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I take wing to glory
when I touch him,
I fly with his body.
There is but one place I go to,

At the dawn of all that is new of him,
I know the depths of despair
that is my separation from him,
the opposite end of falling forward.

My mood turns thick into blackness.
To the marrow am I drenched,
too weak to stay apart.
For tonight,

I take him to the other side.
Tonight,
I compare him to the brighter side
of my under-self.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

The Erotic Woman, a website based in Australia, has sadly gone the way of the Dodo bird many years back, but when they were active, they had graciously reviewed my third novel in my Crimson Fantasy series. So it is, given that it's a positive one. I'm of the mind that any author whose book is reviewed knows that these are often fraught with criticisms, just for the sake of being critical. Some spoiler alerts, FYI


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If you're active on social networks, in this surely twisted world of interconnectivity, you'll understand what I mean when I say it's a level of exposure to one element of the world that oscillates between two realms, sometimes like a seesaw that bounces up and down, and sometimes like a snake that sidewinds, more often the latter, more than I'd necessarily like.


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This night,
oh, night of thereafter
I come to you in desperation,
my madness compels me,

To love you
in wiles, in ways
unimagined.
I cross the oceans.

To lead you to my bed
I beckon you,
to be with me,
this night.

I leave behind
all that I know of love
and give myself
to your heart.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

We are fond of demarcation lines, to separate and part the ways, as though there's no associative link to be made between one and the other. I see this plenty enough whenever men throw out opinions about the behavior of women, who according to them, have lost their place in modern society, and are out of control.


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Do you have one? Be honest. Do you regard yourself as someone who believes in observing a sense of fair play? For if you do, then consider yourself to be one of the few, who go unrewarded for striving to treat each person with a sense of fair play. It means you will not knowingly take advantage of someone, no matter the temptation.


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He uses a long timeline to judge me,
to monitor my swinging moods
across the scale of hunger.

For his sex,
a migratory pattern of venturing
into other women,
I broke him.

Away from all invitations
save my own,
and a fortnight alone we spent
in a small room.

We talked and petted in intricate detail.
We explored our crucial feelings.
In the bed, we melted.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

A misleading title, if ever there was one, knowing fully that narcissism is here to say, a gross fact of life, so long as there are people. Granted, we can choose to step away from the narcissists of this world and, sometimes, just sometimes the narcissist will collapse in on themselves.


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I turned my back on my freshly brewed espresso with a healthy dollop of creamy whipped topping and no sooner had I done so when the quick darting, pink and adorably cute tongue of my hooligan love-kitty, Nutmeg, was making fast work of my weekend pleasure, even before I had taken my first sip.


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When he touched me,
I became like water in his hands,
my peace of mind barely held together
in a swimming head.

I found myself
in the comforting perfume of his flesh.
How sweet he smells
in the early hours of morning.

A taste I shall never forget
when I kiss him
and love his body,
I think of no one else.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

It's a privilege to be able to mouth off without fear of reprisal, as much as it is to express opinions in public or on any social platform that observes the right of free speech. Well, this is the ideal, though not always the reality.


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Men are a curious species. I'm not a man but I've lived with them since childhood into adulthood, and I've worked with men during my professional career. So when I refer to men as a curious species, it is from the perspective of another species scratching their head, while attempting to figure out why men do the things they do. It isn't always obvious to me. But then nothing is obvious about men, any more than what women do is obvious to them. We women are a curious species too.


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One kiss upon my soul
I stole from Lucifer
his reason to worship.

I became his fallen angel
on whose wings I descended further,
my feathers blood-stained,

My despair worn thin
on the veil of hope
I am held in his heart, steadfast.

Mouths pressed upon lips, kissing wet.
I leap and soar on wily currents of free will,
like Lucifer, I am lightly in love.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

It's been over six months since I stopped working full-time for an organization, while continuing to blog and write my eighth novel, during the week regardless. Honestly, I wish I could admit that I've been able to fully decompress... well maybe a little bit. 😆


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Every new decade is believed to usher in a newer and better representation of change in ourselves and our personalities. Some might agree that even preferences are affected, what we scale back and with what we push forward until kingdom come.


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Most recently, in speaking with a longtime friend, we touched on the subject of the raging fires, currently still out of control across Northern Canada, where he's located with his family. It's hard not to talk about this because every time I turn on the news, the lead story focuses on measures being taken to combat the fires, and to help those in need.


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Illusions and delusions are not one and the same. An illusion tricks the senses, a misrepresentation to your eyes or it can also be a form of cognitive dysfunction, such as when you operate on a false belief.

Whereas, a delusion is an unshakable belief that isn't based on reality, typically viewed as a mental state of disorder. I've had my illusions and my delusions, what some might call delusions of grandeur. Sometimes I can't tell if I'm tricking my own eyes with an illusion or if my delusions are blinding my good sense. The jury is still deliberating.


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Bleed me dry.
Leave me on the canvas,
the essence of myself
expunged and used.

Bewitched and seduced,
I care not if I suffer,
quietly bearable
because of you,

I am bare, beside your desire.
Let my lips kiss your lips.
Let my gaze rest upon the vision,
of your heartful love.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Not everyone is designed the same way. In fact, we revel in our uniqueness, and what sets us apart from the madding crowd, until we're all alone, and then we're all the same. For when we spend long periods of time alone, a part of ourselves begins to unravel, that part we get to ignore while in the company of others.


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There's only so much I can take before I blow my stack, to rant and rave over the world's complacency or lack of intestinal fortitude to speak up, to challenge those in positions of wealth and power, and not just the injustices of this world but the hypocrisy that is piled up like some kind of thriving anthill.

Of late, I've been rounding the corner to a newer and higher grouping of smoke-stacks, and these have long surpassed their ready-to-blow point. 🤬


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He is the only one who rides the mare.
Unrestrained,
he rides her in wait,
neighing, biting.

She clenches her teeth
as her thighs spread out.
Against his legs
she moves in tandem.

There is no one,
to prevent him
from mounting his mare,
this time of now is all that is known,

in the senses of equine,
his soul shall awaken
in the depth of her power.
She is the mare to his stallion.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

She leaves behind thoughts
of human acts,
in photos of bared flesh
on covers of paper lust
held high above,

The reach of hands and love.
Thinking with a gaping mouth
to where else,
can this act be taken,
between strangers in privacy?
And every drunk,

who thought he could
keep it up, keep it hard
before the shorter moment
is erased in one swallow.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

And you believe
you are beyond blind passion
for a thing,
unattainably
holding your image of him.

A lover,
so close to you
you feel him,
however far apart
he is from you.

The miles of limbs and hearts
are fused together,
concerned
only with spirited love.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

This morning I came across a review of my second novel The Crimson Boy: A Fantasy Continued which was written by one of the editors of a website based in South Australia called The Erotic Woman. The site is sadly no longer active. However, and given that there are many writers on this platform, I wanted to share the review, to give authors a reason to solicit reviews online from other bloggers, book and movie reviewers. Why? Because every little bit can help vs sticking your head in the sand and hiding. Much as We authors are very good at hiding behind our keyboard, while we work on the latest work-in-progress, we still have to dig deep to push ourselves more than ever to dip our baby toes into the well of marketing. Yes, the well is very deep, dark and scary and if you fall in, you may never be able to claw your way out to the top again.

Just don't forget your bottle of lotion or your basket. And for those who get this sly poke, good on you.


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You never know when the time will come when your time is due to end. If you are fortunate, maybe you'll pass in your sleep, quietly, without great fanfare while those you love will surround you, sitting by your death bed, recalling the glorious days of yore and how you were such a fabulous and generous individual.


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One hundred and seventy-five pounds
of manly thrust
throwing me
flat ass on my back.

A dust cloud
now above my head,
swirling, blustery and blurry.
Has he liberated my chastity
this windy day?

He lies on top of me,
with those lips
would I cherish
forever,
were they mine.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

"Old people are just mean," she declared to me, "and old men are even meaner." This blunt statement had demonstrated zero ambiguity, and left nothing open to interpretation. Though, my imagination immediately pulled up a cliche of an elderly man or woman, sitting in their rocking chair, on the porch, with a cane in one hand, and their disgruntled thoughts held in the palm of their other hand, ready and willing to swing that cane like a weapon at young persons passing by them.


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Life isn't meant to be easy. Life, by design, is supposed to thwart your genius plans for grandiose success. Life is about finding the strength within yourself to keep going when all odds appear to be conspiring against you. This is life's primary purpose, to throw in front of you every conceivable curve, to block your progress. Life expects you to roll up your sleeves, and get to work on sorting out the good from the bad and not to place this expectation at life's feet, that life owes you an easy living and that life is here to ensure your entire existence shall be a smooth ride.

Life's job is to be a bitch.

Your job is to cultivate an attitude that benefits you in navigating your way through life.


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Sweet surprise!
my incredulous eyes,
when he shows only cruelty
by tongue and taste.

He has gravitational pull,
which draws short my breath
in the bread of flesh,
in my breast.

Too naturally,
I take him into me,
to the means of my experienced
mouth and methodology.

My aim is to spoil his control,
before he blows too soon
the horn is heard,
inside his head screaming.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Right under your very cute, button of a nose, there are people living next door to you, at least potentially, who might be cultivating, Heaven forbid, marijuana—what Christians would denounce as The Devil's Weed. The horror! Say it isn't so, even though you know it is so, days in and days out.


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I don't play indoor video games, and haven't in at least two decades, though I know plenty of persons who love their video game-playing time, navigating the many pitfalls, to improve and flex their skill level. I've got nothing against those who have fun doing so either because I've a nephew who plays with his wife and two boys. This is their version of family time, and I applaud them for getting together.


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O glory! O glorious!
Put aside hesitation,
and take me on the fast track
to unrepressed erotica.

You are beaming starlight
against the canopy of black night.
Touch every surface on my body,
with the grace of gazelles in humid air.

Dare to push beyond the unknown.
O wonder! O wonderful!
Fondle me affectionately,
and lift me to calm reality.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

AI is buzzing around the globe like a busy-little bee with a secret, a hidden hive about which only the worker bees and the Queen are privy. I suspect the creators of AI-powered engines are fine and dandy with this status quo, to be ogled, rather than to be denounced. It's better to be uplifted by world users and heralded as God's gift to artist-kind. Right?

Not necessarily. Read on, if you please.


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For literally every single thing we do, and I mean everything, there's a price we pay, sometimes big or sometimes small, and especially when we've chosen to jump into a situation with both feet and both eyes open. The price is what you end up having to pay for the privilege of participating in this game called life.


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Longing was given a different name
by the hand of creation,
to all who held her
temporarily virgin.

In her perfection,
he will hunt for her
for her body beautiful
laying in eyelashes blinking.

While she waits for him,
to make the kind of love
her body pines for
gently, slowly,

Puncturing
that wet feeling
deeply
he goes into her.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Some days the expressions of disdain, the downright unnecessary meanness, can feel like a waterfall of venom is spitting out of the mouths of those online, non-stop. I do not exaggerate. It also occurs in person.


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It doesn't really matter what you tell yourself, that you're different, entirely unique, an original above all other originals, and decidedly not like anyone else, if you will, nor anything like your parents. Yet, and if you're honest with yourself, and take a good hard look at yourself, you'll see the interwoven threads that connect from your personality, to reach all the way back to your parents, and their parents before them.


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I am as violent as roses
all beauty and blood
torn by thorns,
that bear down on my flesh.

Next to his body, and lips,
I crave his first touch,
to open myself to him,
the wait of a lover wanting.

I wilt in his presence,
with no awareness of objects.
Only his scent surrounds me,
and the tapestry of our silence.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

The job of an author never ends. Yesterday, over the course of two hours, I worked on novel eight, breaking new ground on Chapter 6. I feel like I'm off to a good start. A start, mind you, not a completion, because a completion implies that all loose ends have been tied up with a pretty bow vs all the other work that should, could and needs to carry on behind the curtain.


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The claws came out, the fur went up on the back, the haunches lowered and the eyes... well, the posture said it all, "Touch me, mother f'er, and I'll scratch out your eyes!"

To those who've loved and lost kitties, who've gone through this, and only those who harbor true, blue love for the kitty will understand what it means to take a terrified kitty to the vet. Not everyone loves the kitty, and history has shown that kitties were often vilified, accused of aiding in witchcraft, evil, notwithstanding the fact that historical hatred has typically occurred before Modern times.


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The hero, the hated:
he makes me bloom
then makes me wilt
and yet,

I want to keep his lips
inside a wooden box,
next to my own
he shows me his pleasure,

in his nature, wild.
He leaves the impression
there is no ending.
Either I die or live in his love,

my sensuality is drunk
on the ecstasy,
that he delivers to me.
He is my man exceptional.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K. McCarthy

I have no shame and, in truth, I've no use for shame. Who really needs shame? What good does shame do for anyone? I can only hope to go through life having something to be ashamed of because then I'd know I had lived with some abandon and truth. Shame gives you something to live down. When I attend fantasy events to sell novels, I'm prepared to happily flaunt cleavage...er... that is the cleavage of my novel covers.

No one should judge a book by its cover yet the metaphorical cleavage of novel covers, if designed well, will entice and tantalize the curiosity of readers, and hopefully will inspire someone to buy and read on.


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Where there's passion there is creation, and creation can sometimes include folly and fire. Fire being the eruption of one's temper and folly being the headlong dive into troublesome waters, those of the relationship and familial variety where tempers can often collide.


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I'll be your strumpet,
your five-dime whore
on soiled sheets,
smiling and beckoning for more.

I want my ashes to die
as you burn my body
in the dust of eternity,
spreading my legs apart,

coming inside me, golden,
the fire of crimson eyes
then orange,
then white.

Illuminate me,
in the early morning,
then go but only after
you've skewered me to death.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Time isn't your friend. Try to make time your friend and I'll show you a human being with a watch that's barely observed, only until they notice at the last minute that they've run out of time, and are still many projects behind schedule.


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It is by far his most renowned poem, The Road Not Taken, by Robert Frost, a man born in the sunny state of California, in San Francisco no less but I shan't hold that against him, being born in a flaky state, for the man writes as though he belongs in the winterized paths of snowed over Canadian forests, stopping in his tracks to make that all but fateful decision to take the road less traveled.


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Your buttermilk tongue,
is a kiss,
that pleases and dips
into a sensory taste.

Your milk of love flows,
across the surface
of my body
feeling freshly,

the suppleness of your soul
are the only eyes
I see,
King Solomon of heart and body.

Bound by love and lust,
our hearts tethered forever
together,
until we writhe.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

An orgasm a day keeps the doctor away, which is potentially a better scenario than the adage of an apple a day keeps the doctor away, though this is true too, according to many medical doctors.

Orgasms come in all forms, and are not limited to the standard idea of the human orgasm, when our bodies gyrate in the throes of pleasure. I've known persons who orgasm regularly when sitting down to a meal. Each bite represents pure unadulterated pleasure.


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Despite the suggestive title, and before you delve deeper into this subject, know that it cannot be done. Hierarchies are here to stay. Not once, have they gone away, not once.

I studied political science at Uni, along with French language training, only to later abandon both pursuits in the pursuit of my creative writing. Regrets are a waste of time but spending time in the pursuit of learning is never a waste of time. One all-important truth you teach yourself, and learn to reconcile, is the line between the elites who own and shape the world (or the super-rich as they're more commonly known) and everyone else who falls underneath the top ranking.


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A long horizon coming,
minimizing along,
out of the sun,

Disagreeing
with the leftover moon.
That blue before the black of night.

The taste of your tongue, inside my mouth.
It was your lazy confidence
taking your sweet time to pet me,

a stroke away from
the rolled hills of your love, bygone
because you are relentless.

O God yes, you tease me,
you please me,
staying forever within our kiss.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

It's the opinion of many middle-aged professionals and beyond that we're raising freeloaders who are ultra-sensitive, yet insensitive to the elderly, to the struggles of others, so long as their personal struggle is the primary highlight and concern of others. In contrast, the very young naturally take an opposite view, that their struggle is very much real, in a world seemingly spinning out of control, and that the opportunities enjoyed by previous generations had it much easier.

Perspective is a snake that side-winds, rather than make straight lines.


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This is the question, whether it's wise to hire a graphic designer. Answer: Yes! It's not worth beating around the bush. It's as simple as that, when it comes to the final touches with regard to adding to your many years of hard work, penning your latest and greatest novel. Your cover can make or break your success, despite all of us authors understanding that success is often a crap-shoot, and why some authors become monster successes and why others don't, is often inexplicable. However, and when it comes to the cover, you more than anyone will have to look at it, admire it, promote it and run with the final cover going forward.


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Oh my,
my beautiful beast of pleasure,
what thoughts occupy your
mind of leisure?

My whore master,
I live for your wretched love
spilling forth,
your true demonstrations.

Each day you take me,
envelop me in your affection
and embrace me,
until I recall how the cold rain,

had stung my bones.
But in your warmth
I felt your body, that flesh
which brings me home again.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Why waste your precious coin on buying an entire island, when you are an island unto yourself? Why isolate yourself on an island that is likely to be subject to hurricanes and tsunamis, when you can choose to develop your inner peace, to become your very own safe-haven?


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"Don't go gentle into that good night," penned Dylan Thomas, a Welsh poet and author; regarded as one of the most wildly revered and recognized poems on the subject of old age and death. If I'm going to assign the label of rebel to a poet, I'd surely choose Mr. Thomas. He was viewed as a rebel for his works, which raged against complacency and surrender.


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F*ck me, my love.
I am so tight, so ready.
Listen to my groan, my moan
as you go in, hammering your nail
like dynamite, igniting my fire.

Can we be full-time lovers?
I will be strong when you are weak.
I will be submissive when you are aggressive.
We are cumming! We are cumming!

Fu*k me again, my love.
I am so right, so ready.
Can you hear our love growing
like weeds between the flowers?

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

These are the sage words delivered to me by an elderly woman in my life. I've listened. I've absorbed. And I've come to the conclusion that I'll resist aging on all fronts, to the best of my ability, to claw my way out, scratching and screaming. No one has time to get old. No one really wants to be reminded of getting older. Surely not I, and maybe not you either.


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I like change. I hate change. I like change when it's an easy, gentle transition, and I'm able to roll along with the punches, feeling quite peachy with myself that I'm adapting without hiccups. I hate change when it's a laborious process, and I'm expected to digest a 26-page PDF document to explain how to operate within the newly proposed changes that've been qualified as easy. Then I've got to process a learning curve in order to welcome this so-called easy change. My ass!


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How will I ever get over you?
I cannot envision my bed
without your slumbering body,
the way you lay beside me,

your arm wrapped around my waist.
And I only care to inhale your body scent
as though you are exotic, mountain flowers
plucked from the highest peak.

And I only care to rest my head
against your chest,
to listen to your heartbeat
at peaceful rest.

I only want these precious minutes,
we share, fleeting as they are,
to linger on,
like stolen hours kept in a jar.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Billionaires are burying wealth in bunkers, apparently, or so one headline read, that billionaires are buying up luxury bunkers in preparation for a total and complete societal collapse. This may or may not be a wonderful way to finish off your day, knowing that you don't relate to this category, to be able to own a doomsday bunker. Sounds catchy. Sounds pricey at a mere cost of $300 million. If, however, you have coin falling from the skies straight into your pockets, and you're worth one billion or more, the cost of hundreds of millions will seem like chicken feed.


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The best advice I've received with regard to elective surgery, which is to say, when you choose to undergo a procedure, is to avoid surgery at all costs. To expand on this descriptive, it means non-emergency surgery. What qualifies as an emergency would be in the instance of surviving a car crash, being rushed to emergency, where a surgeon operates, to put your body back together. Here surgery is welcome, rather than to die from your injuries or to survive them with permanent damage going forward. Though, and sadly, we all know there are instances when you're not able to afford to pay or to receive immediate care from a skilled surgeon.


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A second time shall you bloom
not for the men or women
before you or after
shall you bloom again.

Into a human of substance wanting
for yourself,
to seek a gentler heart
inside of you,

Does it beat,
your passion unbridled.
You will know of no other resolution
to the question foremost in your thoughts:

For whom or what do you live
if not for love?

