

She shared a post to her own profile, that discussed something about music. She hadn’t watched the whole thing because she was in class, after all. She saved it for later.

She took a sip of apple juice and re-applied her Minted Rose Lip Balm.

She refreshed her Newsfeed.


What would she do? How would she ever be able to write if she had no access to the internet!? How could she find motivation without a constant flow of cat video’s and inspirational public speakers talking about the many different issues about equality and equity. How would she ever be able to write, ever again?

“Good Question”, She thought to herself.


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Day 4: Crawling Out

I am in a dark, dank, deep hole.

I am buried underneath the weight of dirt and mud and rocks.

I am cold and it is hard to move.

I am having trouble breathing.

I pant.

I am dizzy.

I feel like I am falling but I am paralysed.





I feel like there is quicksand climbing over my limbs and making it difficult to climb out.

I feel that quicksand arms are holding me down and pouring wet, thick goo down my throat.

Suffocating me.

Silencing me.

I feel I am being swallowed up.

I feel like I am being pushed down a narrow, wet throat, by boulders of hate and desperation and spit.

I feel like I am being nailed into a box and shipped away in a boat full of so many other boxes, no one will ever find me.

I am a kid lost in a crowd, dragging my teddy bear through muddy puddles, shoe laces untied and tears streaming down my face because this sea of people is surrounding me, until I disappear.


Until I see my mother in the crowd. I run to her and grab her leg, so happy that I am found.

Until I see my box being pried open by a stranger working on the ship.

Until I pull myself out of the narrow, wet throat; climbing over the boulders of hate and desperation and spit, towards a warm and inviting light.

Until I fight against the huge mouth, punching teeth in and wrestling a huge tongue.

I can speak.

I can breathe.

Until I smack away and kick the arms of quick sand away from.

Until I grab onto a root from a nearby tree and pull my self out of the sandy sludge.





I feel like I am flying and I know where I am going.

I steady myself.

I am warm and I move freely.

I dig myself out from the weight of dirt and mud and rocks.

I am no longer in a dark, dank, deep hole.

And I will not look back.



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Day 3: The Panic Sets In

Remember When…

Remember when you used to wake up and the sky was a big black blanket over your window.

When you doubled your socks and made sure you wore an undershirt because recess was going to be, as your mother said, “very cold today”.

When you made your bed as your mom hollered up the stairs to “CLEAN YOUR ROOM BEFORE WE LEAVE!!”.

When “clean your room” meant just pulling up your sheets and stuffing laundry under your pillow.

When your face would sting as you walked out to start your mom’s car and as the bitter wind pinched your face like a bunch of aunts at a family reunion.

When you would watch the world pass by you, on the car ride to school, wishing that you could just curl back under those messily pulled-straight sheets.

When your mom would park and say “I love you” before you reluctantly closed the car door.

When you would walk into the big limestone bricked building and you hoped no one would see you.

When you stopped by the office and stared at the goldfish tank outside of it so that if anyone did see you, they couldn’t say or do anything because the principal was right around the corner.

When climbing 3 stories of stairs was like climbing Everest, except you didn’t get to plant a flag and people didn’t celebrate when you got there.

When your boots clunk on the freshly waxed, shiny floor, announcing your every step, in the great stair way of echoes.

When you open the door and feel like pretending to be sick because you would rather be behind in school then face another day in that playground prison.

When even as you look outside, the blanket is gone and the sky looks hopeful and you wish you could feel like the sky does.

When you walk to your cubby with you head down and you carefully take off your layers of protection, leaving you open and vulnerable.

When you look up at your cubby hook and there is  note taped next to it and it presents to you the message of the day: “You’re Ugly”, “You’re Stupid”, “Go Home”, “Weirdo”, “Freak”.

When you sit down at your desk, with your name tag blaring your name to the world. Announcing that you are there and ready to be messed with.

When you hear giggles behind you and your face gets hot and you feel like disappearing into oblivion because just maybe, they won’t find you there.

When you wish you could sink down in your chair, through the floor, into a hole where no one can see you.

When you ask what they are laughing at and they say it’s “Nothing” but you know that it’s about you.

When you dread that ring of the first recess bell so much that you don’t hear a thing that happens in your grade 4 class.

When you know that when you’re outside, it will all get worse.

