Maroon Carpet

I have been on the lookout for good writing exercises and have really been meaning to get back into writing more regularly. So I googled this one that I really liked and I think turned out pretty well while sitting at a Starbucks, without a pinging alarm clock to aid me, haha. 

Just looking at the clock in the corner of my laptop screen was enough when I used the exercise #3 in the provided link by Belle Beth Cooper – 10-Minute Writing Workouts. The exercise needed me to “expand & advance” every other minute. I used the word “carpet” as my prompt (I have no idea why or how that word popped into my head and I just started writing). You can probably spot quite a few typos and grammatical errors since I was just so focused on writing. You can almost see me struggle in the beginning, trying to write on cue and how to maintain the narrative successfully.

Below is the result of the exercise which I actually quite enjoyed! 

Totally looking forward to using more of these exercises, either from this link above or others, and just writing more now. 


“the maroon carpet lay fraying in the corner of the room and without attracting any attention at all. The dull deep quality of the colour was just as morbidly sad as my own mind. My sadness, my silence, my suffering all needed work – cleaning, if you will. Needed a good soapy scrub and renewing. It wasn’t going to happen by looking backwards, so I wont talk about it. I’ll just talk about where to go, wondering where I should go. and how often I do think about it.

the carpet is soft, still. after all the dirt and crumbs that are inlaid into its threads, crumbling underfoot. I think about those lost cookies and earring backings, random grains of rice, drying and forgotten. How often did we drop food in here? How often did we laugh, cry, sing and send Jenga blocks crashing around here? the microscopic pieces of all our  skin, hair, and all other kinds of cells that are laid to rest here… I can only begin to imagine.

There isn’t a single memory on these carpets that I don’t remember, like a kinetic energy as I walk barefoot on it and feel the memories rise up inside me, welling like a big old wave of ocean current. Oh right, I love the ocean. I don’t think I’ve mentioned that yet. The clear waters close to you, and the ominous block of solid colour farther away.

I remember when I’d first laid eyes on this room, this living room that my dad introduced us into. This was our living room and he’d so quickly, easily, moved onto the kitchen. Little had I thought about this murky dark carpet and how much it would hold. How much of our secrets, our late night stories…

rendevous. the things I’ve done here bringing Jack in here so many nights while my parents were out for work. Or wherever they went after 10pm. I used to bring Jake here and we’d get to know each other better. His skin cells, his smell, his pheromones that I know are engraved in this dirty old carpet too and it knows so much more.

there is nothing Jane and I haven’t shared here either. some of those late nights when our parents were gone and I sat here, our toenails showing chipped nail polish, digging into the carpets earthen secrets, as we whispered and laughed at the stories. The gossip of Jack and how he grunted sometimes when he was pleasured, the giggle of Jana Seymour in class when she heard something funny and always got in trouble, how Linda was still always at that boy’s desk, unable to keep their secret rendevous, well – secret.

that maroon carpet knew it all and here I am, yet another dark late night, alone on this carpet watching another secret of mine seeping into its layers. who better to share with? I mean, stains and spills almost never showed on my family’s carpet, after they dried.”



I’ve always done too many things at once.

never a careful combination or

specific precision

always tossing this in

or mixing spices for effect:

usually dark chocolate and orange

or cranberries and sugar

crystalline pops of perfection

crusty flaky and creamy macchiato

espresso and chocolate, nestled together

                – a harmony of Venetian morning

long lemon peels and

thin cheese strands

writing, and painting, and penting


travelling and


its a messy beauty I love

and a whirl of places people and things

but also

slowed down to a serene look around





Glossy signs in gorgeous Greek-blue, elegant white cuts read “ακρόπολη” as we leisurely ascended one of seven hills that encircle the city of Athens. There’s graffiti sprayed onto the same signage posts, boards, ancient ruins and rugged stone walls.