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K. McCarthy

The long Easter weekend begins tomorrow, with a Statutory Holiday. For those who follow Catholic practices, you'll be avoiding meat on Good Friday, and opting instead for fish, as well as to throw a feast for the whole damn family on Easter Monday. Somewhere in between these days you'll be attending at least two main liturgical celebrations, though these are officially recognized as Masses, also viewed as liturgy masses.


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I don't know what's inside your head. How can I possibly know the first thought that comes to mind when you read a title like this, the mangler. Are you thinking of wrestling? Maybe not. I know precisely who this post is about, and it's currently being hijacked by me to describe a man I once knew, who'd come by the nickname of The Mangler honestly, bestowed on him by his long-time buddies, for the well-endowed size of his fun-stick. Here I can easily insert any number of substitutes to describe that second most essential part of a man's body, only because the first most-essential part is his brain. Yes! The brain is essential, for without a free-thinking brain, is not every man just another swinging d*ck?


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How many lives would you give to me
of your love
unrealized?

On your tongue
can you taste my words of profession,
how I love thee?

Beyond what I have seen,
my eyes are old
and tired and worn.

Even though I perish on your passion,
I know you are a fair heart
inside my love.

Growing with affection,
my self-loathing is quickly fading
with you beside me.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Perfection is an illusion. Perfection is a subjective aim and a conclusion when viewed from the perspective of each individual. The aim of our intention, our ideal, will surely become altered, in the chase toward perfection.

I don't like it when the sands underneath my feet continually shift, daily, hourly, or even by the second. I know in my heart that to strive for perfection is analogous to setting yourself up for ultimate defeat, disappointment and fear, doled out at the hands of reality and maybe too a little self-loathing needs to be sprinkled in for allowing oneself yet again to fall into the trap of striving to achieve perfection.


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Ever give yourself a detox, to cleanse your body? It is officially Spring and to prepare for the months ahead, this is typically the time of year when some elect to self-administer a detox, to cleanse themselves of the build-up of toxins that have accumulated from the year prior. And when I use the word cleanse, I mean purging toxins out of your body. It all sounds on the surface to be a reasonable endeavor, and potentially one that might only represent the purchase of a single detox cleanse kit that runs for seven days, at the cost of $100 or more.


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Men of countless flavors
in this so-called marketing dream,
I feel bombarded with choices
wading knee-deep, barely heard, nor even seen.

I can recount old wounds of rejection
swept away by a torrent of emotion.
Unfulfilled, I race downward
in ritual and commotion.

Fleeting in passing you walk.
Silent stealth in movement you stalk.
Two hearts need two paths to encounter,
are you my black panther?

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

It took effort and planning to accomplish. Back in September 2025, which feels like a million years ago, I had shelled out plenty of coin to upgrade my computer set-up. My tech guy (bless his heart) arrived on-site to set up everything, to ensure that the migration of my entire writing and personal files (and there were many), were successfully transferred to my new computer, to include software applications. The entire process took 4.5 hours. While this may seem to be an inordinate amount of time, it actually went very quickly once I realized that each application, periphery device, connectivity, had to be properly tested, before I would sign off on it. Only one glitch needed to be resolved, when it was determined that my docking station wasn't the right one, so I had to race out the door to Canada Computers to make the purchase swap.

The end result was a successful installation.


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The best writing advice I've ever received came from an editor who pointedly reminded me that to drink and blog is a big no-no. "Never drink and blog," he warned. "The next morning, if by chance, you happen to look over your post from the night before, you'll be shocked by what you've written."

Good advice.


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He loves me with his mouth and eyes.
How I adore him,
a body lithe of flesh,

I own him, on this day I eat him,
in darkened walls
around us sleeping,

our naked selves are
pressed against our arms and legs
covered in sex and staying,

a while later we start over,
the love making of tongues
discovering ourselves in emotion.

COYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

A liar is someone who obfuscates the truth with a different version of the truth that is in actuality a twisted version of their so-called truth in their lying mind. Or, perhaps I should start this post differently. A liar is often associated with a politician and as we very well know, politicians can behave like liars, cheats and thieves, when presented to the voting public. Politicians are masters at promising the moon to you with a fence around it, and when finally voted into office, they'll pivot faster than you can say, "on a dime."


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The wheel keeps on turning and turning but the level of confusion hasn't waned. I enjoy the back and forth banter that is profuse on Threads. Well, the nature of Threads is to initiate threads of discussion. Initially, I was blasé on Threads, until I realized that commentary is highly active vs X, as an example, which is a place where I recently read on one person's post is best described as the smoking area of the social network realm. This is accurate, as much as it's funny. 😂Yet, and with Threads, the intent is to share meaningful content, for the most part. Sure. Sure. There are those who need to vent, and others who poke the bear in the cave, hoping for traction on their ridiculous bait posts. On the whole, however, the commentary on Threads is intended for the intellectual.


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Death,
take hold of my body
because feeling has left it to nothing,
nor will love remain deep inside my heart.

Death,
rip it out of my flesh.
O dastardly pity
has fallen upon my love.

Death,
take the knife and stab me
and be done with self-loathing,
lest I let fall my guard and love him.

Death,
will hurt me yet again this time
if I fly toward merriment
to the end of bitter love.

Hard to believe that I'm still churning out ideas, that even any fresh ideas at all are swirling around in my pretty little head but that's just what it's all about, the sharing of ideas, good or bad. As to whether these are viable ideas and worth your precious time to read, I shall leave this judgement up to your good self.


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Today being my birthday (against my wishes, mind you), I've decided to indulge in some shameless self-promotion, and this will be followed up later today with a delicious Bellini slushy (peaches, Prosecco and peach schnapps), to include some yummy nibbles, after which a bottle of Rose wine may find it way to my lips. It's important to celebrate yourself, as much as it is to continue writing your current Work-In-Progress, as well as your blog.

So here I go!


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He fills my belly,
then lays me blindly.
For a night to be his queen
I desire, he be my king.

And what I have will be his.
Between teeth and tongue,
I will be drawn
beyond the lowest line,

to offer my flesh,
Luscious,
in the details of scent.
I will wrap the comfort,

of his want around me,
and fall into him,
into dreams with full eyes
and swollen heart.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

No doubt, my spelling of the word 'kazooed' is off by a mile but the intent of the word is quite clear. Yes, there are moments when feeling kazooed, getting kazooed, going beyond the point of being kazooed can all be reached. Not entirely, however, as was the case this past Saturday evening, when I enjoyed appies and drinky-poos at a friend's condo, along with her fiancé and my sibling.


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Grocery shopping is a very serious business, and I mean really and truly, a very serious business. Inflation takes no prisoners, and as we'll soon enter the third month of 2026, it's been reported by the Canadian Government that food inflation has already increased in Canada by more than 4 per cent. Ouch!

Now a percentage increase of four per cent on the surface doesn't seem to be too large. Only, try a little test on your own and work out the math, were you to increase your mortgage or car payments by 4%. You'll very quickly work through the numbers to arrive at the same conclusion that 4% is bloody high, considering that some strive to lock in their mortgage at as low an interest rate as possible, while others will opt instead for a variably rate, to give themselves wiggle room in order that they may take advantage of the times when financial institutions will lower the lending rate.


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I envy the conflicted soul,
stirring up the broth of thought.
In contemplation, I ought to release my notions,
Preconceived as to who I am.

Today, maybe,
I might recognize a flicker of myself,
in the grove of trees urging me
to come lean my furrowed brow,

on the strength of simply being.
Here for eternity,
I grow my identity
Temporarily caught in my throat.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

When you have the P's and Q's in your pocket, you've got your ducks lined up in a row or you're playing with a full deck of cards or you're nobody's fool. This is how I grew up to understand this well-known expression, that in a nutshell, it means you're as sharp as you think you are, because you've got all your P's and Q's in your pocket.

However, this isn't the only version, nor is it the correct one.


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The planets will soon become misaligned, so it's time to get your flake on. We'll enter into a three-week phase called Mercury Retrograde from February 26th until March 20th. Mercury is the planet that rules communication and has an impact on all things with moving parts, like computers, cars, electronics, mobile phones. If you're like me, and you refuse to hop onto the Microsoft OneDrive train, or you refuse to back up your mobile phone to the cloud, allow me then to recommend that you take a moment to connect your mobile phone vis-a-vis the adapter cable, to back-up your photos to your hard-drive. This is how I ensure my photos are not lost, as well as my latest work-in-progress (novel eight). I have deeply rooted issues of distrust with Microsoft, and their OneDrive application is proof positive that they want your data, all of it, and will automatically make a copy of whatever is stored on your laptop's hard-drive to the Cloud, even without your permission.


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The body count will grow in 2026. I'm referring to tornado season, rather than the body count of those linked in the release of millions of infamous E-Files. Weather forecasters anticipate that in 2026 alone, there'll potentially be over 1,400 tornadoes to hit the USA in the Central Plains, that is to say in Nebraska, Kansas, Oklahoma, Missouri, Iowa and Texas. Not all will be lethal. It really only takes a handful to leave their devastating mark.


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It has been three weeks and a bit since my role was phased out at the firm where I've contributed my professional expertise as an Executive Assistant for nearly two decades. Not because of performance issues, rather like many corporations, a review of total coverage across offices had resulted in restructuring.


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He's stuck in the past,
rooted like a determined weed.
And no matter how often he discusses,

he re-hashes again the same subjects.
I fantasize
slitting his throat,

And dismembering his body parts.
I fantasize
telling the world he left without a word.

Telling them, now,
he belongs to the past —
lovers to the last.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Back in the early 1980s, CNN was one of the first 24 hour news stations to throw out the term "off-line." This descriptive differentiated when an individual or broadcast service was connected to a live network vs how some view connectivity in the 21st Century, that off-line means being unreachable — not by mobile, and by extension text, email, or via social networks.


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There's a difference between ritual and routine.

Routine is a mindless act that we carry out each day with no forethought or after though, such as when we shower and wash our bodies in the same manner each time — beginning with one arm, next arm, neck, back, torso, private parts, toes and legs. Whereas, a ritual is a prescribed order of actions, a ceremony, if you will, used by many to ground themselves in the here and now, to anchor their thoughts and feelings, and to connect to a higher state of consciousness. For many they'll perform a ritual of protection for all those they hold as dear.


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The essence of my nature revealed itself
when I gave myself to him and his young body.

I chose those lips of heaven-sent mist
and marveled at how I wanted to be with him.

Then the pain crashed through between my legs
and he pushed on, and my brain caught fire.

The pain alight in my head as he tore through my flesh
and plunged his tongue inside my mouth.

And he squeezed both breasts inside his hands
pressing upon my nipples erect. My eyes shut tight,

and my body started spinning. I became that moment,
cherishing the freedom of my womanhood.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Las Vegas has everything to offer an adult: gambling, bright lights, loads of travelers, plenty of booze, shopping and even more gambling, not to mention being able to smoke indoors in the casinos and drink openly in the streets. There are escorts aplenty for those looking to get their end wet, and a plethora of casinos that come equipped with other attractions like roller-coasters, theme parks and long-standing special guests who perform regularly.

You won't get bored.


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So the very old story goes in The Bible, as written in one of my long-term books that I've been reading on and off for years, The Sacred Origins of Profound Things (dealing with the world's religions) that when the contemporary thinking Eve decided to take a wee bite of an apple plucked from the Tree of Knowledge, God was so enraged that he punished Eve by giving her a monthly period. The monthly curse was to remind Eve of her wickedness and not only that, he wanted her to suffer further with abdominal pain along with headaches and uncontrollable mood swings.


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Darkness falls on tongues.
Aromas waffle through walls
soaking nostrils.
Drenched, subtle, perversely decadent,

the miraculous Aztec elixir.
Hail to watering mouths.
Sublimely medicinal.
Resistance is disease.

Melting fingertips.
Decisions. Guilt. Not at all.
His clipped, staccato speech was apropos.
The proprietor:

"70% purity is good. We only sell the best".
“Mmm,” I said. “Do you eat some regularly?
"Stupid question. Every day. Made from scratch".
Matter of fact.

Dark. Darker. Darkest.
Gold foil is God's protector.
Angels live below the clouds.
Oh, what the Hell.

I'll take that one. And those for later.
I just need a little something to tide me over.
Seems I'm feeling a tad blue today.
It's close to suppertime, you know.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

We learn from our parents. Kids of the same sex as their parent are most influenced by the same parent, rather than the other way around, where a mother can greatly influence a son or how a father can greatly influence the daughter. That is also true, to an extent of course, but not to the same degree that a mother is able to imprint on her daughter or the manner in which a father imprints on his son.


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Fascinations are like the seasons, forever in a state of flux and duty bound by virtue of their intrinsic nature to change, never repeating the same cycle twice in exactly the same manner. Fascinations are when we become taken with someone or something that we haven't necessarily set out to do.


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Bring me another man
to satiate my whimsy.
None escape
the clutches of my desire.

Just passing along
I assure myself
one is not like the other
to the changes, I am

of that woman
who wants then sees again
another way to elevate,
the lust of her body.

Bring me another man
to break me open,
to split apart my flesh,
into blisters of love.

Patricia K McCarthy © COPYRIGHT

Fat man with the large belly.
He keeps looking at me
and rubbing his very hairy belly.

Dark hairs
are curling around
the semi circles inside,

His huge thighs
are rounding toward his buttocks.
I wonder,

How would it feel to lay on top,
a fat man and his distended belly?
Would he crush me as I ride him?

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

To thy man,
whose weapon with not
I am born,
tread lightly into woman.

Cherish her body as sacred,
and protect her sanctuary.
Allow no violation to befall her,
to manifest into physical rage.

Be not a brute, nor rogue
who overtakes her,
through strength
and advantage.

Respect thy woman, truly,
and be her friend in equal realm.
And may he never do her harm,
to allow his bloodlust to spill over,

to invade her personal boundary,
and follow him into his death.
May thy man forever carry
this badge of honour in his breast.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

You may have asked yourself, from time to time, "for crying out loud, does this woman ever stop with her profundity and opinions?"

I've asked myself this question, too, and over the weekend I decided it was high-time that this kitty-kat took a vacation from blogging on X, and to place more emphasis on writing my eighth novel. So, dearest and most interested readers, for the next couple of weeks, I'm taking a wee hiatus and shall check in from time to time to see if there are any new friend requests and to answer those DMs that I've encouraged, rather than to answer DMs that I haven't initiated, to which I simply ignore regardless because they junk up my Inbox.


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I am the river of madness
scavenged by crows
perched as still as blades of yellow grass.
There can be no rescue
from the collective soul.

I am the coldness,
for my lineage came
from sharpened blades
cutting open the frozen shores
to dislodge everyone from their place.

My age is the wisdom
of human beings,
eternally gorging.
How we adore the pages of violence,
our terror and disease.

I am the agony of defeat
stained with tears
glistening on dead leaves.
When first I feared the most terrible
the greater sick became my greed.

I am the darkness
of the hollow branches of disbelief.
Our desire is never complete:
more this, more that, more of everything.
There can be no retreat.

My age is the wind in front of me
speaking hauntingly of tomorrow.
Yet I have promised my love to Hope,
to embrace peace
each night I take sleep.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Here I go again... that dreaded insomnia of mine strikes with ferocity, when I least expect it, and last night's sleep was no exception. I had hardly slept at all, and when I did, I dreamed the dreams that only a sleep-deprived brain could conjure.


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X isn't only over-run with bots but also with Red Pill profiles, those whose entire platform is centered on defamation, 100% in the direction of women. A Red Pill poster is about division, rather than to guide young men on how to build the kind of life they want with a partner. When you trash all women, in such a sad and general way, you're dealing with a warped perspective, a rage-farmer, not an inspirational leader.

Pity that some build a following on defamation.


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Will you forsake yourself,
to sinful pleasure?
Grant me, first,
one wish.

That I may be the reflection of
your sensual want.
That I may rise in flame,
from violet to rose.

And take from you,
sweet sigh and repose.
In your youthful body,
I grow, from out of visible scars,

Now barely there.
In your graceful touch,
I give to you my breath,
my willing flesh.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Writers make some of the best observers. It's our job to observe, assess, interpret and recall for later use when penning that next great ditty of assimilated words. When I had two little fur-balls living with me full-time, who've long crossed over to the rainbow bridge, I noticed two distinct personality types. My kitties might just have well served as the models for comparison between the human male and female. They were no different from one another, because they were kitties, and yet they were so common in their female and male approach to living.


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The day will come, like all events that carry with them a sense of trepidation, when you'll have to make the emotional commitment and stick your neck on the line. I'm referring to the promotion of yourself and your skills, to include your resume, s snapshot that spells out to potential employers how you're the cat's meow, and why any organization would be a fool not to hire you.


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Go on, hate me.
Hate me for my lacerating tongue,
my dirty mouth,
spewing vulgar words.

Tell me I am crass and boorish,
and I might be prone to say,
with a look of dismay,
that I am, that I am.

Doesn’t he love it, though?
I should think, with a wink,
getting his horn blown,
in the morning,

is by far his preferred way to go.
He’s such a pussycat, after that.
He cares less about my filthy talk,
and lascivious ways.

Go on, go ahead,
and plunder me.
Tear off my clothes
and have your way.

I'm willing to commit,
the perfect crime with you,
any place, any time.
Bless you, for being mine.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

It has begun in earnest. It is well upon us, underneath us, bearing over top, surrounding us all around, from the sides to the tops, from the dregs of the streets, coming into the stores — Christmas marketing, and chocolate season has officially descended. We are now into the month of December, the month of merriment and all things sparkly. I've shored up my defences and hidden my wallet, and my VISA card is locked inside a safe. I venture out of home with a calm demeanor, confident that I'll be able to resist all varieties of chocolate circling my wagons like raging marauders with pointy spears.


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Hypothetical: There's this time machine, and it works, and only you have access to it, and maybe some of your dearest friends and family but surely not your beer-drinking buddies after they've had one too many, while catching the ball game. You may enter the time machine at your leisure, and choose the year you want to return to but you must accept that you cannot go to the future, given that the future supposedly doesn't yet exist.

Or, does the future already exist?


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Purge destructive thoughts
by writing on paper
your pent-up anger.

Sleep a life complete
in peace, waking
only at leisure.

Miserable bitch!
Stop being so cold toward yourself,
sympathizing with your aggression.

Wanting to die,
wanting to wander for a year
until underarm hair grows to the floor.

Pain. Pain. Go away.
Leave this belly to sweeter days.
Dream of sleep. Sleep not.

Lose yourself to anxiety.
while the blood of womanhood
has bloated your sensitivity.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

When I tried out @Grok for the first time, a few weeks back I asked this zippity AI engine to summarize my X profile, and the result was an efficient summation of the kind of posts one can expect from me. What made me laugh was the qualifier about how I rage over hypocrisy. 😂 True, I tell you! I certainly do rage over hypocrisy and issues that get under my skin.


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To subsist on swamp grass and turnips or to thrive on top sirloin and salad? This is the question: whether it's nobler in the mind to spend like a drunken sailor or stick one's nose to the grindstone and budget, budget!


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When last he touched me,
illuminated my innocent skin,
with his keen sight, he stroked me,
and passed his gaze down, in front.

To my breast, he kissed me,
in a moment of inevitability,
he created a memory,
I would cling to,

of him, of his scent,
no cologne lay claim to,
occupying the belief
in my mind,

of an unusual man,
and his sensibility of touch,
takes me asunder.
Will he remember me tomorrow?

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

With the world turning upside down on its head at present, at least seemingly, as we're all forced to traverse rising grocery prices (thank you tariffs), I am of late struggling to complete a sleep cycle that doesn't include rolling, thundering waves. Take last night's dream, as a vivid example, I was in a sailboat, a big mother of a sailboat that ironically only required one person to steer, and a massive tidal wave swept the boat into a raging river that lead to Niagara Falls. Before I knew it, I was falling over the falls, sailboat and all, and felt powerless to stop the plunge. I woke up with my heart pounding so hard that I didn't want to go back to sleep.


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Doesn't the Christmas season make you feel all warm and fuzzy? Doesn't the notion of holidays make you want to jump into your jammies with full feet and laze about the living room with your loved one or a new book? I have these feelings, too, like everyone, only I'm not currently in the throws of a relationship, and haven't been for some time. If I was in one, I might be rolling my eyes, thinking about how stressed we each are, my man and his issues and me with mine.


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I am evil in my veins
because I bleed for copulation,
blood red,
hell-bent on dead.