That you can cry and scream and beg them to stop while they pretend that your cries for help aren’t audible, even though you repeat them over and over and over again in your brain, which you wish was being smashed into painted lines of the four square, on the cement of the playground prison, where you are invisible until you are not–you are being poked and prodded and stuck and stabbed with heated steel insults about how you do not matter and you are disgusting and how that even though you crossed all of these obstacles to get here-

When no one cares, it would have been better if you climbed back under your messily-made bed and never woke up.

When you are eight years old, and every day at school feels like you are entering a battle field.


This is for every kid who was every bullied, mentally taunted, excluded and made to feel that they don’t matter.

You do.

This is for the person who feels their voice isn’t heard and their opinion isn’t important.

It is.

I woke up this morning, thinking I was late, and with the sinking feeling that I had just had a very bad dream about how I used to feel every day growing up. I try my best to be strong but I still feel like a floormat at times. I just felt like I should share because this terrible time from my life, for the most part, is over; but it isn’t for people, especially young people, all over the world.

You are not alone and you are valuable. Tell someone what you are going through. Scream it, if they can’t hear you. I will always be here if you need me.


Day 2: Get back on the horse

So today is the beginning of firsts.


Ok. Today is the beginning of the re-starting of things…again. I’ve written here for years and I have found that I have been a little neglectful lately. It’s not that I didn’t want to be here. Life got in the way. I don’t know if I can re-cap everything but I will try over the next few weeks.

Now. The purpose for returning:

Besides the fact that writing has always been a coping mechanism for me, I am in this English class for my education degree (for those who don’t remember or even for those who may actually care, I am finishing my Ed degree this April.. I know, it is about time) and my prof pretty much challenged the class to write everyday. Now, seeing that I wrote two days ago and I am writing again now definitely means that I failed. But who cares, no one reads this anyway, right?

So I am going to challenge myself and try to write every day and if I can not write every day, I will try to make up for the writing in some form or another. Either a really feisty entry or maybe a sassy limerick.

So why “get back on the horse”. Well for one thing, I haven’t been feeling like myself recently. I have been feeling very sad and dark and angry. And I think a lot of that is that I haven’t been able to paint since September because school has become so demanding, there is a significant amount of stress due to the fact that I am graduating soon and also because of situations with my family. To elaborate on that, my aunt passed away last November. I am sure that this is one of the reasons I disappeared. I don’t think I was ready to write about her yet.

Just recently I was faced with another difficult situation. My grand father had a heart attack this Christmas Eve and he spent the majority of two weeks in the ICU. He is back at home now and a significant amount better but on New Years Eve, they weren’t sure what was going to happen. Long story short, the doctor said we would have to make a decision between him being a vegetable forever and chancing him breathing on his own until his heart gave out, or didn’t. He decided that he did not want to be intubated anymore because living hooked up to a machine, isn’t living at all. Anyway, he is home now and so much better, but it brought up a lot of feelings from last year, I think probably a lot of sadness that was buried under fake positivity, smoke and mirrors.

This past year has given me a lot to think about. Mostly about mortality and also about what I want out of life. I’m still not sure what that means…I’ll keep you posted.

So besides all of the crazy emotional roller coaster things that are going on in my life, the significant amount of stress I have been under, the deprivation of artistic creation, the strenuous homework loads that keep my eyes cranked open until the wee hours in the morning and of course the lack of sleep that comes with that, it is obvious that something has to change. Or I could keep going on this way and loose all mental capabilities.

So getting back on the horse has some metaphorical and literal meaning behind it for me. First of all, I am going to write. Write as much as I can. I won’t really edit it and I’m not going to care what I say. This is just to keep me going, to get me thinking and to get my fingers the much needed exercise they desire. Second of all, I have actually started riding again. This is something I gave up years ago because it is a very expensive hobby and it was essentially University or keep riding, and the option wasn’t really there (I may have picked horse back riding, if I had, had the choice). I rode for roughly 8 years and competed in some small horse shows. I received 3 blue ribbons, a third place ribbon (green) and a 5th place ribbon (red).

My sister and I have started part-boarding a horse named Buddy. I’ve started referring to the days I ride him as “Buddy Sundays” or “Buddy Mondays”. He is friendly and sweet and patient with me as I am currently trying to re-learn all the skills I lost and perfect the skills I am remembering. He has provided my life with something to look forward to and has become the staple that holds my week together.