Deriving from Greek, akro meaning high or elevated,

polis meaning city


Technically refers to citadels or temples built on a naturally higher elevation compared to surrounding settlements

a temple so complex

so detailed, so fattening of every pillar to hold up a temple strong enough

to honour a goddess 13 ft. high, made of all glory and honour

presided over the city centuries,


imaginations ago

History and myth hang heavy in the mellow winter air as every step up the hill towards the Parthenon is punctuated with a glimpse of a ruin. The ancient agora, sanctuary of Pan, of Dionysius, temple of Athena Nike, amphitheatre seats in a time-stuck drunken stupor, Greek alphabet carved onto marble at entrances, cascading walls of incredible height and strength; –

an abundance of marble that pulls you down in wonder – how did they move these?

the layers of footsteps beneath your own; thousands of years old and where you stand may be the site of numerous unknown wars and numerous unknown slain

As you walk up the stairs to the gate of the temple that was, the temple that isn’t anymore but is

As you step on each historical crevice of ancient marble, the fresh crisp grass under your shoe; careful, not to crush the beautiful bright yellow daisy

and you can see just how it was, how grand and incredible the Athens behind you


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forest (2)


first thing that comes to mind

and out of nowhere;

rolling back dials and

i can climb

leg swung over and pulled closer

moment to breathe and

    its dizzying and hilarious

crazy  and popping   and wild and thrashing


like scratching branches

on snow white’s dress

claiming to run in and through

the forest

tripping but not ending    the purpose

really wasn’t when i felt his soft lips

both saw it coming and still

was an accident   wasn’t*

the curling cannoli in our history

the story


fleeting as the falling soft sugar,


the intent

its important enough to ask right there


and there’s no answer or why or how or if

but it is and

it has been

and it will be.


or not     it makes me smile

and i can

talk about whites and blacks and dulling grays

the parked cars, black guys and yellow toys

continues… for now

or never   it doesn’t matter because

there’s no answer

2016-01-05 09.20.06 1.jpg

story so far

a riddling of colours and flying

geese in unsuspecting Toronto

there’s a horde of walkers with

maimed crooked gait, walking

towards a shelf of madness

a sheath of unwrinkled manila cards

folded twice into

creamy custard yellow of pastel panjabi

resting on this damp, darkened red duvet

— the embarrassment that forces me!

to wash this out with my own hands

out with the damned spots, like Lady Macbeth

but laughing with love and memories

— I can see the outstretched mirror,

where I stand a foot in, a selfie with him

“for us” only and click

that led us here to this picture

this moment, the giant glittering spotlight and


Cancún, Mexico 07.29.15

Cancún, Mexico artwork: @creaberto 07.29.15

two black dots

there’s a wild feeling

a painting of those flying horses

streaming, on a warbled water border

unsettling steady thrum of vacuum

racing all the same; —

falling through shaded layers   staying

bright glows of aerial sand

bottomless, engorged & insatiable

a grasp of a prayer timeless and strong

it weeps —

pillowy blue and rose hues stretching

to miles past my suspended window

a gleaming golden sliver and

dulcet tones of mechanic beeps

hand in hand, hewn rough and carved

knuckles in crinkled circles    — I love!

holding imaginary

a physical thought

two black dots

his finger and my lip


salmon papillote

minted yellow drops

sweet and douce

I was trying to write a poem about

salmon and lemon papillote recipe.

He loves to eat; eat salmon, cod, tuna and shrimp

shrimp risotto

am I in love with him?

there’s 900+ photos in this whatsapp folder

they’re all gobsmacked

haha, yeah that’s a word. it is!

I said go away and he left and i

he left —!


that was sad and stupid and unfair

and I

just couldn’t explain the

empty crackle of a blank bluetooth

i love his face

that glistening emerald green

shirt and blue sea

a warmth that radiates

and undulates

through plastic mirror screens;

if I even try —

am i trying? or should i?

he’s my sun, he makes me shine

my sun and not “my son”

— i always think of that

but i can see through the melting gray gloom

i’m laughing at how lame i am

i can see back the first days and

last days i don’t want to see;

there are some surprises i want to save

in a locked up board of my


that tiny gray icon on the corner

minty walls & white pillows in

chevron and damask

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