Surely, will I faint
when he streaks my body crimson,
across thigh and down backside,
leaving colour everywhere.

He pleasures himself, with myself,
with that thing designed
to make me come, inside my mind,
his tongue entangles my taste,

in his mouth of wild horses,
speaking a language of movement in silence.
We are the sweetest song
in the morning glory.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Every Sunday, back in the days when this wonderful show was on the air (Inside the Actor's Studio), I waited for 5 pm, to catch every new episode.

I've been attracted to the arts since I was a wee lassie. There's something magical about the fantastic world of the Arts, where anything and everything happens. At the end of every show, the host asked each guest a series of questions, developed by a Frenchman whose name I'm saddened to admit escapes me at present. Regardless, one of the questions was: "What is your favourite sound?" My answer is Winter. The sound of winter to me is distinct and comforting and, it's a sound all its own and not unlike anything else.


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[This one's for you, Dad 🥰]

Disconnection can easily occur when one generation removed fails to learn from the previous generation, or when prior generations are regarded as being less than worthy of in-depth, historical understanding by younger generations — the very persons who benefit, to connect to the experiences of past generations, their country's history and/or their family's past. Well, this is the ideal. We all know that ideals are illusions.


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"Are we not sacred?" asked the tree of the child.

That your world may thrive, we blanket the planet in hues of warmest green.

That your lungs may breathe, we exhale precious oxygen to nourish the air.

That your words may survive to teach, we transform our skin into paper.

That your shelters may be built, we relinquish our bodies to become two by fours.

That your communities may rejoice, we nest sweet angels to enrich you with song.

That your lovers may dream, we shade easy slumber under a crown of leaves.

The glory of light shines above us, while we dance the dance of the sacred eternal, the dance of stalwart silence watching.

"I don't know those big words," said the child to the tree. "Did you see how high I can climb?"

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

If you're hurling rotten tomatoes at me with your eyes as you read this title, I won't take it personally. I made this statement with earnest and sincerity because I speak from a position of first-hand experience, having worked since I was 11 years old; the first time I held a bona-fide job that paid me moulah — babysitting.


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It will begin soon, the season of too much food, too much glug-glug, too much fondling and kissing and pulling tipsy bodies closer to your steamy body. I speak of the return to the Christmas season, the get-together of family and colleagues and friends, the wolfing down of nibbles and too-large meals that force you to pop a button on your buttoned-up jeans or to loosen that tight belt.


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Lovely, waking dreams
of melancholy eyes
Falling helpless, falling head and heart
to the floor, opening
a portal to silent trembling,

Over the infinite hair of chaos:
Wind, rain, sleet and thunder
Gathering
the watchful storms
of half-glimpses,

Seeking refuge
in his mercurial nature
And the yellow melodies
of unspoken desire.
Falling helpless, falling into anonymous love.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Get used to taking it up the a** when you write. If you want to promote... er... that is pimp your work, at some point in time in this journey called writing, you'll have to take it up the a** in the metaphorical sense. These were the sage words of advice, imparted to me by a seasoned professional with years experience in the public relations business.

Simple is succinct.


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Yes indeed. Flu season is upon us and we're all well advised to dash out like a quick little bunny and offer up our arms to get punctured with a needle. Only I've been one of those recalcitrant persons who never got an annual flu shot, and I mean like not ever.


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The gunslinger inside the corporate soul
mesmerized by ascendancy
masters of the Universe
Enslave the collective whole

The ferocity of Viking blades
a willingness
to conquer abroad
Lacerated ideologies in the wake

The age of stunted humanity
in TV
and violence
Adoration of terror eternally

The fear of defeat
exploited
teetering economy
Consumption begot of undulating greed

The holy trinity toujours:
SEX
CARS and FOOD
Sitting ducks to marketing allure

The wind haunting tomorrow
Love promised to Hate
a bedfellow made
Sleepless nights are hollow.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Our digital age is hard cement, and once captured in coded digital form, your words and likeness online are hardened solid into a brick of cement that'll weather the storms. The worst words flung at an individual online will stain the way, and shall be carved in stone with your name, like an aged epitaph on a tombstone in a graveyard that's gone untended for decades. Does this mean that when you die, you'll still be live online? Why yes of course it will! As to the quality of memory that defines you, this will remain to be seen, until that is time has passed after your death.


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Take my word for it. If you walk to work every day you will surely experience the microcosm of your world in an entirely different way... than say someone who drives to work. I interact with students, the houseless, business persons, couriers, dog-walkers, street vendors and musicians — all of whom are also making their way to and from their places of employment, or out and about, or merely plying their busker trade in the hopes of earning more than just a few dollars.


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I may even come to you, still,
disheveled and bloodied.
To kill for you, possibly I could
feel true emotion.

I want to sleep with your scent.
When I am worn out and withdrawn,
in your arms, such calmness
will I come to know,

With you inside me,
the danger signs disappear,
for weeks at a time,
when I come to you.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Ouch! Not the prettiest way to begin... no apologies are necessary. This is my space. I'm therefore only answerable to myself for questionable expressions.


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It has begun, fully, completely, without restraint, the roll-out and official launch of AI assistants, deployed like an army of automatons. Now, and whenever I click on 'new email', whether in my personal account or vis-a-vis my work email account, there's an immediate AI pop-up that offers to write my email for me.


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I tipped back on my heels,
my balance wavering,
into a profound love
come calling.

I felt his heart changing
into a grateful being of demeanor,
now elevated higher,
by my tongue and relativity.

There is nothing more remote than regret,
like a lever, jinxing with my pleasure
and my past failures,
can still be tasted in my mouth.

I will never crawl back,
to any other
or long-forgotten bliss,
but only the man in front of me.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Food and and I have had a long, illustrious partnership for years, stretching as far back to the days when I discovered cinnamon toast, made that old-fashioned way with liberal amounts of sugar and cinnamon, and drowning the hot toast fresh out of the toaster with loads of creamy butter, to ensure that the cinnamon sugar mix would melt. Talk about bloody delicious!


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Temperatures this evening will begin to dip, every night a little bit more. When you lay your head down on your pillow, the warm air of the day is replaced by a cool blanket. We've been spoiled in Ottawa with record-warm temperatures for the last four days, hitting the 30 Celsius mark. Wowzers! But when it starts to cool off, this suits me just fine. I love the cold. I think best in bed, under the covers. In fact, my brain never stops thinking, nor does my body stop feeling. I find myself becoming increasingly more randy at night and in the early hours of morning when the coolness is evident. It's during these times that I'm susceptible to suggestion, particularly of the dirty kind.


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We are blended divinity,
melting into a landscape,
held together by atoms, by the trillions,
engraved into our minds.

We are pulled by mutual affection,
our loving arms surround a realm of touch,
to give shape to the river of tastes,
to glide into the softest of skin.

And because we are part of each other,
cold thresholds cross into warmth.
And no longer need we control,
the shaking vibrations, taking over our bodies.

We are something other worldly,
like purity claiming a stake to reality,
like two who have become like one,
entering inside each other.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Who are the elitist b*stards in your life? I have an easy answer to this question, from the perspective of an Indie author: conglomerate bookstore chains.

The word anarchist I rarely, if ever, use to describe myself. I'm a pacifist at heart but if pushed, then I have the potential to behave like a ruthless warrior, at least when it comes to emotional intent, rather than actual physical violence. I'm of the opinion that explosive devices are not the answer either. But I must confess. I would love to plant an egg-kaboom in the underwear of those managers responsible for stocking books in major bookstore chains.


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D.H. Lawrence penned these words and, if my shoddy memory serves me correctly, I would be paraphrasing by partially quoting the beginning of his famous quote, "I want to experience everything in life and on the journey towards my death, I want to live my life so that my nights are not filled with regrets." [first appeared in a play called The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd].


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Too well I know,
how well I lie,
just this one, am I,
only a breath in moment.

Without the touch of another,
more foolish than I,
to believe a soulmate can live,
all by oneself.

Too well I feel,
how well am I real,
without the taste of another’s mouth,
to be found on my lips.

How shall we kiss eternally as one?

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

To main is to mutilate, to dismember or remove limbs.

I will not go quietly into this dark night nor silently into the sunny day either. I will go with my outrageous opinions and prejudices intact like all people who are alive, independent, co-dependent or otherwise. I suspect I'm not alone. I know for sure that a number of my friends feel the same as me that e-bikes and e-scooters are the scourge of cycle paths and there's just no getting around this fact.


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I try to look my best, like everyone else. We all want to look our best. It's the reason why we stand in front of the mirror adjusting and preening, and why we brush our teeth, comb our hair, wash-up, among other habits, because the basic human need to groom is so ingrained into our psyche that we can't help ourselves.


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If I stole your heart,
and then tossed it away,
I would be telling lies.
I would violate my soul,

if I did not care for you,
evil spirits would possess my world;
the birds would leave the sky,
and die, I should, one hundred deaths of despair.

If I could not make love to you,
and worship your body,
the infinite mysteries of your being
would remain unseen,

would leave me blind,
to the uniqueness of your mind.
In the planetary multitude of men,
I am reminded why you are special.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. Munch. Munch. Munch. Shuffle. Shuffle. Shuffle. More chomping and more chomping, followed by incessant talking.

I shall never forget the last experience at my local favorite repertoire theatre, the ByTowne Cinema. I had gone to see Francis Ford Coppola's film, Youth Without Youth. Primarily, the theatre was filled with adults and I use this term loosely because for more than one moment, I felt like I was sitting with teenagers. The short attention spans of many people translates into an inability to sit still for more than twenty minutes, without having to get up, go to the counter and refill their popcorn box. The sounds of people stuffing their mouths with popcorn and chewing with open mouths, as well as the constant chatter was enough to turn me into a Nazi. Going to the theatre is easily the one venue where I'll become inspired to want to think like a Nazi. It doesn't sound very good to use this term, nor to acknowledge that my thinking can sometimes lean toward this extreme. But there it is.


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There is a great deal in this life that I'd prefer to avoid, the unruly expectations and actions that you'd much rather run behind a black screen to scream about the injustice. An example would be having to do such terrible things like unclogging a sink drain when a plumber isn't available. I've done this, and I get why plumbers are paid well, to take on these dirty jobs.


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Why love or want,
his wily sex,
capricious and vexed by succulent flesh,
that is woman?

And why desire or have,
her fickle sex,
rare and hexed by a dangling appendage,
that is man?

Or else, turn blind one eye
to the delights that await thee,
and rise from pillow
to stand on devotion.

To want because his body
is celestial grace;
to have because her body
is heavenly space.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Finances are an integral part of every person's life. Mine too. Just like yours.

CTV News often showcases the same financial expert to educate and help viewers to interpret the latest investment trends, often citing the latest stock market performances between the DOW Jones and TSX markets. A looming and pending recession is expected to soon hit the good ol' United States of America, attributed in part to the impact of the US tariffs on goods being imported into the USA, and as a result of the international manufacturers who are forced to raise the cost of their goods to compensate for the higher cost of selling their products into the USA. No one will be exempt from these higher prices, except maybe the very well-to-do of this world.


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Run away quickly, my left-brain thinking friends. Yes! This means you! You're one of those who is stubbornly stuck in that logical bent and frame of mine that feels the world should only make sense if a scientist says so. It is not always so, my friend. In fact, many would disagree with the left-thinking brains.


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Love finds you on the edge.
No one is impervious to its allure.
Impenetrable, haphazard mountains,
love will climb its way to reach you,

like a victor who scales heights
of dizzying emotion.
Whether on top, or wasted on sheer cliff,
love will cling to its sexual stature.

Let us be fearless, dearest beloved,
and repel into each other,
into the treacherous unknown,
into our elevated chamber.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

The learning process as a human, woman, and especially a writer will never stop, I suppose, until I kick the proverbial bucket and pass over to the other wily side. Until then, I will absorb whatever lessons I can, if they are deemed to be of use to me, of course.


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Wherefor art thou summer? How shocking to have woken up on the third last day of August to cooler than seasonal temperatures hovering around 11 degrees Celsius, which is 51.8 Fahrenheit. To this I say, WTF? 🤬Now we are two days into the new month of September, and thankfully the temps have pulled themselves out of Mother Nature's a**, so perhaps there is a little hope left before the arrival of Fall. I can hope, right?


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Dreams will forever be a recurring theme in my life, and particularly in these posts... just because they're a part of my nighttime activities, whether I like them or not.

Some people tell me they prefer reality to dreams because at least in reality they feel they have some sense of control over events that are happening to them. Whereas, in dreams, we're surely not in control of the weird and wonderful things that occur. But I'd argue against this point. The late, very great film director Stanley Kubrick, apparently was inspired to create 2001: A Space Odyssey based on a dream he had one night, during which he woke up in the early hours of the morning and wrote down the details. He took control of the fanciful images swirling in his mind and acted upon them. I'd say that was one hell of a fabulous dream, considering the impact his movie had on countless other artists (David Bowie namely being one, who went on to write Space Oddity, the song that finally catapulted him to super stardom).


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There is something strangely liberating about throwing out possessions, ridding yourself of clutter and papers and things. You feel like a lighter version of yourself. You feel free, probably due to the fact that there is the appearance of having less and creating more space.


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Woman is man, is creature,
expounding on meaning,
seeking truth in the joining of loins,
until she is born in his wanting,
until he passes through her desire.

How they conspire to control each other;
to speak their words,
to direct their deeds.
Had they not foreseen,
that love is embodied in all weather?

Bracing against the wind,
beating with the rain,
breaking into radiant light and ebony night.
How then are they wholesome,
these creatures of infinite verse?

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Today is the kind of day that calls for a huge, fat frothy cappuccino with one teaspoon of raw sugar, to kick-start my new life. I say new life because every day when we wake up, we really have no idea what's coming down the pike. And, due to the fact that you cannot predict what events will unravel during the day, then yes you can view it as a new life.

One day. One new life per day.


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Twelve-digit passwords have arrived, so I learned this week when updating my password to log into a server. The new standard is a longer password, to ensure better protection, which requires that your password incorporate capital and lowercase letters, special characters, and numbers.

Oh my lawd! Can my brain handle the overload?


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I like your tenderness and peculiarity,
the way you touch me
with a sprinkle of patience,
you explore me.

Between the lines of my emotion
and flesh, I bubble over with lust.
For your taste is the first morsel to
pass these lips.

And the water of your mouth
is the wine in the glass of my want.
With you, I regress to a time when I worried far less.
In your tenderness, I feel irresistible.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

It's been nearly two years since I've traveled outside Canada, and this pains me in ways I cannot delineate here in their entirety.


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One longtime friend makes it a point of declaring to me at the beginning of every summer that he phucking loves summer! Why? Because of the scantily clad young girls in short-shorts and skimpy tops. Suppose I can't blame him, any more than I'd blame someone of the same sex lusting for their same sex. Spring is the prelude to the time of lust, which is summer, and we are currently in the deep throes of summer, now into week two of the month of August.


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Remain still to my skin,
pressed against your back
buried in, with both arms,
both legs, asleep in poppy fields.

This dream of never ends
is all I want or need,
as leftover romance from the night before.
And nothing, dear,

Do I desire more,
than to listen to you breathe.
Rolled over, in coil, I lay.
Beside you, forever I stay.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

You're supposed to listen closely when the Universe speaks. The rule of thought that governs your place in the Universe has as much to do with how you feel about yourself and the world around you, as much as it is a reflection of what the Universe is giving back to you, what is being transmitted to you.


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It is through the discerning eye of a longtime friend that we are sometimes more in tune with viewing ourselves in a different light.


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What we name as love,
shall become as clear as water,
shining a reflection,
in a ripple of tenderness,

we will surrender our hearts,
to guide ourselves to ecstasy.
In each other's arms
our lips will know the path,

to quench our tongues in flavour,
swallowing sweet intensity
and affection, we will reach
high above the surface,

of what we name as love.
We shall reveal to one another,
our inner flesh, wet and floating,
like the first time we tasted love.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Every day, regardless of weather, I walk downtown, primarily because I don't own a car or an electric bike, nor even a moped. I'll ride an Uber to the opposite end of town when my sister and I visit w/ our elderly mom. So on the whole, I walk everywhere and I cycle in my the city too, though this is for enjoyment and exercise.


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Sometimes you just have to stage a protest bcuz if you didn't, how would an oppressive conglomerate know you're fed up? It's no different than holding back your opinion or sometimes anger, when dealing with someone who's behaving in an unreasonable fashion or who has demonstrated a pattern of abuse. If you don't lose your sh*t every now and then, how will these individuals ever know when they've crossed the line?


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I am besotted with him,
when after he laid me,
with blinding impression,
first lit by candle.

I swooned when his hand found me,
disturbed the barely held,
liquid in place,
the soiled lace of my garment.

My anticipation overcomes me.
His will too weak
to stay away from my swell.
I smell like no other, he tells me.

In fury, he charges,
and buries his mouth
into my split pear, he slides
and confesses his love to me.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

We have arrived at that juncture once again, a Mercury Retrograde, which began on Thursday July 18th and which doesn't end until August 11st. I've purposely let a week pass before issuing this post, to allow some perspective, to see if you've personally noticed any glitches, such as people acting oddly, couples getting into major arguments, mechanical things breaking down, arrangements falling apart, and the like. You'll know what I mean, if this resonates with you.


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Wanna head out for some fun in the sun? Summer is the ideal period of time in the year for having fun, more so for those living in countries that have four seasons. I've traveled into countries that don't have four seasons, will not ever have four seasons, and deal with sun seven days a week, 52 weeks out of every year. That's a lot of sun.


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If only, I could read his mind,
as easily as I can see his body,
to know the kind of woman he wants,
I would change to become,

A long stare of soulful contemplation,
or I could even act the whore,
speaking depravity,
to blow his swollen head.

Or else, a chastity belt,
I should wear,
to make him try even harder,
to bring me to come hither,

into the bed of petals and sunlight,
alongside our glistening thighs,
let us ride,
let us ride.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

One of my blog readers dropped me a DM, asking me why I had failed to mention the subject of love, when speaking about lust. Yes! You are absolutely correct, my friend. Where there is lust, there may be love to follow, though not necessarily.


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Lust is one of my all-time favourite subjects. I wrote six urban paranormal novels featuring a solitary vampire, which some readers call vampire erotica. So, it's almost a natural instinct for me to gravitate to this wonderful human emotion, more so given that we are currently knee-deep in summer, when lust is all around, or rather strolling around town, wearing barely-there clothing.


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I will divide the mountains
from the land,
and divorce the clouds
from the sky.

I will become the hunger,
before death is the beginning of time,
I will return to the place
where loose ends no longer exist.

In the air I breathe,
I will give you the morning,
in discussion and exchanges,
in adjectives and verbs.

When you rise and speak,
heaven and earth will meet
inside my love,
inside my heart.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Every day should be devoted to hunting for the golden moments, those times when we reflect back on them years later and say aloud to ourselves, "Wow! Weren't those the good ol' days?" Because each moment after you wake up, the first thoughts in your head should be a re-affirmation that you're alive and breathing, able-bodied and still thinking.


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None of us wants to be bored out of our bloody skulls, to reach such a tedious level of interaction that you'd rather watch dry paint peel off the wall. The kind of tedium about which I speak has everything to do with the more boring elements of our jobs, the unsavory tasks that we'd rather avoid, kind of like pulling out weeds before planting new flowers in our garden that will eventually elevate into a bloom. The weeds play a vital role, as far as they're concerned, maybe less so with the garden's aesthetic look. Keep in mind that dandelions are considered to be weeds but they are often the first food source for bees come Springtime.


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When we butterfly,
in my heart,
I vaporize into daytime,
and lighter miracle.

So bright, you are the blanket,
around my naked form,
and we fall, under a topaz sky,
so ripe.

We fall from far above,
like fixed sight in eyes.
And our mouths, our tongues inside,
with pleasure, we eat raw our love.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Our individuality affords us with a unique character — never two persons alike (notwithstanding identical twins tho' not necessarily identical in personality). Individuality creates a signature that is intrinsically identifiable to each of us. We don’t all dress the same because we all don't think the same, speak the same, nor do we care about the same things. Some things that matter are universal, such as the desire to live, to thrive, to survive illness or loss, and to avoid tornadoes, hurricanes and earthquakes — a range of calamities that affect each of us in different ways. It's safe to state that most of us are passionate about our lives, wanting more of the good things and less of the bad. I'm grossly generalizing here and I trust you can agree that we are, for the most part, on the same page when it comes to being passionate about our lives.