Basically, I am trying to bring things I love, back into my life. And this is my first step. I fell off the horse. I was bruised and black and blue and broken. I’ve healed but crooked. I’m older and heavier and a lot more scared then I was. But I am doing it. I am getting back on that horse, and I am going to ride as long as I can stay on.

Day 1: Just start


I have been absent for longer then I would like to say.

I’m sorry for those who’ve missed me.

I’m sorry for those who haven’t.

I have to write, she says in my ear.


What if I have nothing to say?

What if no one cares?



I feel it

I am the bile

gathering in your mouth

like you’ve bitten a cheap fork

I can feel myself gathering in your throat

choking you

choking your every breathe and thought and word


I am strangling you

You spit me out

You step around me


I embarrass you

You say I am not yours

You give excuses for me

“She’s not mine”

“She doesn’t know”

When you look at me

thoughts pour through your eyes

What a sad little girl she is

What a waste of time

Why do I bother?

What keeps me here?


I am sorry I keep you here

I am sorry you feel responsible

For selfish reasons, I can not let you go

For selfish reasons



Feeling grumpy in the battle of facing the world and my fears. Felt like speaking some poem words to soothe my soul. More about my internal struggles then anything.

The picture is similar in its acceptance and in its imperfections.

Digital Paintings 2014

Since I graduated from Art School, it has been very difficult to get to the studio or even to write. I would say I’ve only been able to create in small doses. Because of this and much of the grumpiness that comes with Winnipeg’s long winter’s, my inspiration has been taking a wee while to kick back in. However since school has finished, I have officially been accepted into Education, which has seemed to have knocked my winter-coma off it’s socks. All I needed was a little good news which has kick started me into a painting frenzy as well as a digital painting focus.

This are all digital paintings that I have recently finished. They are about how everything is inter-connected yet we can all feel isolated. It also looks at how even with the various degrees of separation we must still recognize that separate entities from nature to inter-personal relationships are dependent upon each other.

Hope to hear what you think.


Learning about Aboriginal Education

For one of my classes in the Education Faculty in Winnipeg, Manitoba, I am learning about the Aboriginal Culture in Manitoba and Canada as a whole. My teacher, Professor Laara Fitznor is only teaching us our second class and I have already learned and retained more then I have through all my years of school. Not to say the schools I attended didn’t cover these important topics, they did, however I feel like I wasn’t able to fully understand the lessons I was learning in Elementary School.

Much of what I had retained when I was younger, was lessons (unfortunately learned) from movies. School wasn’t engaging and movies like Free Willy, with actor August Schellenberg playing “Randolf” or even Disney’s “Pochahontas” were where my interest began. After that I started collected Inuit soap stone carvings of seals or bears and studying artists like Emily Carr who created famous water-colour paintings of totem poles. I was fascinated with Aboriginal Art but I never found the lessons provided by my schools interesting. It wasn’t that I found the topic uninteresting, but more the teachers, who were just going through the motions of a curriculum, trying to get through the Sciences Humaines units as fast as possible ( for those who don’t know I was in Frecnh Immersion K-12).

This class however, is everything I was hoping for. My professor is engaging and is teaching her lessons as a series of stories, but not just text book stories but personal stories of her life and her families life. To meet someone, who has first hand, felt the injustice of Canada’s Government to the Aboriginal People during the Colonization is simply astounding.

Laara, is about 5’7 and has beautiful dark eyes. She has a round built but has elegant stature and moves as if she weighs nothing. She has a caramel and creme cafe complexion and carries a presence of wisdom.  She is soft spoken and yet powerful in the words she chooses and in how she addresses the class. The whole room is quiet when she talks and everyone can hear the smallest sound. The click of my key board is literally one of the loudest sounds in this room. She is patient, friendly and encourages students to ask questions. She is funny and sometimes goes off on a tangent but always returns to the focus of her story.

This woman in the span of two classes has taught me that her family (We’ve covered generations of her family so far, going far back enough as First Nations people being segregated and colonized by the French and the English). Some of the things I have learned that are simply shocking are:

1) If an Aboriginal woman married a Non-Aboriginal man, she would lose her status

2) Aboriginals could not vote unless they gave up their Aboriginal Status until 1960.

3) If an Aboriginal man married a Non-Aboriginal woman, his wife would gain HIS status.

4) Reserves are an incorrect yet legal term given to Aboriginal or First Nation Communities which is derived from the “Indian Act”.