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I have many unpopular opinions and I don't expect everyone to agree with me, any more than I'd agree with everything that spills out the mouths of mouth-pieces. One unpopular opinion I've shared with some select friends is what I've believed for decades that books don't change the world the way we believe they change the world, at least not indefinitely. In reality, the world changes you, and any creation released within the world is just that, a separate creation.


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And ethics be damned!
Has your hand already found my heart,
knowing to open,
my porcelain thighs?

So near am I, about to expire,
without your hand to press harder,
on the disarray of my emotion.
Do not refrain a single bit, because,

I will not beg,
for your devil of a silver-tongue,
in my body of want.
I borderline on craze,

become a poisoned mind enraged,
when you insert yourself
into my bliss,
into the pleasure of ripeness.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Some hold the opinion that there are three essential elements to living a peaceful life. So, here are three obvious top contenders for this list:

1. a good pair of shoes
2. a healthy bowel movement each day
3. a good bed

Number one has generally been a challenge for me. I've been plagued with issues in finding a good pair of shoes. It doesn't matter if I spend $200 or $10, the new pair of shoes or runners or boots or sandals will invariably give me blisters, until such time as I've endured the pain long enough to wear in the walking apparatus — typically at the same time when the shoes need to be replaced. Boo-hoo for me 😆 That's the way it is with my tender tootsies and shall forever be, which is also the reason why I ensure that I give myself regular pedicures so my feet will look happy and healthy, even if they are crucified by leather.


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To deny one self is to acknowledge that the body, mind and spirit should and can do without. It isn't an easy road to follow, the path of denial, but this barren, dark and dusty road has its benefits.


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I will drown in your body,
in the swell of your sea salt and wind,
because I am an open place,
uninhibited by doubt.

I will expose myself to you,
and conscript your emotions,
because you are the dream within me,
feeding images of skin and thigh.

And I race against current and flow.
I will let everything go, to want you.
How I want you,
to by my aphrodisiac.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Words to live by: Do not panic. Perhaps these are the most important words to remember or at least to burn in your mind as you sort out your daily life.

"Do not panic," I tell myself all the time. Last week, however, I was convinced that my hard-drive at home was near to crashing because it was making some very strange sounds, like it was on its last legs. I dialogued with a technician online who advised me not to do too much, other than to run a C:/ defragmentation, and that ultimately I'd need to replace the hard-drive, given the age of my tower, and how this was strongly advised before the entire system crashed. Did I panic? Of course I panicked. I've been in research mode ever since, pricing out a complete system upgrade.


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It has begun. With the arrival of warmer temps, they are out early and here to stay for summer, I'm afraid and just knowing this fills me with a measure of disdain. I speak of the arrival of big, bulging bellies, typically found on very overweight men who are under the mistaken impression that the public very much wants to see their distended bellies rolling down the streets, barren and without covering - no T-shirt, no gold shirt, no nothing.

Know that I fully appreciate how this post will not be a popular opinion, yet it deserves to be expressed.


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If you do not leave me,
how will I miss you?
If you return right away,
how will I long for you?

Disappear for a year, my dear,
disappear for a year.
Forget the face and shadow you cast,
the earth will open its mouth for you.

Wherever you go, whoever you become,
I will see your image evermore,
in my mirror, you are strange lands
and cobblestones,

in search of fresh air.
And I can still see you now,
when I look past the horizon,
I see your weathered face.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

As with all languages, there are some words and specific expressions that creep into the lexicon of mindless banter which, if I'm honest, can drive me to distraction. I hate these specific expressions because the user actually fancies themselves as being on the cutting edge of culture. You couldn't be more wrong, my misguided knucklehead. You're not on the cutting edge of culture. In actuality, you're on the cutting edge of bothersome.


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Scientifically, the definition of energy is described as having an outer membrane that protects the different, inner energy from another outside source of energy. Hence, all living, breathing organisms transmit true, pure energy in their particular fashion. I think all could agree with this statement — that each person, animal and plant gives off a special version of energy that is intrinsically unique to that particular person, animal or plant.


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The only way I know,
how to purge you from my mind,
is not to see you, hear you,
least of all touch or taste you.

Never call.
Forget we met,
and spent two wondrous days,
soiling the sheets in sexual scent.

I think I left behind my ambition,
foolish intent, to not be affected by you.
I thought I could,
until once again we are alone.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Each day of the week is viewed in a wholly different perspective by each individual, all depending on the kind of work they do, and with what frequency they adopt to carry out their role. I've stated openly many times that I'm a Monday to Friday gal who observes a 37.5 hour work-week, according to my submitted timesheet, yet I rarely take breaks or a lunch. I'd rather work through my lunch to keep up with the workload, rather than have to remain later in the day or to work during the weekends. All to say, I observe a reasonably regular routine when it comes to my work schedule.


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Two Thursdays past, I enjoyed a pub burger with a long-time friend and former colleague. We've known each other for 28+ years and anyone who's enjoyed a friendship for any length of time will tell you that one of the obvious benefits is being able to be yourself, to let it all hang out, so to speak — all the good, and all the bad too.


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Will he want me, still,
when I age and wrinkle,
pills and creams, foolish magic,
I think, to stave off the inevitable.

Will he want me, still,
and remain in morning,
when sleep corners my eye,
with ruffled hair in unruly style.

Will he want me, still,
when my flesh grows ill,
by his absence,
in my bed of after all?

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

It seems of late my sleep debt is slowly being whittled down to a manageable level. I attribute this to eyeing my cozy bed much early than before, heading off to slumberland between 9:30 - 10 PM during the work week, and on the days when I'm beyond exhausted, I'll head to bed earlier. Pillows, too, are vital and I searched for years before I found just the right pillows; ones that can be regularly washed and thrown into the dryer, and are made from a microfiber that is hypoallergenic for those with sensitivities to allergens, but also because they are less likely to be made a home by dust mites and mold.


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Life is not an illusion because we have senses: smell, hearing, sight, touch and taste. Well, for most of us, there are five ready senses, notwithstanding those born without one or more or those who lose them in later years. Some suggest there are at least nine more senses, to include proprioception (body awareness) and thermoception (temperature awareness). For the sake of this post, let's agree that the five main senses are considered our top ones. I am fond of my senses. I've tried to imagine what it would be like to lose one and I can't conceive of giving up even one. I've played this game with myself since I was a girl that if I had to choose which sense to relinquish, if it meant inheriting another special gift in return, I could only arrive at the conclusion that my sense of smell would have to go — this would be the only option, and still I'd be bereft if I could no longer smell my favourite smells.


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Howling wolves,
such a thing exists
of hard, vigorous coitus and
primordial urge.

Wrapped in a frenzied craze,
of devotion to her lips
and belly, all alone
to claim his territory,

He will absorb her into
the wilder beast,
that runs and lives
between his legs.

Enamored with her scent
of passion and song,
he is her nightly victor
of male appendage.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Knock, knock, knock... "Good evening, this is Mr. Wolf and I've come to nibble on your fresh, moist loins," he offers, bearing a smile of piercingly white fangs, and a very long tongue. And she, Mrs. Wolf, the unwitting recipient of this gracious offer, secretly wishes that Mr. Wolf would be more like Wily E. Coyote, Super Genius, because then she wouldn't have to state the obvious — Mrs. Wolf wants to be wined and dined before he plunges his body parts into her quivering pudding.


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The creative mind is a force unto itself because the more you flex your creative muscle, the more stretched and strong it becomes. Creativity is literally in the doing, not in the wanting to do, or the intention to do, or the act of procrastination in wanting to do but not actually doing anything. I can think about being creative all I want but if I don't actually put my creative ideas to the test, they might as well sit in the bottom of my cereal bowl along with the cold oatmeal.


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He is allied to autumn,
a kaleidoscope of colour,
answering all questions about his type of man,
of bone, of flesh.

His taste is the orange in red,
dripping from withering leaves,
he lingers in my memory, a cloudy day,
when the sun hung only shortly.

To my heart, he speaks as light as a breeze,
that rustles the trees,
until sleeve is uncovered from leaf.
I give to him my all,

and he, to me, his delicate body,
is warmer in winter, when we are together,
we turn in the seasons
of lovers changing.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

I prefer the company of hooligans over holier-than-thou moralizers and squeaky clean-freaks.

Rarely, will you catch me wearing a perfectly coiffed hair-do, a perfectly ironed below the knees skirt, black-paten leather shoes with sharp points, dark seamless nylons and a phony smile that says I want to be your best back-stabbing buddy. Nope. Not me. I am a jeans kind of gal, or a black-leggings kind of gal, a pair of loose-fitting capris kind of gal who slinks into work wearing bright-red polish on her toes, and blue sun-glasses, plus a cami-top that sometimes has a bit of a plunging neck line (but only sometimes). I'm the type of gal who cares diddly-squat about what I wear or how much wine I've drank, or how much my friends have consumed, or smoked, or ate, or whatever - so long as I don't have to clean up after them! Ha!


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I've never been one to purchase lottery tickets on a regular basis, not like some who shell out $20-$100 every freakin' week, buying up heaps of tickets that basically go absolutely nowhere real fast. The odds, as we all know, are not stacked in your favour, in some cases hundreds of millions to one. A person is better off saving that money into an investment account that would accumulate interest.

Funny thing about money: it grows or it spends, which all depends on how you handle it.


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I am whole, when he strokes me tenderly,
my creative energy is sustained,
for hours, it never ends,
because his touch is designed to last,

forever, when I sigh and lie back on my side,
I see him there, sweetly unkempt.
And I want to roll over, and have him again,
while the music plays,

I will be there one hour from now,
with his hand between my legs,
feeling my liquid wet,
like strumming strings with expertise.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

These are the dreaded words that are heard pretty much by anyone and everyone when seeking a new employment situation. And, as much as no one wants to be expected to offer an answer to this query or that at some time in our lives we'll have to face it, to come up with a reasonable reply, this very query is the ideal benchmark to help determine a potential employee's suitability. When people are in the enviable position of The Interviewer, The Powerful, and you're in the position of The Interviewee, The Bullshitter, you can be assured that this is going to come up, and others—queries that are designed to test and annoy you.


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Is image the reputation you build up about yourself or is image a perception that others have of you? According to comments made by some rock icons like Mike Jagger and Eddie Vedder, they gave up ions ago trying to manage and manipulate their image into something that is truer to their real selves, as opposed to the image portrayed of them in music. The only image I know I have control over, if in fact you want to go down this path of believing in control, is the image that stares back at me in the mirror. I can control the amount of foundation I apply, the color of my lipstick and eye shadow and even sometimes control how my hair will turn out (at least until I step outside and the elements have their go, given that I was born with weather-sensitive hair). However, controlling the image you put out into the world, if in fact you're putting yourself out there in the manner that public persons do... well, we're talking about a whole new kettle of fish, are we not?


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To lure your eyes,
into the lair of lioness,
listening to purrs,
intoxicatingly closer you move,

To the wild of earth,
motionless, your senses alert,
capturing caress and smell,
I taste you. I taste you.

Never having enough,
wanting more of your touch,
until your precious lips are mine, and
your body, my worship in kind.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Alright you b*stards... no laughing but I'm a total flake. I freely admit this fact about myself. I believe in all sorts of things, especially those kinds of things that can't be seen or felt or heard. Whoever said something has to be proven to be believed? [More than likely a scientist, before it was proven, only afterward to be disproven, and re-proven]. Is this not the definition of spirituality? [an unwavering faith in something without yet being given the proof].


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I swear it's not an illusion. As I age, or as I like to re-phrase this most common of phrases, to evolve, it appears that the years pass more quickly, like water leaking through my fingers, despite my best efforts to cup my two hands together to create a perfect seam. Water, like time, goes where it wants to go, where it's compelled to go, much in the same manner that time slips by our nose, hardly noticed. Time will catch up with you, this much I know with 100% certainty.


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I hear the waves,
crashing into voices like the wind,
dying against the shore,
I cross over from death.

In your unquenchable appetite,
I am the sea-weed,
clinging to the soaked rocks
in the cold, blue waters of your earth.

Your touches land on me,
on the edge of my sand, half wet, half dry.
I feel your pleasure opening
as my mouth and tongue revive.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Oh my. My list of annoyances seems to be in a continual state of growth, year after year, after year, until it seems that the list has become a scroll that's been rolled up, super-tight, and heaven forbid it should be unfurled, to unravel to the floor. I fear my list would reach across to the other side of the room.

I don't regard myself as fussy. I'm just specific 🤔🤡


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I am prepared to lay down a hefty bet, indicative of how assured I am, that by the time you've reached the end of your work week, or for those who labour with shift-work, you'll feel fatigued because of getting up according to your set alarm to get to work on time, in order to work. Fatigue is an equal opportunity bastard. Fatigue doesn't discriminate. Fatigue can capsize any individual, be it the wealthiest, the poorest, the least mindful, the over-thinker or the busiest bee in the bonnet of someone who arranges flowers all day - even they will succumb to fatigue.


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You are exquisitely feline,
sleek, ravenous and alert,
clawing your way out
of the throng of followers.

You live in night and quiet shadows,
with only glowing eyes
disclosing themselves,
in the stalking of prey.

You corner me,
and ease off my clothes,
to proudly declare,
now I am yours.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

It's a very long list, my list of lust, a meandering montage of various tastes and desires that run from food to flesh, from travel to words and music, and back again to appetites of the eyes, magnifying all that I see which captivates me. Yes, we are human and therefore susceptible to a wide variety of lusts. We are born filled with lust for our mother's nipple, and this soon migrates from the nipple to other body parts once our own body reaches puberty, well ideally at least.


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Life isn't supposed to be easy. Life is designed by nature to challenge and thwart your grandiose plans for success. Life is about finding the strength within yourself to keep going when all odds appear to be conspiring against you. This is life's primary purpose, to throw in front of you every curve ball imaginable. Life wants you to sort out the good and bad and not place this expectation at life's feet. This is life's job. Your job is to cultivate an attitude that benefits you as you go about your way navigating through life.


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I eat his almond body, completely,
losing reality in his raspberry lips,
I devour his aroma, wholly,
remaining inside his taste.

I become the tongue in his mouth,
evolving in his words, hypnotized,
lucid, I influence his gentleness,
expressed by quiet eyes.

And I change in his caress, lovingly,
becoming colour to pale skin.
I sigh away the dark circles,
lingering under his swollen night.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

I've no issues whatsoever resisting the temptation to use instant messaging. But often what I think I want to do, and what I think I need to do, will paint a portrait of two different paths. Take for example, the instant messaging app with Facebook, which my extended family will use, and which I've used to place a VOIP call from another country, to someone at home, without having to shell out long-distance charges on my data plan. The app is handy, as it is to place video calls.


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Like totally. Like, I'm a big believer in total gut instinct... like I said, totally. How often do we confuse instinct with intelligence? How often do we automatically assume because an individual has proven in the past to display great analytical thinking and mental prowess that they should in all cases make the right and only decision for themselves and everyone else?


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I kiss in relish anticipation
the food of his tongue
searching inside my mouth.

I touch his flat torso,
above his thrashing hips,
swallowing the passion of comprehension,

long having abandoned us.
On the hard floor, we roll,
with nary a care for objects tipping.

And past the feeling of consciousness
we lose ourselves in mutuality,
not thought possible until now.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Down low, way down low in that most horrible of basements, where the skin of women has been cut away into neat little strips, then sewn into a make-shift body suit, that's where the tub was kept — an old, disgusting tub, rank with odor and full of dark, black body matter melted down into bones and liquid. The thought of this tub still makes me shudder. And, if I had to spend just one hour in this basement I'd feel terrorized, haunted for years to come, which in truth is how I reacted the first time to experiencing this movie which depicted such a basement, and its disgusting tub. This gem of a horror movie, to which I'm referring, is regarded to this day as one of the best horror flics of all-time. It's no mystery why Sir Anthony Hopkins won an Oscar for 15 minutes of screen time for his stellar performance in The Silence of the Lambs.


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I am haunted by the realization that I am a creature of habit, born and bred into a lifestyle taught to me by my parents and society, one that I cannot easily shake off.


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My nakedness becomes me,
defenseless
but for flesh and heart
they live as one.

As do my tongue and lips kiss you,
forged with the grace of loving
and avarice of body
quivering.

I open up myself,
to your warm mouth not wasted
on your knees, your passion unbridled.
Inside my split pear you tasted.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

"Nobody wants to f*ck me anymore!" he declared to me, hanging his head low, almost between his legs. "Drunks tell no lies," my father used to say, was all that I could say to him in return. And as my male friend made his comment to me, about the state of his hopeless unattractiveness, I tried to cheer him up by coming back with, "There is someone out there who'll want you because there is always a lid to fit every pot. The real question is whether or not you want them in return."


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Roll me over in the clover,
clasp my legs behind your back,
pump me into oblivion,
and never give slack.

Roll me over in the clover,
grip my bosom with great heed,
squeeze my tipplers with pinches,
my flesh is plainly in need.

Roll me over in the clover,
kiss my mouth with your tongue,
dart in and out, and circle about,
until my senses are entirely spun.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Given that today is St. Patrick's Day, this post is highly apropos, and a day early, rather than my regular schedule of posting on Tuesdays. Many will be happily imbibing w/ great fervor all throughout the pubs in my fair city. But not this kitty-kat because Monday is a work day for me, which regrettably is followed up by another work day the following day, and so on. When I was a free-wheeling lassie in her 20s, I'd happily line up outside my favourite Irish pub (Molly McGuire's) in the ByWard Market at 10 am, waiting for the doors to open @ 11:30 am in order that I could get at it, and keep at it all the green-beer day long.


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We do not see the world through the eyes of those around us. We see the world only through our own eyes, and sometimes or more often than not, our eyes are closed to the obvious, too oblivious, to preoccupied.


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Certainly, there are aspects of living that we detest with the same intensity we would if forced to swallow a warm tablespoon of cod liver oil! One especially distasteful aspect of being human is having to clean the clutter which accumulates in our closets. Clutter is the junk food of living. Clutter clogs our living space and I'd even venture to state that clutter clogs our clear thinking.


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And cold stone
shall not break conquering love,
this evening alone, acutely feeling,

my liquid pain.
In the water frozen,
I only imagine the essential things,

none more meaningful
than touching, than kissing.
And every part,

that ever felt like flesh alive,
my warmer body at peace
in his flame.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

If you were one of the many who dialed into the hugely popular HBO show Billions, then you're familiar with the opening scene of Paul Giamatti being dominated by his wife, without me having to go into the details as to what his wife was specifically doing to him. [Hint: the initial scene shows her high heel planted on his chest]. Well OK. Twist my arm. Here's the long answer: his character, a prominent executive, the U.S. Attorney, admits in a later season he's a masochist and, as a masochist, he cannot enjoy sexual pleasure unless a sadist inflicts pain or humiliation on him. This appears to be a standard understanding with the majority of masochists in order for them to thoroughly enjoy sexual experiences — for a masochist without a sadist would be akin to an ice-cream sundae without the chocolate sugary sauce drizzled over top.


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Twenty years from now you'll look intently at your world, the environment in which you've constructed, the city or suburban neighbourhood in which you live, even the relationships you've built and begrudgingly admit to yourself that too much has changed.


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She is his pleasure in faltering
as the sanctity of chastity slipped
into the second
inevitable.

When he asked of her
to cry in short breaths,
she collapsed, gasping.
While his spoken words,

pierced into her,
he stoked the flames
that are his keeping,
inside of her times ten,

his voice was heard,
resonating and caressing,
when he came,
to her night of moans.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Here I go again! I'm sliding down that most slippery of slopes, freshly greased up with extra-virgin olive oil and melted, churned butter that's been left on the counter in blazing heat. The slippery slope in question is the determination of intellectuality, which is to say the gift of being able to apply rational thought over emotions that some refer to as power but which in reality is another form of abstraction. After all, who's to say with unequivocal certainty that he or she is more intellectual than someone else?


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Woe is me! Soon, my lovely readers we'll be entering into a Mercury Retrograde which begins on March 14 and ends on April 7. These retrograde periods mean that it will appear as though your world is moving backwards, taking a few steps back, metaphorically speaking, rather than your life moving swimmingly forward. The word retrograde in Latin is retrogrado, to literally go backwards. Things won't literally move backwards as you step into the street or talk to people, it'll just appear this way. Conversations will be in a state of flux as you struggle to comprehend what apparently seems incomprehensible.


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Hanging coolly,
in the curls of wind
and push and pull,
I give to you my breast and soul.

To lay with you,
in the bosom of your arms,
fastened firmly around my waist,
your deep kisses drench my lips.

And when my eager tongue
brushes, touches yours,
it seems I taste the first taste
of what love must be.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

I am a writer, yes, which I've openly admitted to being on numerous occasions but what I don't speak about is the masochistic tendencies of writers. I feel like a glutton for punishment because this week I plunged into writing chapter 2 of my eighth novel, after settling on the first chapter which took me three months to lay down. If I don't feel at peace with the start of a new novel, I can't press on, and I'll stick with chapter one until I feel absolutely comfortable that I've tucked it safely away in the can, so to speak.


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Only persons living in countries that have seasons, such as Canada and its four seasons, can truly attest to the brutality of the January and February months, and the blahs that come along with these months, when our exposure to the glorious Sun is still in limited mode during the day. I, too, am afflicted at times with the blahs but I find they hit me strongest in February.


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I am mad, in love with insanity.
Because I am captivated by you,
enough that I want it to end between us.
I can still taste your fine skin,
longer than aroma hangs in my hair.

I am mad to absorb your almond nectar.
Because my tongue is an explorer,
and I need to swallow your voice, all of it
and ride the steed which speaks to me,
in metaphors and prose.

And as I compose, my lips remain moist,
I close my eyes to mere slits.
In the palm of my hand,
I want to cradle you, my dear man,
because I adore you.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

A little guidance, if I may, to rev up your bed activities, in lieu of it being Valentines Day. These are only suggestions and not recommendations. So here it goes. Years past, an adult trade show came to Ottawa called Sexapalooza, which did remarkably well bcus it catered purely to the adult market of frolicking fun.

The last Sexapalooza was held in 2016, and one year, I was invited to give a lecture and to share a table w/ a local author who sold romance novels while I sold my series of Crimson fantasy novels. I miss this event, to tell you the truth. Hopefully, it will return in future. The pandemic didn't help to encourage the return of this specialized tradeshow. Sexapalooza sold all sorts of sex toys and other goodies, like edible panties, and harnesses, plus it held workshops on helping couples to spice up their sex lives. Never underestimate the influence of sexy literature, what many call erotica, or the name I prefer to call this particular genre of fiction - cliterature.

I delivered my lecture to a sold out crowd, and took questions afterward, and it was a lot a fun, plus I was propositioned by some guys afterward, which made total sense, given the subject matter. What's missing in this post are the parts where I ad-libbed, because I was speaking in the moment. You're just getting the condensed version. So, if you're looking to add an edge to your bed-play, here for your consumption are my lecture notes on dirty talk in five easy steps:

D.I.R.T.Y =

1. Degradation

From childhood, we're socialized to respect people. But dirty talk is the opposite - you suspend respect to intentionally objectify your partner. Dirty talk creates a fantasy world. Granted it's natural to worry a bit about offending your partner. To avoid this, establish firsthand some ground rules before you begin, like no passing judgement, or to refrain from using those words that you already know will turn off your partner. Keep in mind, after all, that in the heat of the moment unexpected words may still be blurted out. Practice beforehand to find your voice. The important thing is to let go your inhibitions. Don't take it personally too when your partner speaks degradingly about your body. Dirty talk needs to be authentic to be effective, which means your body is part of the play. If you're the one talking dirty, describe to your partner how wonderful their body smells; compare it to the scent of essential oils, or talk about the texture of their skin and compare some of their body parts to the wildness of predatorial animals; praise their stamina. For some, degradation is part of the dirty talk to objectify. I realize when people see the word degradation, their brain runs to a safe place, which ironically is precisely what you need to create with your partner in order to achieve the right effect - get agreement in advance.

2. Imagination

Not all of us are born to write but we each are gifted with imaginations, and an imagination is like a muscle; if you don't flex it your imagination will atrophy. This is where books and poetry come into the picture, which help to warm up and prepare your partner. Start slow at first. Remember that for women, foreplay begins long before contact occurs between your bodies. Stimulate your partner's mind by reading to them a raunchy piece of prose or poetry. My editor on my first novel described my writing as a tidal wave of raw sex. And that description isn't too far off the mark. Friends tell me that they've used my novels specifically during sex play to get things going. I say all the more power to your naughty bits if dirty words light them on fire. Erotica books will stimulate your mind. Your ears first need to hear these words, and then from your ears these words will travel like wild fire to your brain. Sex begins in the brain for women, and men too, despite what they may say that it's purely visual for them. Maybe it is at first, but men respond to suggestive talk too. Again, everyone has a different set point. I knew one couple who would dress up in uniforms and role play; he'd dress up as a prison guard and she was his prisoner, and it turned her on to be ordered by him to obey his every command, and then they'd switch up roles. A costume too lets you step into the role more convincingly because you can lean on the character, rather than to view yourself as yourself, trying to behave like someone else, an instigator.

3. Raunchy

Raunchy dirty talk is your opportunity to use colorful words and I mean to say every dirty word in the book, the words that'll get you expelled from school. Expand your vocabulary and avoid using clinical words like p*nis or v*gina, when the word c*ck is far better, just like the hard sounding 'c' word for women. Though, I must reiterate that for some women they find the c-word insulting. However, if you know your partner, and they've no issues w/ hearing themselves being called this word or a particular body part being called the 'c' word, then go for it, and work this delightfully raunchy word into your dialogue. BDSM, which for the uninitiated is Bondage, Domination Sadomasochism, this is a perfect example of a relationship that requires open communication. The dominant speaks freely to the submissive, telling them what they plan to do to them, and the submissive needs to hear it. It's no different than dirty talk. Once you know your partner's favourite words and positions, you can incorporate dirty talk into your sexual play to some add extra zing.

4. Timing

For the love of all that is horny, know when it's appropriate to talk dirty, and when it isn't. There is a right and a wrong time. Talking dirty to a woman before you've actually begun a sexual relationship is a fine example of bad timing. Women can be turned off when a guy talks dirty to them on the first date. As a woman, I'm thrilled to discover the length of your Johnny but it's not something I want to know over a cup of coffee, when we meet for the first time. I like long Johnnies, like many women, but hearing about your length and actually seeing how long it is are two different things. So hold off on those horny horses, guys, and wait until you're pressing flesh between the sheets. She will love you for it, all the more. Same applies to making your first online connection. Don't head straight for "show me your t*ts or text her a picture of your c*ck". Suspense works wonders for the imagination, which leads me to my last point.

5. Yearning

Dirty talk isn't exclusively about talking dirty non-stop, all the time. Sometimes it's worthwhile to pause and stop speaking, to allow the silence to build on your partner's anticipation. You want your partner to yearn for your touch, your body and finally for the ol' D to penetrate hard and deep. Try blindfolding. It's an ideal way to turn your partner's focus to your words. And don't be afraid to alternate positions. Let your partner take turns talking dirty to you, as well, because they too are yearning for your body, for intimacy, sex. Being on the receiving end of dirty talk is just as exciting as talking dirty. I think it's fair to say that most people are uncomfortable talking dirty, especially if they're doing it with a new partner. It's OK if you break up laughing too; this is normal.

To become really good at talking dirty, you have to expose yourself. Over time and with practice, you'll become an expert. I've personally found that when I talk dirty to a partner, I incorporate them into the sex play by speaking as though I am them. For example, rather than say, "I'm going to gently stroke your legs and inch my way up to your..." Add them into your story instead, "Your hands are touching my legs, gently sliding upward, one fingertip at a time, ever close to my..." Now, you're making them part of the sex play, as though you're acting like them. You know what turns you on better than they do, so if you pretend to be them, to speak dirty as though they are exploring your body, like some erotic temple, while you talk dirty to them, it brings them into your imaginary world.

Or, alternatively, you can tear off your clothes, say nothing, and get to it, then take a breather, by waiting a bit, let the steam dry, and refuse to touch each, only then to start again but this time add in some dirty talk.

Happy Valentine's Day! 💝

For some 17 years I've been writing down my dreams in a tiny hardcover book that I picked up at the National Gallery in Ottawa. This wee book has a lovely image on the front cover of a painting by Tom Thompson of The Group of Seven. The book is actually designed for painters because each page is thick, off-white and suitable for sketching or painting, so that an artist can rip out a single page without destroying the other pages.


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I want to be captivated by you.
But in fear, I run to small hiding places,
free from the cold and despair.

I cannot bear the thought of losing you
as we lay side by side, my world
is a microcosm, with you sealed inside.

What is it about you that makes me whimper,
makes me gasp?
You are my curiosity, come lightly,
a bitter rum-filled flask.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

As a general rule, my friends are quick to tease me for being too 'literate' or too 'thoughtful' or too 'intelligent' or they'll ask, "Why do you have to use such big words all the time?" to which I'll respond, "They're not big to me. They're just words." I read a lot. Maybe I read more of the heavy stuff, rather than fluffy books that are light and airy, light enough for the wind to catch them, and then they're gone on a current of whimsy, after being read and fully forgotten.


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Well, it's true, many a writer would imbibe copious amounts of alcohol to ease the pains of filling blank pages. I find my particular choice of weapon is a good bottle of red wine, a very cold Corona with lime and in days past, when I lived near Ottawa University, I'd indulge in a frothy pint of English Newcastle Brown Ale, in my favourite British pub on Laurier Street called The Royal Oak, which I nicknamed, The Royal Yoke.


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If I was given one wish,
hesitation would not befall me.

Feline,
motor of passion.

Graceful,
blinding distraction.

I wish to purr to thee,
on my knees.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

In the month of January, the darkness sets into your bones and soul and drags you way down low, and this sinkhole spiral actually begins in November, when the clocks are pushed back, making it darker much earlier. So, by the time we enter January, I begin to look for the telltale marker that there's light at the end of the tunnel. Once it's still light out by 5 pm, there's a sigh of relief and we are renewed with hope, to get through the remaining two months of winter, February and March.


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To disappear with you, my darling,
would be like hiding inside your consoling arms,
and then to become your morning flesh
that I may return you to my morning flesh.

We shall then declare,
we are of one mind, an entirely new light,
that brings us to amazing.
And we shall languish, and waste our time,

leisurely, to camouflage ourselves in idleness.
We will cling to one another,
like heat compressed and undressed,
then disappear undercover.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

If you are afflicted with the brain disorder known as megalomania, then you are prone to delusions of grandeur. One could easily point the finger at persons like Mussolini and Hitler, Alexander the Great (to a degree, given that he conquered half the free world) and Genghis Khan and his son Kublai, to be sure, and yes Napoleon and numerous other dictators in civil-war ravaged countries. Our world appears to have no shortage of men wanting to spread their wings of power to control everything and everyone within their particular patch of grass but also any neighboring countries. It's like being held hostage by the male ego, which has lost all perspective, to consider the needs of others, and which only thinks of their needs, a form of tunnel vision that fuels their megalomania.

This is how I often feel, as a burgeoning desire swells in my belly, to grab hold of a pick-axe, wielding it like a mad woman at the big block bookstore chains, like Indigo books in Canada (formerly known as Chapters), and Coles, which is also owned by Indigo books, and Barnes and Nobel, some examples. These are brick and mortar bookstores that occupy large store space in a shopping mall, or as in the case of centre town in Ottawa, at a prominent corner. I've had interactions with some of these chains in the past, with regard to selling my series of six Crimson fantasy novels on consignment. Their consignment agreements are pretty much six and one half dozen of the other. The independent author is expected to deliver whatever quantity of books the store is willing to accept, and the store in turn asks that you sign a binding contract, understanding the store isn't responsible for the condition of books, if any are returned unsold, but those that are sold, the bookstore gets a 60 / 40 split, with them scooping up 40% of the book's sale price. All seems reasonable, right?

No. All is not reasonable, if you are the Indie author selling your novels. I've heard first-person accounts of Indie authors who've sold hundreds of their books on consignment with major chains, only to have to hire a lawyer afterward to receive their 60% cut from the cheap-ass, thieving major chain, who doesn't feel compelled to pay the Indie author. This is a despicable practice on the part of these bookstore chains, who take advantage of Indie authors. There are other first-person accounts too of major chains accepting shipments via courier from Indie authors who are expected to ship direct to their warehouse, to pay all expenses, only for the warehouse to state they never received shipment, despite the author having a proof of delivery from the courier company. I'm looking at you Barnes and Noble.

This is how the game is played with major bookstore chains - unfairly. If they had it within their power, they would shutdown every independent bookstore so that customers had only one place to physically browse in person, their bookstore, and theirs alone. Or, alternatively, a manager at a specific large chain outlet will reach out to an India author and offer them an opportunity to come and sell their novels in person, in their store, only for the author to sit there for eight hours and sell one book, while the manager will insist that the author is expected to promote their on-site reading on every social network, which is a wonderful way of promoting the major bookstore chain, rather than the author. The bookstore, by contrast, doesn't actively promote the indie author on their website. To use a contemporary expression, this method is called riding someone's coattails.

I've intentionally omitted including Amazon's online bookstore because this business platform isn't the same as brick and mortar. Whenever a customer buys a book online, they're given the opportunity to read a portion of the book, to entice them to want to buy the whole book, after which it'll ship direct to the customer's location. So over and above the customer paying for the full price of the book, they also shell out coin to ship to their address. This isn't a bad deal if you're not a physically mobile customer, or have ready access to major chains. If you're an Amazon Kindle Direct subscriber, then you can read the entire eBook for nothing, given that you pay your subscription. As to the indie author selling on Amazon KDP, the author's cut is comparable if they were to place a large order of quantities from a local digital printer, but the bonus of POD means you don't have to store boxes and boxes of books in your home. Print on Demand only prints when an order is placed. And when an indie author orders 'author copies' their price per unit cost, to include shipping, is more advantageous when it comes to selling their books in person at book fairs and exhibition events.

All to say, major brick and mortar bookstore chains behave like megalomaniacs, who'd happily close out the business of every independent bookstore, to replace it with their cookie-cutter bookstore that sells candles and doo-hickeys, along with bestsellers. However, I still occasionally enjoy browsing in some of these major bookstores but my heart and mind gravitates to independent bookstores instead.

If I was a megalomaniac, I'd band all the independent bookstores together and create a fissure as wide as the grand canyon in the book trade business whereby only Indie novels would be permitted to be sold by the independent booksellers, if they choose to do so. And, furthermore, the chain bookstores wouldn't be permitted to sell Indie novels, nor would they be allowed to have their books published by major trade publishers to rest on their shelves. Regardless, this is fantasy, which is what I believe is the foundation of every megalomaniac wanting to take over the world - the idea to take over the world begins as a fantasy and then sprouts, to grow into full-blown intent. It has to start somewhere.

The large chain bookstores aren't going anywhere. Last year, Indigo earned just over $1 Billion in Canada. Amazon eBooks and paperbacks earned in 2024 roughly $54 million, by comparison. Amazon KDP has worked hard to finesse their book publishing business in North America, and this includes their POD (Print-on-Demand) services so that their price-per-unit on each item is considerably less expensive for the Indie author than say placing an order with a digital printer whose costs are more expensive locally, unless the author can place a very large order to bring down the per unit cost.

But I repeat, this is just a fantasy, and one that I've been nurturing for years. I love being an Indie author and I wouldn't have it any other way because the control of my creation rests with me, rather than with a major publishing house. I set my deadlines, rather than to be pushed and cajoled by a major publishing house to deliver 'x' number of chapters according to their schedule, not mine. I'm willing, however, to submit my manuscript to the eyes of a highly critical principal editor, to include forensic hacking by a seasoned copy editor, as well as a proofreader and ARC's (advance copy readers).

So I guess on the one hand I, too, am behaving like a megalomaniac when it comes to the development of my fantasy stories, but on the other hand I'm not in a position to take over the world, unless my latest novel, POM: Portals of Middle-Vision were to catch fire with Amazon's KDP platform. 🤞🤞🤞

News is the stuff of politics and politics is the stuff of people and people are the stuff of rebellion and rebellion is the by-product of necessity. We've all seen the ongoing developments in Afghanistan, how the Taliban continue to remove freedoms from Afghani women, one at a time. Following the removal of US troops from Afghanistan (Cdn peace-keeping troops too), it shouldn't come as a surprise that the Taliban and their assurances of 'respecting our women' were instantly revoked the minute they reclaimed control of Afghanistan.


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Will you begin, shyly, at first?
letting me guide your hand
to my shoulder, sliding over
to my hot breast, oh yes.

Be a little hesitant, before kissing me,
and make me yearn,
to want you that much more,
when you remove your clothes.

Cover your face, in mild disgrace,
and then offer yourself.
To me, you are as easy-going,
as the darkness suspends the night sky.

And in the early morning hours,
I will find you again, crawl to you,
on all fours,
willing and passionate.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

You'll find as I post that plenty of my ramblings will run off at the mouth on the subject of consciousness. I'm perennially on the look out for source-material to stimulate my creative mind, to this end.


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It is my cherished desire each day to get through every bloody day without allowing stress to further stress me out. However, this foolish girl needs reminding from time to time that regardless of how I may think, act or feel, there'll be times when the Universe delivers to me an untoward surprise, a load of stress that I simply couldn't predict.


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I hunt for a sign of him,
his flesh and blood, his heart of rose.
Nobody is as cherished as he,

who wants me by any means, I compose.
Tossing and churning, he arouses a flood
of drifting moons, crossing over my skies,

my muse is stirring alive.
I only need a quiet place with him,
where we can hide away,

in blessed disguise. There, he'll be found,
life an after-dinner treat
of bitter-sweet chocolate wrapped in gold.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Oh my! I was barely out of work-mode for eight days, counting the weekend in between, and during the time I must have put on at least six pounds, based on how my sit-ups and crunches felt this week, a belly like a boulder. 😱


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An age old battle rages. My beloved city, Ottawa, is no different than other beloved cities - each would much rather that graffiti didn't exist, never had, never should - just why already? Councilors in Ottawa in years past had voted in favor of throwing a great deal of dollars to stop graffiti vandalism, to the tune of $2 million. Yet, the reality is that artists who cut their teeth on graffiti will not be deterred.


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How do I love thee, my timeless classic?
I love thee as deep as the ocean is blue,
and as high as the clouds own the sky.

Surely, slowly, sacrilegious happiness,
I would travel to the ends of immortality
to spend time with you.

Time, thieving, trouble-making time,
like minutes of nervous fingers in vinegar,
tart, tangy and anxious, setting off,

on a quest to hold onto you.
Later, I awoke, and time no longer possessed
a moment for you. So promise me,

that you'll never tell me you love me.
Take the time, simply,
in space and place, and love me.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Any length of time spent is time spent well, according to those who measure the value of time, by measuring their time, and how it has been spent. I like to believe that I spend my time in meaningful ways but not all the time.


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Blog dis: Push and Pull

Writing often feels like a delicate balance between desire, available time and the creative spark, which doesn't always co-operate when you want it to co-operate. Getting started is a problem for many, while others get bogged down in re-writes and still others become sidetracked with other life priorities.


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I saved it all for you,
love that flows from glaciers.
When you touch me,
I am eighteen again;

a young breast falling,
into perfect shape,
a slender neck sloping,
into exquisite drape.

I saved my soft heart for you,
held by your crystal blue eyes,
and sighs that come undone,
by our naked truth.

Let us expose the devotion,
of our impulses in motion,
to scatter the passage of light,
in the melting pockets of ice.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

What motivates you to get up every day? Is it the onerous responsibility of supporting children? Do you get up to a throng of political supporters as you work hard to win a bi-election? Motivation seems to be one of the deciding factors when it comes to the routine lives of humans. We are motivated to work bcus we like to eat and drink and exist in a reasonable state of existence. We are motivated to exercise bcus we desire to maintain some kind of healthy body shape that will attract a potential lover. We are motivated to do the things we do bcus sometimes we are compelled by unforeseen forces, like our urges, which requires us to disregard our impulse control, in order to satisfy these urges. But where to draw the line? And when should the line be drawn? Is the line shorter for politicians? I think it is, the line is narrow-thin for politicians and in fact the line is as short as a regular-sized penis.