5)1985 was the year Aboriginal women were able to reclaim their Aboriginal Status.

6) The “Indian Act” has barely changed since it was first written in 1876 after it was adapted from an earlier colonial act in 1859.

7) Aboriginal War Veterans: Were blocked from opportunities after fighting for the government in a war, simply because they were Aboriginals. If they wanted to take advantage of the opportunities offered to non-Aboriginals after the war was done, the would have had to give up their Aboriginal Status.

8) Even though she is of Cree descent, Laara wasn’t considered a Status Aboriginal until 1991.

9) “Indian”: even though it is a misnomer (thanks Christopher Columbus) is still considered the legal term referring to Aboriginal and First Nations People.

10) Aboriginal “Band Leaders” or “Chiefs” were originally chosen by the women of the community, however due to the Indian Act, “Chiefs” were appointed by the men in a voting system as opposed to an election. “Chief” is also a legal yet incorrect term allocated to whom Aboriginal People would refer to as a Leader.

That’s only ten of them but I know there is much more I will learn in this class. I hope that my small contribution to cyber-space has opened some eyes as well as perhaps stirred interest in a topic that is often ignored or taught incorrectly.

Also as a side note Jason Baerg, an Aboriginal Artist will be having a show from January 17th to February 22nd. His work is stirring and engaging and everyone should go!

Image from:

Good Girls = Unicorns, my ass.

I have just read an article that someone posted on Facebook in regards to women in our society today. The article compares women to whore’s and brings up the discussion about how women have lost respect for themselves. Now thankfully this writer was not completely ignorant and claimed some of the responsibility on behalf of men everywhere, that because of them not wanting to work hard for what they want, has sent the message that “easy sex is good” and “difficult to get sex” is bad.

As I do have some of the same morals as this, about respecting ones body and not revealing your vagina to the world (with exceptions to artists and/activists, because I sincerely think that we need you in this world). Mostly for me, I think the idea of too many sexual partners is a little scary as there are so many diseases spread left, right and center (Also I saw Contagion and lost it so now I’m terrified of everything). I also do agree that women should respect themselves, but I don’t think they need to be a prude to do that. I think our problem is that the world has become so much larger then that of our ancestors. Their world was literally the city they lived in and the few places they’ve visited/were from. Ours is light years fast and ions long, as the internet and its many portals have opened black holes all over. From our phones, to our computer and television, we are connected to this enormous universe that is only seconds away from out finger tip. As people, we are constantly competing for a way to be recognized, to find our place in this crazy world.

Now what made me the most angry was not that he was essentially talking about only women and not PEOPLE in general. His excuse for the male sex acting stupid was that “men are idiots”, thus excusing the entirety of men for their stupid ab-posting, “i’m at the GYM”, sexiest man alive, jumping off buildings and skateboarding into walls for fun escapades that they are posting on the internet. Women are being singled out in this article because the are “over” accepting their sexuality and yes maybe taking it too far, but men are allowed to do these stupid things because it’s expected of them? We should be looking at everyone as a whole, PEOPLE in general, are losing respect for themselves to the point where youths are taking instagram selfies at funerals.  Why are women being the target when in reality the human race in general, has been losing respect for themselves.

Men and women should be treated equally, especially in regards to which people have respect or not. I know many men who are respectful and just as many who aren’t. This is exactly the same for women. Just because there are a lot of girls that are sexualizing themselves on the internet and posting scandelous pictures on twitter, does not mean that there aren’t women out there aren’t women who are intelligent and conservative with their bodies. The fact that his in unifying all women in a negative way is outrageous.

Another thing that made me angry was that this man wrote that women who have respect for themselves are extinct. How are women like me supposed to feel when we read this? Someone who contributes to society and is well read and NEVER exposes herself on the internet. Someone who has prided herself in being respectful and was brought up with morals that weren’t regarding only myself, but everyone. I find it not only ignorant of this man to write something about how women are degrading themselves instead of focusing on people (like the creator of ) who specialize in degrading people (mostly women) in general.  What kind of person makes a website where you can judge and ridicule people for entertainment, while in the process, ruining their lives and professions.

This ideal world, that this man is speaking about, is a world that women all over the world have fought very hard to get away from. A world where a woman had to wear a scarlet A over her chest to show she was an adultress while men cheated on their wives and beat their children. A world where women were raped because they had fallen in love and consumated it while they weren’t married. A world where women didn’t have the right to vote or to an education to even learn about the human body.