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There's a valid reason why we reach for carbohydrates when feeling stressed bcus the breads, rolls, pizzas, muffins, cookies and tortilla wraps of this yummy world are made with white flour that your body processes efficiently and neatly into sugars and/or fats, storing these not-so-lovely nutrients in your bodily tissues that you can gaze at weeks and months later on your thighs or tummy as they expand.


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Let me suffer and kill the lie,
that I do not love you,
when I want you most,
when thunder sounds,

and fills the sky with dark, bursting clouds.
You shall know my true heart,
has betrothed itself to you.
You are the air I breathe,

the sun I seek, to live,
I must be with thee, to die,
I trust you will not grieve,
If tomorrow never comes.

If you were not there for me, forever,
I would carry your image, emblazoned
on my breast, let weariness fade,
and disappear into the morning mist.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

What's not to love about Christmas when you're a kid? Because when you're kid, it's easy to encourage your little Id to shine like a diamond, that inner child who thinks only of passions, locked in a tug of war with the ego, which is supposedly a representation of our reason and common sense. But Christmas has as much to do with common sense the way summertime has to do with wintertime: two polar opposites! We are now into the mid-point of December and this means the most special day of this holiday season is a week and a half away. I speak of the 25th day when the little trampling of feet can be heard in the house, tearing down the stairs at some awful hour like 4:30 AM, still dressed in pajamas, to sneak a peek under the tree, just to see what Santa left for them.


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My body is on fire.
My skin is searing to the touch,
too hot to endure,
these urges of your appetite.

You stir a tremor below the ground demur,
flushing my soft face, and speckled eyes.
Even your crooked smile,
ignites the electric arc. In your arms,

I want to cheapen myself,
and stoop to new levels of dirty and low,
to follow you, and be ravaged against brick walls.
Scorch my body with your burn,

Until I turn into you, toward your fire
of fervor, of fury and undying flame.
We shall consume and devour one another,
and all that blazes in the night.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Like most, I suppose, we regard ourselves as being clever and highly intelligent people, for the most part, in any event. I mean to say there are few if any people who would introduce themselves to you, to bluntly declare, "I'm a dullard and I have no brain." Not only do most people regard themselves as being smart but they will recite specific instances to you of how they had applied these brains, to further prove they're above the regular average Joe who's still learning how to pull the tab from the Coke can without cutting his fingers.


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I looked for joy this morning as I walked into work, watching more bloody snow fall from the dull and dreary sky. I looked for joy under my bed and over the hill and around the corner but no joy appeared to me at the outset. Sometimes I truly believe that joy is the shy groundhog that comes out one morning, sees its shadow and runs back into its hole to hide until Spring arrives.


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As I see it, we're all guilty of being far too possessive of people and things. I like to believe that I don't have a possessive bone in my body. I'm not interested in holding onto past flames who are no longer interested in me, nor a part of my life, the way some men and women will do following a break-up; they find it next to impossible to let go, and either both or one from the relationship will continue to try and connect with their ex, almost as though they resent no longer being considered a priority. Blah! So much going on here, that I don't know which psychological explanation is best to assign to this behaviour. I've seen it happen with girlfriends who are regularly contacted by their ex, despite them outright ignoring them.


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Ten years cried, in those tears.
You are not above loving.
You are not above healing.

Whatever shall become of us?
Tell me what drives you,
to race along my water's edge,

majestically, on hooves of wildness.
Your smell pierces my nostrils
like the scent,

of your body and hair,
orphaned from my feelings,
for too long,

you've not been held or loved by me.
We are too near to death, unless
we can feel each other's love again.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Loose lips sink ships... the least said is the easiest mended... ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies...

The expressions number aplenty about the inability of some people to keep their wide open mouths shut. I, too, have on some occasions when I was young and inexperienced (libation played a role), had blabbered the best bits of a story w/o realizing that the individual to whom I was blabbering felt cheated. Sometimes the errors of my youth come back to haunt me.


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I am given to weeping on rare occasions, not as a general rule, though there are emotional moments when I least expect it, that grab me by the throat, and I choke back tears. Granted, I admit to sentimentality, as women are so often accused of being by men, but within a work environment, I try to hold my feelings in check, to simply enjoy each and every moment.


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Mischievous lips of fire,
reaching higher with your halo.
Mesmerize my temper,
unable to leave alone your texture.

Lips of fire,
prayers and incantations have been burned
into the power of excitement,
that surrounds our dance of tongues.

My tribute of exultation
stoned and transfixed illusions,
burning steadily in your kiss.
Fickle reality, thinking of your lips.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

"Never steal anything under a million dollars," was the advice doled out to me as a young girl, by a man who ironically had to flee Canada to avoid charges and is now living in Malta. I guess he didn't follow his own advice. But I took his words to heart and never forgot them as I grew into an adult. As a teenager, however, I went thru my kleptomaniac phase during which I could lift any variety of face make-up that was small enough to fit into my pocket without being noticed. I assure you, however, I'm no longer this person. Five-finger discounts might seem lucrative on the surface, but it's just plain dumb.


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I write my posts all by my lonesome, and I don't surf the web to extract tidbits from anyone's feed, not once, not ever. All my ideas for my blog pour out of my noodle and have been drawn from my first-hand life experiences, influences from books I've read, juicy conversations, and sometimes I just bloody-well wing it or lean on conjecture and pure imagination. There. I've stated it here for all to read.


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I possess you in experience,
whenever I see your beauty,
beholding a perfect image
of my making.

I want to have you,
in morning, at noon or night,
I am your lunatic,
when out of my sight, you wander.

What contempt I harbor for you,
for getting into me, deeply
for invading my thoughts,
of every second, of every day.

I want to break away from you,
anywhere far, far apart
where your scent
is faintly recognizable.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

No! You're not trapped inside a dream and we are now at the mid-point of November. Summer is in the rear view mirror, despite the slightly warmer-than-usual temperatures we were able to enjoy in the last two weeks of October.

With two weeks of November in the can, it means that bloody winter will soon rear its ugly face. I believe the imagery of a smashed pumpkin is apropos, given that there are many online posts about not wasting your perfectly carved pumpkin, after Halloween, and how they can be fed to the wild animals without fear of poisoning them. I didn't carve a pumpkin, but I do love me some pumpkin seed butter, the pure variety, raw without a trace of sugar. But given how this busy week is shaping up, it also occurred to me how cathartic it would be for me to smash a pumpkin to smithereens.


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My next lover, I've decided, will be a computer genius on top of being artistic, in order that I may blend the best of both worlds - - computer hassle-free living with artistic expression flowing freely. Then Hell will be removed from the equation of Peace and I can go about my day and just bloody well get on with it.

There should be an easy recourse to all of this...


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I don't understand.
From where does your beauty come?
In your opal eyes are violet buds of
touches, lovingly to my breast.

I only feel solitary notes of discord,
when I cannot have you
or admire you, from afar.
I don't understand. Who else compares to you,

to your winter smile,
your furrowed brow?
Why even now,
you see no other woman but me.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

If I had a bird brain, I'd not be able to think straight at this time of year, given the busy season of starting a new fiscal year in the company where I work, nor would I relax in the next two months, in anticipation of the busy holiday season to come. And it is busy! Holy smokes! Where the frack did the entire year go?


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The mind is an ideal place for chitter-chatter, that annoying cloying noise of mindless thought which sometimes feels like it can't be shut off, especially if we're trying to fall asleep, for the love of God! With regularity, I battle insomnia one or twice a month, one to two days in a row, before my exhausted body and mind will fall into a deep sleep. This makes perfect sense as our brains can only go so long without a good night's sleep and like I'm fond of saying, nothing promotes better sleep than outright exhaustion.


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Remember me with laughter,
in your heart,
when you crawl into bed with another,
whose shoulders bear resemblance
to my own.

Even her nose may remind you of me.
When she makes love to you,
will her face guarantee
the same measure,
of mine or my artistry?

When I trace a careful path,
on the sacred form of your body,
will she draw a similar pattern of touch?
Or will her moves underline,
where my sensuous tongue had gone,

tasting along, slowly exploring
the curvature of your spine?
She will become like nothing,
in the sea
of nameless females.

COPYRIGHT Patricia K McCarthy

Rarely am I the kind of gal who arrives late. For one thing, I am the master of my time, not the other way around. Procrastinators like to believe that they are in charge, at least when they put off doing something until tomorrow, but in reality they are the slave to time and time is their master. Procrastination only means you are avoiding the inevitable discomfort.


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No one or nothing is perfect, at least to the naked eye. Perhaps death is the only form of perfection in that once death occurs, the corporeal human form ceases to exist in a live state, which is really the perfect way to end a life, don't ya think? After all, in all the thousands upon thousands of years that humans have existed on earth not one single life has been missed by death. Every single human born has reached the end of their life and has died.


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I love your sorrow
and suffering,
that look of melancholy
lining your face.

Might your head rest awhile,
bitter love,
and fold yourself inside my arms
to forget all?

We will become like wings
to the morning doves.
And our taste, our breath
like the purest drop of rain-cloud.

We each are soul familiar,
who love deeply forever.
Let us embrace our naked selves,
and leave our flaws on the floor.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

When we have scads of it, money that is, we don't worry about keeping it or earning more of it because we already have scads of it. And when we don't have a farthing to our names, we naturally need and want more of if. But in today's world, and even days of yore, money has never grown on trees and more than likely never will, despite what some hip hop rappers might show you in bling, given how society seems to reward some artists by throwing tonnes of the green stuff at these idolized rappers for hurling insults in your face.


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"Eureka!" shrieked Sir Isaac Newton, after determining the physical and scientific laws that governed gravity and their effect on humans, Earth and all planets in our solar system.

That is what I'd call one mother fecking groundbreaking idea, the kind of idea that shapes Centuries of thought to come. Many mathematicians agree that Newton was one of the greatest scientific thinkers ever to grace our planet. But he is more commonly associated with the event of sitting under a tree when an apple plunked onto his head, from above, thereby stimulating his mode of thought to devise the notion of gravity. I am more inclined to think that this story is more apocryphal than anything, to use a very fancy schmancy word.


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What eyes he has,
darkest violet,
feasting on the night.

Black each time
black meets black.
What a fright is my hunger.

Inherently earnest.
I had you,
with large moans.

I can't be bothered to dress again.
If you do not hold me with small kisses,
I will break.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

It's not easy being a man. I figured this out a long time ago because I grew up with two brothers and a father, including a sister and mom, and it permitted me to experience first-hand to living with both sexes under one roof. Being an only child is an entirely different kettle of fish, I know, but so is coping with multiple bodies all managing not to kill each other, living under one roof.


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Let us strip away the façade of perfect behavior and bare our naked selves, at least for today, my friends. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Perhaps being roused from my sleep at 3:30 a.m. by a twisted dream had something to do with turning my generally sunny disposition into a sour puss.


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Temptress moon
you shall melt me
into an aimless child
without my sultry sun.

You are my soul
of bluest shades
speaking to the night
of love and anger.

How do my moods hang,
in the middle of the day
before depth,
comes to my shadows?

I will brood and howl
the forethought of tomorrow
to haunt my future
coming upon me today.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

There are a growing number of frisky spiders lurking about the dust bunnies in my apartment these days. I suspect the cooling temperatures have something to do with it, that and the fact that spiders are creatures of comfort, who enjoy living with humans.


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In the wonderful world of weather, at least in today's day and age, we are confronted with a plethora of forecasts, each changing by the minute by the day, as you wake every morning and haven't a phucking clue what to expect. Like the other day, it began with wind, then evolved to sun, more wind, followed by a tonne of rain, that pelted down hard like a slant of icy sleet hitting the window pane. Yet, some ten days ago it felt like summer with temps inching past 31 Celsius, and I reveled in this summer-like feeling. I wanted to run away and play the whole day long, to avoid work.


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She balances on the periphery of confusion,
which way to behave,
she contemplates, today,
he is sullen.

And withdrawn into tiredness,
dulling the thrill of seeing her,
now gone, again, what hell,
when he smells of subterranean rose.

A newly hatched scent,
emerges from the depths of bone,
she swells in her loins, her breasts,
feeling alive.

At the mere sight of him,
once more,
he manages a smile,
and embraces her.

Brown rice pasta, prepared like any other kind of pasta, but without the active ingredient of semolina or being culled from wheat, is the only kind of pasta my body can tolerate, without reacting, owing to the fact that I follow the Eat Right For Your Blood Type diet. It works for me, the diet that is, but also the pasta, too. For some reason this pasta has narcoleptic qualities. I sleep like Rip Van Winkle, as though I've never slept before in my life, nor will I ever sleep again as soundly.


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The goal of every human being is simple: to minimize pain and maximize pleasure. Depending on what your idea of pleasure and pain is, there are an innumerable combination of scenarios to draw up. Pleasure for me is being able to sleep in, on the days when I don't have to get up @ 5 AM to ensure that I squeeze in a proper work-out, before heading off to work. And pain for me is not being able to indulge in chocolate or coping with the multitude of people determined to thwart my happiness.


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Will starlight remember to shine,
above the sanctified days,
if I promise my soul to you,
my dear?

Will you swear to never go?
At once, I confess,
I know not why I expire,
when you leave me,

I see the same star each time
you lay your heart,
into my hands,
as I impress,

my wishes upon your lips.
Above the matter of foolishness,
we name as love, we take each other,
whichever means will lead to night.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

A vision has struck a chord with me, that is a new vision, a new erection of an idea. No, not the variety of erection that enlarges appendages, although I'm sure that was your first thought, because it was mine when I typed the subject line. Rather, a new idea has come to me and, this weekend, I intend to visit the hardware store or likely Staples to purchase a bulletin board for my apartment and call it a vision board.


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Once, a long time ago, I knew of a man who existed the better part of his adult life as houseless; a man who had never owned a home, or rented, who never owned a car or bike or a closet full of clothes. This nameless man, for the sake of respecting his privacy, far preferred the life of a vagabond, to live freely by his wits, and to not be weighed down by his possessions, rather than to fall into the pattern that at least 90% of people will ultimately follow, to enter society clutching a diploma in one hand and holding their dreams in the other w/ an aim to build a fortune.


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She growls,
and drools,
levitating above the covers.
Four feet high is her allure.

That she growls,
and howls for sinful pleasures,
begging him to persist
by holding onto her wrists.

He binds her waist,
with his hips and size, oh my.
He buries himself deep inside,
the whole of her domain,

of flashes and crackling bolts.
She gives her trust, to his love.
Pray he is not,
the kind of man to deceive her.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

I'm lucky to have an unusual variety of friends, some of whom had worked for decades in the healthcare industry, others in technical trades, and obviously some in the literary community. The variety of friends brings special elements to my life, but in particular my healthcare industry friends are fascinating individuals. I like to call them my part-time psychologists, part-time nutritionists and part-time spiritualists.


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Familiarization is key, not memorizing text like an automaton, to then regurgitating it like a cat would cough up a hairball. Eww. Years back, and before the pandemic threw a wrench into pretty much every exhibition and festival in my fair City of Ottawa, we hosted an original exhibition called Sexapalooza, and it was a smashing success, attended by thousands. I was invited to speak, where I delivered a presentation called Dirty Talk in Five Easy Steps. The organizer felt my series of six Crimson novels, which delved into fantasy (vampire erotica), were a perfect match for their clientele. I was thrilled to be invited to speak and to experience this event.


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We are falcons,
who escalate the day sky,
feeling the cold air,
trapped inside ice.

We are singular birds,
who soar,
above the icicles and snow,
captured in the tree tops.

Rise up with me, my darling
like meaning to reason,
like the blood unhindered
in the veins of desire.

This boundless sky,
passes from my soul to yours.
And the simplest of intentions,
reach into us, in one splendid kiss.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

I'm delighted that you've returned to the other half of this thread. And so, the second part of my digression continues the debate on the validity of truth vs beauty and whether or not it's wise to embrace one, while neglecting the other. I shall hang myself out further on this ledge of opinion, and wade deeper into these murky waters, completing my breast stroke with eyes closed, for the waters are dark and deep and crawling with creatures. You are welcome to jump in with me.


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I am off to the wild, lustful yonder of bravery as I wade knee-deep into the oldest philosophical argument: truth vs beauty. Are you wisest if you pursue truth over beauty, or are you superficial for seeking beauty over truth? The battle between these two titans has raged on since humans developed a frontal lobe and leaned over to count their toes only to bump their silly noggens. Beauty often wins over truth. But many an accomplished poet and philosopher would tell you that truth is the only form of real beauty.

And here the split of reality cracks into two.


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We fell hard into f*ucking.
There was no now
no tomorrow,
pinned to the banister deeply
he thrust into me,

That much harder,
when I reached above my head
and grasped a crashing shiver,
through each muscle
and bone.

We heaved and writhed
by the force,
of our aggression.
We collapsed afterward
blissfully unaware.

Apparently, we're not supposed to go looking for inspiration, in the truest sense of being inspired. The real inspiring moments and people are those that come to you without your conscious act of seeking them out. In other words, go about your life and do your best and be good to people and, if in the process of coping, a particular event or person inspires you to become a different person or to do something out of the ordinary, you've been inspired.


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Vintage is a word I generally apply to furniture, clothing, antiques or rare fine wines, the kind that are locked behind glass cases, kept away from the nimble fingers of the public. If I had a slew of vintage wine, I'd probably lock them up too, especially seeing that I love to crack open a bottle of wine with friends and vintage wine... well, let me just say that vintage wine goes faster than vinegar plunk.


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I draw closer, intrigued
by the ice and ash of his kiss
touching my lips.
I taste the flame of his love,

like the whales moving the oceans,
in rotations, I taste blue
in forgotten time.
I come to know exaltation,

when he whispers to me,
with the words I beg to hear:
I am his and he is mine.
Raging heat, our affection burns.

Our wet flesh is all of it.
And yet,
we are that much more.
He knows, he knows.

I reflect often on the effects of wealth and the impact it has on the world and the individual, insofar that if you don't take care of your own business, the wealth of the world isn't about to open its coffers and throw a tonne of money your way.


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It's like what I had said to my buddy, Tinny Peete, that most blogs become narcissistic rants with the blogger going on and on about the minutiae of every day life. And that is precisely what this vehicle has become for me, a place to describe the various pitfalls and highs of the writing life, and life itself, which is to say my particular spin on our crazy world, which by all rights, appears to provide the same uphill battles that most of us face.

Whew! That was one breathless sentence. Breathe.


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Bleed me dry.
Leave me on the canvas,
the essence of myself
expunged and used.

Bewitched and seduced,
I care not if I suffer.
Quietly bearable,
because of you,

I want my desire,
stripped raw before you,
then kiss with anticipation
the courage on your lips.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Talk about a seemingly negative connotation, oh my! Yet, I refer to some of the wonderful populace as not being such a wonderful group of people. You know about whom I speak, as we all do, as we all have experienced these kinds of persons in some shape or form, at some point in your working or personal life. Avoiding the bastards, the bitches and the bleeding hearts is impossible. Most recently, I was reminded of this reality while cycling, kind of like getting smacked in the face by an ice-cold hand.


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Ottawa's resident ornithologist, whose name escapes me at present, noted years back on the impact of declining forested areas in Ottawa insofar that the lack of trees have contributed to the decline of song birds. I'm here to advise you that this status hasn't improved and in fact, has just worsened.


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The personal truths,
the most painful to reveal to him
are the signs of my trust.
My obsessive desire,

to let loose all inhibitions
kept warmer in winter,
a hibernating doubt
melted with ease in spring.

So soon he touches,
then caresses my mouth.
To his tongue I bring the rose to him
worth loving.

Flowing into the old river
of passion,
I lose myself, petal by thorn,
I fall in love with him.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Sleeping Beauty conveys the ideal of being human, I should think, because her peaceful slumber is the stuff of wishful thinking. Only teens and those in their mid-twenties can sleep like her, for hour upon hour, sometimes surpassing the mark of 12 hours at one full stretch. Try to re-imagine what this must feel like to be able to sleep with serenity for such a length of time, notwithstanding the fairytale that Sleeping Beauty had a spell cast on her and could only wake up if she received a kiss from her true love.


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The subject line would suggest that lately I've gone hog wild with something, enough to the point that I've lost all control or rather that I choose to go hog wild and throw control out the window of a fast-moving car. That funny expression is an oldie but a goodie, one of many to be found in the English language of funny humans. Allow me to digress for a moment. I consulted my Canadian edition of the Farmer's Almanac on the subject of raising pigs to see if I could uncover the origins of this expression.

This is what I've discovered:


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This night, oh night of thereafter
I come to you.
My madness compels me,

To love you
in wiles, in ways unimagined.
I cross the oceans.

To lead you to my bed
I beckon you, to be with me
this night,

I leave behind all that I know
and give myself wholly
to your heart.

If it were as easy as opening a box of cereal and tearing apart the protective wrapping, then tilting the box and emptying some of the contents into a bowl, every writer (and all artists) would obviously choose the pour method. We like to produce art this way, when it literally and liberally pours out of us, spilling onto the page, or the canvas, or out of the camera lens, in such heaps of brilliance and free-flowing creativity that we sit back to admire the profundity and profuseness of our work and its artistic genius. 🤣🤣🤣🤣


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She says with a rueful eye and a dose of hard-earned wisdom, "It ain't easy getting along with everyone, much less with yourself." You got that right, as I pat myself on the back, for making an obvious statement.

This post will conclude my 'getting' series of 'getting on', 'getting off', 'getting enough' and finally 'getting along.' Perhaps the most difficult of the lot, to get along with your family and friends, with co-workers, strangers and Government officials, and let us not forget the inner power struggle of your personality and its befuddling quirks and miss-fires. We believe that within each of us there exists a place that has fine-tuned our behaviour to a level of finesse that getting along with others and ourselves should flow as easy as sticky syrup would drop out a glass bottle. Not so. Getting along is the actual act of modifying your behaviour and individuality, in order that you're able to fit in with pretty much anyone, because you're modulating yourself when in the company of the in-crowd or to look more like you can pull off their clickish behaviour.


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Whimsy

If only I could customize a man
I would build him a smile
as wide as a canyon in mile.
I would create a twinkle in his eye,
then expire, longingly gazing into his stare
and dare to mold him further.

I would embellish him,
with a torso of sculpted clay
if only to convey his goose feather and comforter.
I would brush his hair with streaks of flaxen and
fair mane, leaving a stain on my memory,
of soft rain and revitalizing moisture.

If only,
I had the gift to give away,
I would pray,
that you are such a man,
like a creature of rarity,
customized to my whimsical perfection.

It is a truism not often expressed by people and it's a simple one: ask anyone what they want more of in life and this answer will apply across the board: more of everything. We all want more of life, more of the good things, more good times, and less of the bad, more time off, more of the finest of foods and bobbles and things, more of the best knock-down sex we deserve, more time do all the activities that pull our heart strings, like sports and hobbies, and fooling around with our kids or pets. In short, our brains are pre-programmed with the desire that we should be getting it all, getting enough of everything that is available.


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I put one foot in front of the other, when I need to disembark from the bus, to get off. But when I'm in the process of getting off, my feet don't come into the picture. When my libido is pumped up, my feet aren't essential to this process... unless, of course, a lovely masseur with greased-up magic hands rubs my toes with gentleness in such a way that the rest of my body tingles. This too will aid toward the process.


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The small obsession grows
into a coincidence at first.
The other woman hardly seems there
for but a brief second.

Of a feel, a taste soon fading
in the curtain lines hanging,
she notices how quietly,
he dresses.

Seated upright on the bed
with his back to her face.
She waits for him,
to turn his cheek and connect.

But his eyes are drawn,
away from her.
Because his heart is still,
caught in the cloth of unrequited love.

When your brain runs on the fuel of imagination, it feels like the wheels never stop turning. It's high time that I blog a series and call it 'Getting', as in Getting On, Getting Off, Getting Enough and Getting Along" so here's the first installment.

"Getting on in years," is an expression that we easily and casually trot out when we're referring to our pets and cars and sometimes our grandparents or worse our better half. Tsk. Tsk. I'm guilty of having used this expression myself more than once during those years when I'd refer to my mature kitties after they had surpassed that magical timeline of 10+ years, which for felines is a big deal. My female kitty lived for 14 years and my male for 16 years.


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As I walked in the downtown core in the city I adore, Ottawa, I was drawn to a poster taped to a pole at one intersection - a large, brightly coloured poster that stated Wanted for the Destruction of the Planet , specifically referencing our current Prime Minister, to include one Cabinet Minister, whom some might be inspired to call a henchman. This got me to thinking about women's rights, Canadian policy and how it impacts us and the effect on the world at large.


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Your eyes of danger look to me
like spirals of black and white,
revolving in clockwise swirls
you hypnotize me.

Across the country of my thoughts,
returning to the evening
of this grand night, I bid you farewell
to you and flesh gesturing.

Now in my morning bed,
I feed you strawberries and breast.
And tastes of sours and sweets
explode in your mouth, when I sit.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Friends are not a dime a dozen. Friends are precious and far and few between and the ones in between are at times like a light switch, turning on and off when it suits their fancy. We've all experienced periods when our friends are preoccupied with their lives, that they have very little time to spare for anyone else but their immediate needs, such as work, family and the biggie of them all, that entity that causes more emotional stress than anything... yes, THE RELATIONSHIP! (And same applies to ourselves as well, right? That we too are often given to distractions in life).


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Luck is one of those nebulous words that has a wide range of implications. What one person feels is lucky another might construe as happenstance. Luck is not there for everyone because if you were to ponder the situation on a global level, those born and forced to live out their lives in developing countries could hardly be considered lucky, when compared to the opulence of some European and Arab countries, to include the wealth of North America. We regard luck as a facet of our personalities, based on our life experiences and whether or not luck has been our friend or our foe.


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Spill blood
for what, for whom, I ask?
Spill my heart of it all
for a simple life.

I wish,
with the man of my want, I will,
unravel his secret smiles and shrugs.
How beautiful are his kept lies.

When he charms me
will he be in me, on me
heating my lap where he paws me.
What heaven is he.

Yep. I'm one of them, a Picassophile, a hero-worshiper, a hopeless lover of abstract art, a follower... you name it, I've got it, bitten that is by the Picasso bug when I was just a wee lassie of fifteen. When in high school, I wrote my first paper on the profound impact of Cubism on the art world and was totally hooked. Back then in the late seventies, Picasso had been dead less than a decade but I don't believe the posthumous applause has ever ended for this artist.


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Empowerment is a desired thing. The act of empowering should be as simple as infusing into your life more power, like will power, the power to spend more money, the power to change your residence or your employer, even the power to change your mind. But I shan't lead you down a garden path and advise that empowering oneself is that simple. Point in fact, the act of empowering often requires the ability to tap into a source of power that isn't readily accessible or made available to one and all. You just can't wake up one morning and declare that you're going to empower yourself across the board, in all facets of your life, to achieve even greater heights.


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One day when the world is perfect and men and women communicate beautifully with one another, I shall grow my hair to my toes and let my underarm hair grow even longer in order that it can be braided into three tiny ponytails under each arm. What a big fat lie!


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In the dark, under my refrigerator, there are creepy crawly things that scamper out from underneath the dust-encrusted floor space. If, in the night, I turn on the light unexpectedly, sometimes I'll see that the tiniest of little critters will panic and dash for cover. And back in the days when I had two kitties, and also now on the occasions when I babysit kitties, very often I'll find the kitty perched in front of the fridge in the dark waiting for these bugs to venture out. Cats love to capture and eat these kinds of bugs. Lovely, I know...well, not really. Kitties seem very pleased with themselves, as they lick their lips.


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He is the dream in the meteor’s tail,
painting the night I admired
when he slept,
closely to my breast.

He is the feeling of fundamental
and light,
because I have the need of him.
I have the pain for him.

In the muscle of thought erotica,
I want it all from him
in simple terms,
he should not stop to ponder.

So long as his tongue moves,
inside my body.
I am born again,
within his dream.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

"You should be ashamed of yourself," said the curt, dismissive woman, in response to a review posted about one of my novels on a website called The Erotic Woman. Clearly, this woman was miffed w/ my erotic writings, so much so that she felt compelled to wag her disapproving finger at me, thru email, which meant that after she read the review, she navigated to my author site in order to be able to blast out a piece of her mind. "Don't hold back! Tell me what you really think." 😅 I thanked her for taking the time to contact me. Seriously.


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That's what he said to me, a dear friend I've known for close to 30 years that he's unaware of his behaviour most of the times, such as neglecting to inquire about my health or that of my family's health.


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I realize my love for you,
only after we've ended
the power of flesh
between us,
connected.

We came.
We flew.
The past of our lives unfolded,
into breaking cracks
in the darkened clouds.

We felt the way,
on the hour
in our kisses
longingly,
transcendent.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

In a prior post, I had referred to a long lost but beloved subscription to a magazine I adored receiving in the mail, Scientific American Mind, and it is this warm and fuzzy feeling for this wonderfully informative rag (no longer in print😰) that brings me to this morning's subject matter: the intuitive mind.


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Jeepers... talk about a tongue twister. Say that ten times fast.

Ah, the tongue, that warm, fleshy extension which protrudes from within our mouths, to think of its many uses. In the past, on rare occasions mind you, I've begun my work day by delivering a tongue-lashing on someone's unacceptable behaviour. I don't particularly care to receive tongue-lashings, myself, though sometimes I whole-heartedly deserve them. When I get one, it means someone feels the need to tear a strip off me and they do so with their tongue, hurling verbal accusations of wrong doing at great speeds through mobile lines, reverberating in my ears, attempting to illicit the right response. Dare you say that I did something wrong? Hold that tongue, good Sir, and choose thy words with care!


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My imagination
of frozen vistas
will become
the past,

melting,
warmer ice breaking
bittersweet history of defeat,
love maddens me.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

He sees her, a willow-wisp of a young woman passing by him, as he stands at the bus stop waiting for the Number 69 to arrive, late as usual. The penetrating light of the morning washes easily through her print skirt and the outlines of her legs become visible. He cranes his neck backward, watching her walk toward the bus stop, watching as the sun illuminates her form; a shapely and delicate body with pure skin, unblemished by a tan. Onto the bus he gets with her following behind. Stopping at the entrance, he grabs a handrail and watches as she takes her seat, next to an empty seat.

Should he?


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He isn't what she anticipates, standing in front of him, waiting for the Number 69 bus, early for a change on this hot and humid day. He wears barely a stitch of clothing, no shirt or socks, just a toque and a pair of well-worn cargo pants, clinging to his slight hips, dragging down to his bum. His runners belong in the 70s, not originals but re-issues, capturing a retrograde style highly popular. His back captivates her thoughts; the shoulders are slightly rounded, the blades jut out, muscled, young and strong. His body creates a sculpted look of flesh and curve. She looks briefly at her watch until her eyes need to want him again, need to want to settle on him again. He stands with earbuds plugged in, music blaring, hardly aware of her presence.

Does she want to?


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You are meaning,
solid form and reason.
There's no fear in your eyes,
holding firm your gentle word.
You lend me the night.

I never want to leave,
the privacy of our room.
For days, I want to remain
inside of your love
and on your tongue,

I do not taste the bitterness of life
as it so often appears.
Only the melody of your voice,
do I need to hear
your words of love, hanging in the air.


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Every summer as the sticky, fluidity of humidity moves into my apartment like some slithering unwelcome fog, I re-acquaint myself with that irrational emotion called fear. Ironically, it's something I do to myself and every summer I ask myself the same question: Why? And I come up with the same reply: Because I am compelled! The reason would naturally precede the question and the answer, and this is because I take ice-cold showers in the dead of night to help me fall asleep when the atmosphere is especially thick and heavy with humidity. Last week, as a prime example, our temperatures were unseasonably warm, crawling up to 36 Celsius, and lo and behold, I took my first late-night cold-shower.


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A favourite subject of mine is death, to which I shall return to, periodically. Why? Because I'm not frightened by the subject of death; rather it intrigues me. None of us knows when our time will cease to exist, notwithstanding those who take matters into their own hands. Pity, of course, but this is the human condition at its worst, and for some, at its best, because they've chosen to exit on their terms. And no one has the right to tell a terminally ill individual that you have to continue to endure your torment, because it makes 'us' feel better to be humane in the eyes of the courts... [but don't get me started on euthanasia].


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He has the lightest touch of whimsy
where his hand rests and gathers,
the sensations of my body.
My pulse is for him.

I absorb his hour of dreamy flesh
of wanton need, alive
I am for him, to tremble
over his scent.

I cannot account for the seconds.
Where do they go? Oh so gloriously,
are these moments with him.
We evaporate in the night.

Modernity and tradition make strange bedfellows. And injecting into modernity the ideal of genteel beliefs was a practice better attributed to the old traditional ways, a time when things appeared on the surface to be simpler but when in fact were not simple or equal, based on some persons not being permitted to work or own property, among other things.


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Never believe for a moment that you're above learning new ticks, for the moment you believe there's nothing new that can benefit you, well my dear readers for sure you'll be taught something, anything new. Our brains are the hungriest of entities sitting atop our shoulders, waiting to be fed with stuff, like words and images, new concepts and old re-worked thoughts. And yes, the brain is more than willing to allow you to pollute its thinking patterns with substances of a wild variety - alcohol to hashish, from anti-depressants to chocolate to cigarettes, high-fat foods and mountains of sugar. The brain welcomes it all, even when our inner voice tells us we shouldn't indulge in these destructive things. For some reason or another, our brain is willing to experiment with its own body, like it's speaking a silent language, "Hey, don't phucking argue with me. I'm your brain... just go along with my ulterior motives." I use the term ulterior because the reality is few utilize more than 5% of our brain capacity which means the other 95% of the brain is working behind-the-scenes, a subconscious level of activity that to the waking brain feels like being virtually asleep.


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Me oh my oh why am I a woman of weak character? I slept in well past my alarm this morning. Have no idea where my head was, probably lost in a twisted dream that had me running atop mountains covered in snow. Yesterday's dream, just before my alarm sounded off, I was rescuing three kittens, one of which was missing half of one leg. It's easy to be a hero in your dreams. 🤣


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Living without an air conditioner requires an emotional commitment to help lessen the use of energy. We hear it all the time from science environmentalists that the gross consumption of energy, natural resources and the unabated plundering of fossil fuels will surely bring about the downfall of the human race. Well, perhaps not the entire downfall. I'm sure there'll be some wily humans left on this planet, after we've completely destroyed our eco-system, and these humans will survive and thrive, even if they end up having three noses and four eyes from radiation poisoning. But as the temperature crawls upward, like it does every summer in the city where I live, touching at times the 40+ degree Celsius mark, the justification for purchasing air conditioning is easy to make.


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She pulled her hands out of the hot, soapy water and looked at me with the sincerity and seriousness of a woman who'd just had her last nerve stepped on with a heavy boot. "He wants to have sex but he doesn't want to have to work for it to get it... I mean come on! If he wants to coax me into having sex he should clean the bathroom or do the laundry."


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Prior to 2017, I used to subscribe to Scientific American Mind magazine and I loved it. While the magazine is no longer available in print form, you can access some of their occasional content posted on their site. I loved this magazine and always looked forward to its arrival in the mail. Subjects pertaining to the brain and all facets, i.e. consciousness, dreams, functioning, intuition and the like have fascinated me for as long as I can remember. One article has stuck with me and it has to do with brain damage and the predisposition toward addiction. Stand up and be counted, my friend. Yes, this means you! Who among us doesn't have an addiction?

Please read on...


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Last evening's foray into slumber land started out good. Before falling asleep, I had thought about my 3-month follow-up visit with my skin cancer surgeon, which took place last Friday. I crashed early and fell asleep right away, then woke up merely two hours later, and had trouble falling back asleep; perhaps the worst feeling is wanting to sleep but our brain doesn't want us to sleep, and never the twain shall they meet. Regardless, I've reason to celebrate! My surgeon was impressed with my healing and said so. And that in turn makes me feel on top of the world.


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Let it be known that I'm a pacifist first and foremost. I don't believe violence is the answer. A thinking, feeling person utilizes intellect first, before acting on impulse to do harm. We each learn how to cultivate an aura of peace bcus in the long run we benefit more w/ a philosophy that lends itself to a state of grace. However, the threshold to the wall of desperate temper is a thin layer of flimsy paper and too often this very thin layer is punctured, pushing a temper to a furious boiling point. This morning as I dressed for work, I thought about all the things that humans do that push me over the edge. I mentally tallied a list and immediately started to laugh. What if I was prone to violent behaviour, and went out onto the ledge of total insanity? Well, I'd surely do something completely out of character, like strap to my shoulder a telescopic slingshot and head for the nearest rooftop. I wouldn't use rocks, as did David to slay Goliath. Nope. I'd use indelible paint balls, to mark my targets accordingly. This fantasy, of course, will forever remain a fantasy in my head but the act of completing a comprehensive list of hits is in itself a cathartic release.

So, here is my list of temper-inducing elements:


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Admittedly, I've little patience. I'm aware that patience is a virtuous quality; hence, the expression: patience is a virtue. But the plain fact is few of us have patience in abundance. We want to be patient. We like to believe we are patient, particularly as we evolve and move forward in this life. Yet, there are events and incidences that push us beyond our capacity to demonstrate patience. Patience is not that easy a quality to cultivate in our personalities.


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I keep a faded excerpt cut out from the Ottawa Citizen newspaper in the year 2000 because it lists the Top 100 English novels of the 20th Century. I had big, lofty ideals to devour each book on this list, a collection of input received from the top Ivy League schools in the United Kingdom and North America. However, I'm sorry to admit that I've only read twelve on this very big list. These are not light fiction tales or cartoons or children's books. Indeed not. These books are the big, fat daddies and mommies that have changed the world for the better, apparently.


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Should you ever have occasion to travel to the country of India, I recommend you go to the biggest, noisiest, and most congested city in this monolithic country to get a taste of simple truth.


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In between Heaven and Hell there is Purgatory, apparently, that middle ground where wicked souls do penance for committed sins. According to Catholic doctrines, those in Purgatory can spend hundreds of years atoning for sins which first begins with the intention of confession. Then after you've received some form of forgiveness, you may get to ride the wave into Heaven... or perhaps not. Perhaps, instead, your one-way ticket will take you to Hell. And speaking of which, what exactly is the kind of sin that paves your road to Hell?


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If I was a machine, I'd do everything in the exact same precise manner as before, utilizing the very same thought process and automatic body responses as always. If I was a machine, I wouldn't have to fight off fatigue or despair or negativity. If I was a machine, I wouldn't feel downtrodden by the monotony of the routine of work and daily life. If I was a machine, I would have sex in the very same fashion time after time after time after time.


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I never give up hope because when I willingly give up hope, I lose all hope and have no one to blame but myself for having nothing left to prop up my sagging desires. And so on a normal weekend afternoon, with the sun blasting my 400 UV sun glasses, I ventured into the district of Vanier in Ottawa. I rode the Number 2 bus from Rideau Street to Montreal Road, then proceeded to walk north on St. Laurent boulevard. It was there, at the base of three large condominium towers, where I saw him, my long lost Trans Mongolian railway riding buddy, Tinny Peete. My word... you can imagine my surprise and joy at running into Tinny.


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There are a number of ways to live one's life, most notably of these, of course, is the way that brings us peace and enduring happiness. Money is often confused as the means to that end and love, too, but I am inclined to think it is the power of touch. Years ago when I didn't realize it at the time, I was blessed to have an ortho-therapist who'd visit my apartment to deliver an ortho-therapy massage session.


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If it were 15th Century England, and my Crimson Fantasies of six novels had been produced in some dank and dingy cellar, working late at night with only a candle for light, printed on flimsy paper, then released to the general public... well, I don't have to tell you what would happen to me. Not a pretty fate. I'd be arrested, tried by a jury of God-fearing Protestants and closeted Catholics, with red, bulbous noses from drinking poison wine, and thrown into jail in the Tower of London for corrupting the public with lascivious and rude prose, the likes of which have resulted in me personally being judged by readers or being told that I need psychological counseling.


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Firstly, these pictures aren't pretty to look at, so scroll on if you're of a delicate constitution. Information is power IMO and, when it comes to healing, I'm happy to impart advice based on first-hand experience, if it can be of help to some. So, this is me at my worst and w/o a stitch of make-up, following skin cancer surgery.