Do I think women have taken the open sexuality thing a little too far? Sure, but no more then any other person alive. I think that this man should not only re-evaluate what he is writing about, but to take a better look at his own sex. Us, Unicorns, as he put it, the women with self respect, would really appreciate if the mere man would get his head out of his ass. But in his own words, Men are idiots right?

Below is the link of the article discussed.


Halifax my Halifax


This summer for my art project I painted a mural on the side of my family’s business. It took all summer as u was working on it in between my work shift and summer classes and I recruited my friend and fellow artist Katie Twomey (KT2Me) to help me with the labour.

Regardless, the project was a lot of work. But it’s finally finished. The project is inspired by the rolling vineyards in Calabria and a minor influence from Banksy, the great and powerful. I also have put a small part of the early ended life from a friend of mine who died a couple months before I started painting. I hope that in this small way, I will remember him always as he was and he will be forever present in my life both physical and spiritual.












important or not important?

I hate that saying about greatness: “Some are born great, some achieve greatness and some  have greatness thrust upon them”. What about people who have always felt that they were meant for greatness and always come up short. I look at my CV, my collection of accomplishments, and some would say that what I have under my belt is impressive. I have always felt that I was meant for something, that my voice could and would be hurt by old and young. That one day, I will be more then a small figure hidden under a shadow of her successful parents and a name so self-important that it literally means “Big”.  This feeling I have always had, that maybe there was a plan for me, seems to be lost on the rest of the world. I feel like I am always fighting for what is right, or what is important and I am constantly battled by people saying hurtful things or the insignificant like the Bachelorette or Jersey Shore. I am hypnotized by old literature and contemporary Art but am surrounded by those who find such things unimportant and dull.

Is it possible I was born into the wrong environment? That I was meant to be among the scholars and artistic? Was I supposed to be brought up in a tiny villa in France or amongst the hustle and bustle of New York City or London? Or am I just delusional enough to think that what I have to say is inspirational enough for people to listen?

I suppose the true question is why do I feel this way? What makes me think that one day, I will be recognized among my peers and admired for my achievements, what ever they might be?

This isn’t a real question, unless someone really does know the answer. I just wanted to send these words out to the endless void that is in Internet, in hopes that perhaps in just asking the question, I will receive some sort of answer. That’s all from me, few but faithful.

Over and Out.

Creative Writing- Desire Poem

One Needle

Looking for a needle in a needle stack in a field of needles.

There is always one needle,

that looks like all the others.

This one needle.

Doesn’t look special or act special,

it is the same as every other needle.

It is cold and sharp and silver and smooth.

This hand bleeds from one needle.

Is healed with one needle.

This one simple tool, that matches all the others.

This one needle.

But looking for needle in a needle stack in a field of needles,

we find one needle that works.

One needle will pull one thread into one fabric.

One need.

One needle.

Creative Writing- Sarcastic Poem

Not Another one

Here it goes again,

a woman, a friend.

The girl next door.

Oh not again.

She has blue eyes of course,

and her hair a golden mane.

She wears a dress with flowers.

Oh no, please not again.

Now let me guess,

she is the coolest and no one knows her better,

Than you, the boy who watches,

and wishes he could bed her.

But you know you’ll never get there,

it’s time that you’ve moved on.

Because a) she is a lesbian and b),

her thing is not a hard on.

Creative Writing – Love Poem

You are wet and warm.

You invite me in,

with open arms.

You are strong and soft.

You are quiet.

I love the silence.

I close my mouth around you.

I feel your warmth on my tongue.

I smile.

I swallow.

I ask for more.

Creative Writing – Secret Poem

You always mock me,

why are you so cold?

I try to walk past you,

but I am never strong enough.

I pray you are empty, nothing-

to give me.

But you call me back, always.

Late at night.

In the dark.

Your light gives me a false,

sense of security.

I take comfort in your warm light.


By cold, dark truth.

You are shiny and hard.

You make me weak and soft.

You are not my friend.

Stop lying to me.

Creative Writing – Play

A rocking chair sits upper right stage with three grandmother-type pillows on it. There is a pillow and blanket fort sitting on three dining room chairs. Lower left stage there are a few balls and some building blocks. There is also a doll house and two dolls.