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Because the child in all of us is susceptible to wishful thinking, many a time I've played a game with myself and with friends (after a few drinky-poos, coincidentally) whereby I encourage them to share with me their three wishes. The one caveat I stipulate is not being able to use one wish to ask for more wishes. It's a foolish, childish game but as I said, the child in all of us, and me included, likes to flex its imagination. Also, I believe, playing the three wishes game opens a portal into the psyche of your secret desires and that of your friends.


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"If men only knew how to keep women happy shall still they be in paradise." I have no idea who penned this truism, probably an old monk in a drafty monastery, poring over an ancient piece of parchment with blind eyes from being forced to focus by candlelight alone. But the expression rings true, I believe. The pursuer is forever in a state of flux, attempting to figure out how to woo, keep and please their loved one, the pursued. That initial spark of lust and attraction, of which I've spoken about previously, called limerence by some, wanes over a period of time when familiarity sets in. The lust turns to like and the like turns to respect and then the respect confuses the sexy aspect needed to recreate that original spark, which is where smart comes into play.


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And there he was or maybe he was a she... a little critter splayed across the pavement, intestines squeezed out like spaghetti with little clawed paws turned upward to the sky. No one seemed to mind, a dead squirrel in the middle of the road. I noticed because I walk to work on the days when I work in the office. When you walk to work, and pretty much walk everywhere because you don't own a car, you tend to notice a lot, perhaps too much at times.


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Romance belongs between the pages of a book because within the pages of a book, the illusion of love can be played out to perfection: boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy wins girl in the end - buttoned up, neat and tidy, everyone is happy. End of story, right? Wrong! [Feel free, by the way, to swap out the players, i.e. boy w/ boy or girl w/ girl].


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Earlier this week, I posted about wealth and its counterpart poverty. This morning, I realized I will more than likely continue to think about this issue, one of society's greatest woes. Wealth is a prime motivator for giving each of us the gumption to put up with crap from hierarchical organizations (employers) who seemingly are happy to exert control over your life, and from Governments who will happily tax literally everything that the sun touches, and mostly to give to ourselves a better life. We are willing to slog it out day after day in a world that feels all too many times like an unfeeling and unforgiving place. I'm not exaggerating with that statement because I've survived in the workforce since the tender age of 18 and, I have the mental battle scars to prove it. I could give up and live a life of poverty on the streets or subsist in a welfare apartment on the dole. Who knows? Maybe this fate may very well become my life at some point in time in the future. I consider myself wealthy and yet at the same time, my logical mind wants to know where does the responsibility of the state come into being?


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I've had this on-going long-standing argument I don't know how many times with people who live on practically nothing and others who live very high on the hog: How do you define wealth? We need to ask ourselves this question on the meaning of wealth bcus it's the only logical means to frame a clear understanding on wealth's counterpart, poverty.

Wealth from any perspective must include some basic needs, that is to say: three meals a day, access to fresh water, access to health care, access to a reasonable level of security, the right to intellectual property, the right to freedom of speech, and the right to privacy. However, in this day and age of terrorism and global cyber threats, we've all seen evidence to spare on how government agencies and their growing powers are bleeding into our right to privacy.


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Said the Vagina to the Penis, "I am the ear with an itch and you are the finger with a scratch and when you stick your finger into my ear and scratch, which feels better, the ear or the finger?" No argument here. The ear feels better than the finger, tho' the finger would no doubt contest this statement.

The world is a better place because of our sex organs. Me being in possession of a vagina means that my perspective is one-sided, as are all the men out there in possession of a penis. One of my readers had remarked a few weeks back that my mind must never sleep. True. I live in a perpetual state of contemplation. When I shut my brain down at the end of the work day, I think about every other subject under the sun, including the wonderful penis.


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We each are our own best friends and our own worst enemies. We each have within us the strength and power to heal ourselves, as well as the power to destroy our inner light. Basically, we are the giver and taker of our own happiness and sadness. And yet, our perspectives of our own image are often eschewed by negativity, forget about someone else coming along to throw mud at us. That's where the influence of psychology can lead us down a path of greater enlightenment, providing of course the psychologist isn't a lunatic, or rather to put this in less harsh terms, not altogether off-balance.


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The sculptured calves of cycling legs as they whiz by me at breakneck speeds... the soft underside of a muscled thigh as he turns over in front of me... the plush texture of full lips, glistening with the moisture from my long, wet kiss... the texture of a tongue dragging itself sensuously across my skin...

What turns your crank?


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He tells me, this man I know, that he has no time to read, that he has all of these "things" to take care of each day, which include children and animals and tractors and fences and practically everything else under the blazing hot sun, except maybe himself. "Take the time," I tell him, "because you're worth it." Take the time to read and watch what happens. When you read, your brain does this metamorphosis thing and it becomes a sponge, wanting more, becoming smarter, becoming something better and bigger.


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To judge and describe another writer's prose as skillfully boring is to say that as technicians in the writing craft, they are grammatically and functionally correct, in terms of how they construct their prose. However, the actual story doesn't necessarily mean that they've strung together a series of words that make one tasty hill of beans. I call these stories skillfully boring. As I read them, I find the writing is gifted in expressing him or herself but in no way does their prose make me feel anything and I mean feel absolutely nothing... not even indifference.


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From an early age, I was indoctrinated into the world of superstitions because my mother had been indoctrinated as a child, and passed it on. When my siblings and I lived under one roof, there were known rules of conduct that had to be observed. The worst breach was in refusing to recognize one superstition when passing my mother on a flight of stairs. If she was coming down, you were ordered to return to the bottom step and let her descend first, before we could go up. I was mystified by this, nor could I at the time realize the impact it would have on me.


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I own this monster-sized hardcover book that must way close to 3 pounds, called The Secret Language of Relationships, co-written by Gary Goldschneider and Joost Elffers (copyright 1994). Their description in the prologue rang so true for me that I am compelled to share with you their three examples on defining what is a relationship, using analogues that deal with the physical and the metaphysical. So here it goes:

1. Physical vs. Chemical:

In a physical reaction, when two original elements are blended or ground together, they become one compound without being transformed, that is to say the newly created compound can still be separated back into its original elements. But with a chemical reaction, two elements are combined into one to create a whole new compound that cannot be broken back down into its original component elements. Relationships between two people are more like a chemical reaction in that the relationship has such a profound effect on both individuals, the partners almost become a newly formed compound.


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Worrying, that hopelessly stupid internal activity in our brains is a complete and total waste of time. Why then do we worry nonetheless? I've my own theories. The most logical explanation I can accept is that our brains are hard-wired to analyze and interpret and reflect and therefore our brains are incapable of remaining at rest continuously, unless we're dead. And if I broke down and categorized how much time was spent thinking and on what particular subjects, I'd not be shocked to learn that at least 10% of our time on this earth is spent worrying.


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Naturally, some posts compel me to digress into the nefarious areas of love and lust and all the in-between goodies that deal with delicious favours. It was an innocent conversation with another person that has inspired me to write this post. When do you blow your man's horn? More importantly, how often should you blow?


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I talk to the dead, rather than with the dead, because when I talk to the dead, this implies that I speak to them alone, rather than have actual discourse with dead folks. If the dead did in fact reply to me, I'd probably run and hide.


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The other day, I laughed my ass off reading material I'd written a while back, like years ago. This little stroll down memory lane made me think of one of my principal editors, who I shall Mister Editor, to respect his privacy, as he's not offering services at present. Can't say I blame him. Too often, I taxed his patience with my dog-awful writing, such as when I had flipped to him my first attempt to write a limerick, as part of a contest, put on by Irish Spring. At the time, and after thoughtful consideration, he returned my limerick to me, but not before he pulled out his sharp machete, to hack it to pieces. You see, when in between writing novels, I like to switch up what I'm writing (this blog as an example) bcus it's healthy to trick your brain to change gears, to keep the wheels well-greased. So, I wrote my first limerick, those years past, in between writing novels three and four, despite being uncertain what the hell I was doing. My first try was clunky and stupid and Mister Editor had kindly deconstructed my work with such velocity and skill that my head spun to the far corner of the room, where it hung for a bit, until I pulled myself together and started again.


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"I'm very scared," said Little Red Riding Hood as she tentatively knocked on the door of Mr. Wolf with her bread basket of warm, sticky pudding, hoping for the best. You just don't know what's on the other side of that door. One is meant to venture out into the world and discover new things, but knocking on the door of a wolf? How many would knowingly do so? Not many, I suspect. Not many because no one wants a wolf coming after them. It's like running into Dr. Lecter in a dark alley and asking him for directions. Maybe Dr. Lecter might point down the street and tell you that's where you should be headed, or maybe he just might decide to eat you with a nice Chianti and some fava beans (and no; this joke will never get old).


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Were you there that day,
when the saintly smell in the air
made me fall in love with you?

Coming inside me
a singular night, a broken heart
alone, I conjured.

When the lilac bud exploded,
that Spring, in your image I went to sleep
in the joy I felt.

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

Here's the skinny on hiking Machu Picchu, from my personal experience. My friend and I visited this remarkable historic site in 2016, as part of a low-impact, tour group. We numbered no more than 13, which is a manageable size. I'm going to offer my advice, a few key pointers.

1. Tours: There are a variety of tour companies that'll happily guide you safely to the top (this is the ideal bcus approximately 5 people die each year, falling off the MP mountain). The classic tour that everyone wants is the Inca Trail, which is the busiest, requiring you to book six months in advance. Then there's a lesser known tour called the Salcantay Trek, not as crowded, more remote and off the beaten-path, as they say; the one my friend and I took — trekking 50 miles in four days, going up and up the Salcantay mountain, utilizing switchbacks (cutting sharply from one side to the other) and sometimes having to climb down before climbing back up again), and this was even before having reached Machu Picchu. The kind of tour you end up choosing, all depends on what experience you're looking for — a Classic one or something lesser known.


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We've all heard the expression that there's no one happier than a fool, which in effect means a fool is lacking in the brain power to fully comprehend situations; hence, their reason for being happy. A fool doesn't know what they should be worried about and more to the point, a fool isn't even aware of the fact that they're not even aware. One could argue that a fool is free to live their life worry-free. Wouldn't that be something, to never worry?


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My X-friends, it is with a sad and weary heart that I say goodbye and good luck to my comrade, Tinny Peete, who very unceremoniously this past weekend had pulled up his tent pegs and left scribbled on a single piece of torn paper a poignant note with one solitary word, "Later." For those of you who knew the man Tinny that I knew; auteur, photographer, accomplished organist and purveyor of fine spirits, his presence shall be sorely missed, though not soon forgotten.


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Poets especially will tell you that the sole purpose of existing is to be loved, to feel love, to give love to others. I've read the words of many poets, some Old English in style, others as modern as rigid plastic, and all have waxed philosophic on the travails of love as seen through their young, hopeful eyes. The older we become, or rather as I'm fond of correcting others, the more we evolve, the more our perception of love solidifies, often times into something that is pure cynicism and for the rare few an idyllic notion that is like everlasting hope.


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It happened for me when I was young, barely two years old, I discovered the wonderful world of jellies and jams. It started with grape jelly, that wiggly, wobbly solidified mass of dark purple that came in an oddly shaped jar. I couldn't wait to knife out a globule and spread it across my burnt toast. Apparently, I was a master toaster at a tender age. Then the grape jelly became raspberry jam and soon this evolved into marmalade, though I didn't much care for the large pieces of rind. I ate it nonetheless if there was no grape jelly or raspberry jam.


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"For the face, I grant, I might well blush to offer but the mind I shall never be ashamed to present," said Queen Elizabeth I, the virgin Queen, the heir of King Henry VIII, who ruled England with determination and panache, heralding a new era of English literature. Queen Elizabeth I is one of my female heroes, along with Catherine The Great, the wife of the last Czar of Russia who at the age of 55, took young soldiers into her bed as lovers, several in fact in their 20s (puh-lease... no horse jokes).

To be queen means to rule in a world that is predominantly run by the penis. Yes, we are now full-on into the new year of 2024 and as much as I hate to admit, we are still coping in a man's world. But the power of the minx shouldn't be understated, and Queen Elizabeth exemplifies this fact. So, if I were made Queen for a day, week, month, Heaven forbid one full year, I would pen with great consideration and most thoughtful care a list of aristocratic decrees in black script on sacred parchment, tied up with silk, then cast them out my window, from the tower of my Scottish castle, and give them to the people.

Henceforth forever more shall these decrees be heard and observed:

a) All doggies and kitties are permitted to run free and wild and no more shall a pet-owner be permitted to drop off their beloved so that a vet can cut off, cut out or remove a perfectly good set of testes or a fertile womb. People who protest eating meat confound me, as they're paradoxically against feral populations, but in order to do so they have to knowingly mutilate what is natural.

b) Wine, spirits and chocolate shall pour liberally from running fountains in city centers thereby allowing the houseless and less fortunate to imbibe in the same manner as our politicians do so behind closed doors, metaphorically speaking — to plan the next tax attack on an unsuspecting public, always in the new year, always during the big fanfare of releasing a budget, while never actually balancing said budget. [2024 began on Jan 1st, but in Canada new calendar year budgets for the Govt take effect April 1st, so Jan to end-March is the last quarter of the previous calendar year for spending what's left. Our politicians don't waste the opportunity to waste every last red cent, and I say this while gritting my teeth. I've yet to hear of one single government that doesn't operate with a deficit, which represents the interest accruing on the total national debt].

c) Jeans, leggings, wide-legged slacks, comfortable clothing is any shape or form will be encouraged in the workplace vs closed-toed shoes, starched shirts and suits and ties, skirts below the knee, all of which shall remain as optional yet are no longer mandatory.

d) The five-day work week shall be shrunk to four days. If this means working until 7 PM at night, you should be given the option to do so because it's not a terrible trade-off. It's a luxury to be able to enjoy three days off each and every weekend. Meaningful decompression takes time.

e) All national holidays will be doubled for adults and all P.E. days (physical education, apparently) for pre-high schoolers and high schoolers will be cut in half, to teach them what it means for their parents to work and work and work, only to receive zero appreciation from their offspring for sacrifices made to give them a cushy life, while trying to get ahead in life.

f) A parade will be held in the streets every quarter to commemorate artists and their dreams. Life without art is tasteless, meaningless, lacking in grandeur and vibrant sound and colour. Every culture that is revered is known for its art and architecture, not for having waged war. Living amicably with Artificial Intelligence, on the other hand, will be the real surprise for us all going forward.

g) Every billion dollar-plus corporation is obligated to cough up more in taxes. Getting these monster-sized companies to pay their fair share in taxes has been an exercise in deep-fake, thanks to the ease of being able to shelter hundreds of millions each year in profits into off-shore tax heavens. Slippery buggers.

h) Cashews and walnuts and peanuts shall be offered in abundance in parks for squirrels and chipmunks and groundhogs because these little critters are just trying to survive, like the rest of us.

i) Cyclists will be rewarded with an environmental incentive bonus, paid out quarterly. Biking to work, rather than driving, means less motorists who create more pollution. It's OK if the pace of life is slowed, to harken back to a period in the very old past when people enjoyed a picnic in a graveyard with the family. Take a moment to look at the gravestones, the next time you're whistling past a cemetery, and remind yourself that one day you, too, will be pushing up the daisies. Maybe if you're lucky, someone will stop at your headstone, point their finger and say, "Here lies quietly a really cool person who made plenty of noise when alive."

So endeth my decrees, which not surprisingly look an awful lot like ideals. But as I'm fond of saying, perhaps all too often, "Ideals are illusions."

To all who came before me, to all who come after me, follow me and I shall lead you to the Kingdom of Wisdom, wrapped up pretty like a chocolate truffle drop, sitting beside a sharp-tasting cider that is crisp, and poured to the brim. May you drink-in the new year in style.

In the beginning, your brain could barely string together two vowels or consonants, much less a complete sentence with verbs, nouns and predicates. In the beginning, your brain was at its formative stage, during which the gentle guidance of loving parents had taken the time to teach you right from wrong. The amygdala is the part of your brain that controls emotions like rage, lust, and joy and all the other super intense feelings that propel us to behave in a sometimes unpredictable fashion. For a baby― not yet fully developed physically, much less emotionally― is the prime example of a brain in its infant stage; hence why babies respond to stimuli with aggressive reactions like crying, throwing temper tantrums, spitting out food and yelling nonsense.


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I let my coat drop to the ground. I spread out my arms wide and once more I was flying like an eagle, catching hot air, engaging in an activity what an ornithologist would call thermal soaring. I felt empowered, and at ease, tipping my arms and body to change directions and speed. That is perhaps the best kind of reckless flying, in dreams, in the realm of the subconscious, which apparently, and according to my dream interpretations book, is trying to tell me that I really want to escape, that I need to escape or whatever it is that my sleeping brain wants to avoid.


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The reddest red ribbon was tightly wrapped around the box, placed with delicate care next to the man, houseless, who was bundled up in a sleeping bag, on the pavement, of an apartment building in the downtown city centre, where the vent blasted out a steady supply of heat. I walked past the man and noticed the box because it stuck out like a sore thumb. My first thought was obvious, Santa has come calling before December 25 and I was impressed with his timeliness. Our temps dropped dramatically last evening and it surely feels like a crisp -18 Celsius (that's 0.4 degrees Fahrenheit). For some, the bounty of Christmas is a daily affair, what with their cars and food and clothes and palatial homes. For the less fortunate, however, Christmas came and went years past and no one gives a flying hoot.


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Quality of character is highly desired amongst the population of singles, and applicable too to those entering into a relationship. However, defining the ideal quality of character is what I call an intangible, something that can't readily be perceived by the act of touching, looking, or tasting. I think most could agree with that statement. I've observed one distinct difference: women look for the intangible in men, whereas men look for the tangible in women — physical beauty that comes with a welcoming smile and a willing spirit. We women are often regarded by men as complicated, whether this quality of character is indoctrinated into us or we're born with it is a statement that forever remains open to argument.


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The thing with depression is... well... it's very depressing. I'm repeating this glib statement with a grain of trepidation because I don't want to give more power to the matter of depression than is absolutely necessary. Many have fallen into depression's vice grip. But that is precisely the expression my mom used when I was a kid, "The thing with depression is that it's very depressing." Her take is a smarty-pants dismissive to diffuse a serious situation, a state of mind that some endure daily. As an author, I fall prey to depressive moods, after the completion of a novel. Once the first draft is in the can, and before handing off to an editor, a wave of depression comes over me that I believe occurs because my brain is no longer getting a dopamine hit from the act of creating.


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For when we love, we open our innermost selves and reveal our hearts, let those around us into that heartland of secrecy and change the landscape of our life. For when we love, we are more than just ourselves because our love escapes the confines of mind and body and is given elsewhere, to a person, an animal, a project, an activity or a sense of well being. Yet, love ultimately becomes loss. It is the inevitability of love to transform from bliss into a state of loss, either through death, separation, indifference or despair. The loss is the sting at the end of the scorpion's tail, reminding you that love has its price (like everything).


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My sweet niece, when she was all of six years old, would often switch up one word for another far more comical, which gave me no end of delight. Whenever she became sick, she would declare over the phone, "Auntie Patti, I'm dick," to which I'd reply, "Oh my! I'm so sorry my darling that you're not feeling well." She would then reinforce her reaction to her state of health, "I don't like being dick." Indeed, who does? My niece, like all kids, was very dick at times going to school and only someone who is dick can attest to the awfulness of being dick, which is how I felt for most of November, very dick.


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Would you allow a surgeon to cut you open to insert silicone breast implants, sew you up, all for the sake of having bigger boobs? The industry term is called augmentation. The reality is image brainwashing — women who feel they will be better loved or more beautiful if their bodies were only more perfect. As far as plastic surgery is concerned, 92% of all cosmetic procedures carried out in the U.S. are being done on women. Men seem to know better or are more grounded in their perception of their bodies and henceforth have greater self-esteem.


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Up high on the balcony
the wind took my words
when I tried to say,
I love you. I love you, my friend.


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And what do you see in this picture?
"Two rabbits and a woolly mammoth."
And would you characterize yourself as happy?
"I'm like everyone else, hidden emotions and sorrows,
par for the course, I reckon."


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Bluebottle fly
Eat my decomposed flesh
Remind me of my mortality.

I live to die
Am part of the food chain,
No matter

How privileged
Or poor am I
I shall see the end.

I shall. I shall
Escape the fires of hell.
After my depravity abates.

Copyright © Patricia K. McCarthy