Joan is 10 years old and plays dolls by herself. Her brother Tobey, aged six, is sitting under his fort with a teddy bear and Mother is rocking in her chair, reading. She looks at the clock, sighs anxiously and goes back at her book.

MOTHER (mutters to herself) : Why isn’t he here yet?  He said he’d be back at 5:30, didn’t he?

JOAN: Mommy is sad again. Maybe she forgot?

TOBEY: Mommy only forgets when she’s sewing and she is reading today. She has to remember.

MOTHER (to herself) : Where is he? I don’t understand what’s taking so long…

JOAN: She’s making me nervous. Look how sad she’s getting?

Mother gets up from her chair and paces the front of the stage back and forth. She looks at Tobey and Joan. She smiles at them but quickly resumes her anxious pacing.

TOBEY: Mommy are you ok?

Mother looks at Tobey but doesn’t answer. Her face now changes from nervous to vacant. She moves back to her chair and resumes reading her book.

JOAN (whispers to Tobey): Did you see that? She didn’t blink or anything.

TOBEY (quietly back): Yeah. Why she like that?

JOAN: I really think she forgot. Last time she forgot was scary.

Mother shifts in her chair. She has a blank stare and looks defeated. She closes her book and starts to cry. The children stay where they are and watch their mother for a few moments in silence. Tobey then gets up and approaches his crying mother. Joan stays where she is and looks more scared then anything.

TOBEY (repeats): Mommy are you ok? You look sad.

JOAN (hisses): Get away from her Tobey! She’s acting weird!

TOBEY: Mommy is sad and I want her to feel better. (Angrily, he yells each word) I. WANT. HER. TO. FEEL. BETTER!

JOAN: She can’t feel better. She doesn’t feel anything anymore. Look! She’s not even blinking!

Mother stopped what she was doing and looked in Joan and Tobey’s direction. Not saying a word and then goes back to staring blankly at the audience.

JOAN (to herself): Weird.

TOBEY: What?

JOAN: Did you see that? It was like she didn’t even hear you. Yell again Tobey, yell very very loudly.

Tobey takes a deep breathe.


Mother continues her mute immobility.

The doorbell rings and Mother gets up quickly. She darts to the door and sees a man. 

MOTHER: Darling! Oh Darling you’re back. (They embrace) Have you got it? Did you bring it for me?

TOBEY: Bring what? Who is that? What’s going —


DARLING: Yes Dear, it will all be alright. Come to the kitchen and we will get you some water. The doctor said to take them with food or milk.

MOTHER: They have been bad today. Very bad, I can’t remember the last time it has been this terrible.

DARLING: It’s ok Dear, take them and you will feel better.

Mother exits with Darling.

JOAN: What’s going on?!

TOBEY: I don’t know Joanie, but I don’t like it. (Tobey starts to cry).

Mother and Darling come back from the kitchen. Darling sits Mother in her chair.

DARLING: Now Dear, where did we finish off last time.

MOTHER: My mood swings, Darling, we spoke of my mood swings.

DARLING: Did you see them again?

MOTHER: Only for a little bit, I saw Joanie playing dolls and Tobey was in his fort. You know how much he loves that fort don’t you dear?

DARLING: Did they speak to you?

MOTHER: No, I just saw them playing.

Joan looks astonished at her mother and this strange man.

JOAN: Who is he? How does he know who I am and where’s Daddy?!

TOBEY: I don’t remember Daddy, was he nice?

JOAN: I – I – I don’t remember…

The lights on the children fade out and all you see are Darling and Mother. Mother rocks in her chair.

MOTHER: Darling, how long has it been? How long has it been since our sessions started. How long has it been since I’ve seen that man?

DARLING: It has been almost a year since your husband smothered your children and shot himself. We have been having sessions for you to recuperate from the trauma you’ve experienced.

MOTHER: When will I stop seeing them? When will I feel whole again?

DARLING: Dear, I am afraid no one will ever fully recuperate from such a devastating loss. I can only hope, my love, that with our therapy and through our love you will be able to find peace. I can only hope that your children’s souls will find the peace and solace one can only achieve from God. (Darling pauses and pulls out two Rosary’s)

Now Dear, why don’t you start the evening prayer.

Mother takes a Rosary from Darling and closes her eyes.

MOTHER: Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…

Lights fade out and the curtains close. 

The End.

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