Nothing

In death

people don’t disappear

they brighten up and write poems

on the other side of the sky

wait for you to decipher

their lines.

They bury the flowers

you planted and eat your leftover soup

even if living with the dead was hard

their life in your hands

is as comparable

as empty hands and brick walls.

Anais Nin

We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.

-Anais Nin

Born on this day in 1903.

She is and will always be one of my favourite writers. Her journals are brilliant. She makes me feel as if I am not alone as an artist and a woman.

Celebrate #feminism and being a writer.

Thank you for all your support and encouragement.

I took this photo last week when I was swanky.

#selfie for @jwprebich @authordkollat @dstudioarts @catederham

Thanks for tags.

Tagging you to show me your favourite quote.

#quoteoftheday #anaisnin #anaisninquotes #christinastrigas #poetry #journalwriting

From my Instagram post

The Wanting by Christina Strigas (a book excerpt)

My book is in our https://museithotpublishing.com estore. Here’s the excerpt:

Who was that girl Miss Moss was talking to five years ago? Every time I wanted to ask Miss Moss about her, something stopped me; my shyness? No. It was probably the ridiculous idea of pining over some girl I’d seen for a mere few seconds, and felt like an idiot to ask about her. Miss Moss would probably look at me as if to say, Are you serious? It took you five years to ask? Besides, I did have a few girlfriends during these past five years, so to ask about some other woman—someone I’d caught only a glimpse of—would have seemed so preposterous.

I’d forgotten about her for a while, until recently. I guess the lack of meeting anyone worthwhile always brought me back to her, that beautiful girl who had taken my breath away. I’d never looked at a girl like that before. In those few seconds, I saw the possibilities but did nothing about it. Heat enveloped my body the moment my gaze met hers, this insatiable thirst to have her and to feel her close to me.

I’ve played out several scenarios in my head on how that could have actually happened:

Scenario Number One:

“Excuse me for interrupting, but can I ask you a question?”

She looks at me and responds, “Sure.” Then she looks at Miss Moss and says, “Excuse me, will you?”

Miss Moss nods.

“Yes?” her lovely voice sings to me.

“I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful you are. What’s your name?” She would be Aphrodite, or Belinda, or Cassandra, or Samantha or…

“Jasmine.”

“I’m Teddy. Can I have your number? I would love to take you out on a date.”

She gives me a dazzling smile and recites her phone number. I memorize it. No need to write it down. No need to type it into my phone. It would be engraved on my heart forever. “Don’t you want to write it down?”

“I have a great memory.”

She grins and then excuses herself to go back to her conversation with Miss Moss, who is standing by calmly.

Scenario Number Two:

She grabs my arm. “Sorry, I thought you were someone else,” she says with a smile.

“I can be anyone you want me to be,” I reply, smiling back.

She laughs, stepping away from Miss Moss, who seems to understand the seriousness of this first meeting and leaves us alone.

All the sounds of the day disappear as I look into her light violet eyes and study her cute button nose and full lower lip. Her brown hair blows wildly in the wind, and she has no reply. She stares at me and then asks, “Did you go to this high school?”

“No, I’m a teacher here. Actually, it’s my first day.”

“Oh! That’s great.”

“What’s your name?”

“Naomi,” she says in a sexy voice. “You?”

“I’m Theodore, but everyone calls me Teddy.”

Her gaze shifts slowly to give my body a thorough look-over. I try to make out the image of a woman’s profile on her grey shirt. Naomi’s leggings outline the shape of her legs. Her heavy eyeliner adds to her beauty, and my thought is lost in hers. My eyes travel from top to bottom. She’s wearing tan-colour booties. Her outfit is well coordinated.

“Can I call you sometime?” I ask.

Of course, the scenario ends with me memorizing her number, but even in this one, I still have no clue why she was at that spot at that precise moment.

Scenario Number Three:

As I stop walking, she stops talking. My smile reaches her and she reciprocates. I bravely walk up to her. Miss Moss remains still, glancing from me to her.

“Hi,” I say to Miss Moss, not remembering her name. I continue smiling at the girl.

“You’re a new teacher here, aren’t you?” Miss Moss asks. “I saw you at the staff meeting, but we haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Arianne.”

“I’m Theodore Neros.”

Throughout this exchange, she remains quiet.

Miss Moss looks at both of us again. “Theodore, this is Katrina, your soul mate.” Arianne smiles. “I have to go,” she says to Katrina, and then whispers something in her ear.

I turn to Katrina and say, “Hi.”

“Hi,” she replies in a sweet voice. “What is she talking about? Soul mate…? Where did she get that idea?”

“I have no clue, but can I have your number so we can find out?” I quickly ask. She looks at me for a split second, and I don’t know if she’ll say yes or no, so I add, “I would love to take you out on a date.”

She looks shy, and then responds, “Okay.”

Pulling out a piece of paper and a pen from her purse, she writes it down before I can memorize it. I take it and hold on to it tightly.

“I have to catch my bus,” she says and begins to quickly walk away.

“I’ll call you,” I shout after her, and we wave good-bye to each other.

And that is the beginning of the affair.

Drowning in Carnations

You said write a poem

about New York moments

we almost had in our arms.

I ignore you

only focus on the times

we had;

the walk hand in hand on Ste-Catherine street

the xmas gifts I gave you

in April—

you forget everything I remember,

that is how memory prevails

I could never be true to you.

I apologize for the past,

present, and dead future.

I apologize for being cruel

for changing when you could not.

You were not who I thought you were,

I wasn’t who you wanted me to be.

Bitterness is not changing

aging is ice skating on my dreams.

I held back

this is why I am not in muddy love.

I gave you corner bits

you wanted me whole.

I apologize for not loving you,

when I said I did.

At the time I felt love.

I am not a global liar.

I was drowning in red

carnations,

the smell suffocating me.

I wanted to melt in your arms

instead I was alone again

amongst five day old flowers

and a fake necklace story.

#januaryfalls18

Ariel Poets on Twitter

Ariel Poets is a Twitter Poetry and writing account that was created by Alexandra Meehan and myself. We run the account and help writers and poets around the world by inspiring them with our tweets. Twitter has sone phenomenal poets and writers. We have writing prompts that we are featuring on a monthly basis. Use the hashtag #arielpoets and write a poem about betrayal. For the month of January, betrayal is the theme. Follow us on Twitter @ArielPoets to read our daily inspirational writing tweets. Our inspirations are Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton.

This tweet on Ariel Poets is our most popular one yet. Take a look https

https://twitter.com/arielpoets/status/918067714769457152?ref_src=twcamp%5Eshare%7Ctwsrc%5Eios%7Ctwgr%5Ecom.apple.mobilenotes.SharingExtension

You can also find Ariel Poets on Instagram.

Take a look at what we are doing there too.

Thank you,

Infliction

At the time, I was nervous

for living,

when no one else

 

wanted to talk with my mind.

You have no free time

to sacrifice, nor do I.

 

All our time is filled up

with taking others for granted.

Yet we talk on the phone

every couple of years,

and become friends

 

over preferred lovers.

When  we were lovers,

we loved each other,

we lamented our skin

 

As old lovers do.

It never gets old. Your skin is my map

home.

Time makes clouds

of us all.

 

I have no hard feelings

over deleting you

It is merely a word. Define it.

Gone, evaporated. Hack me!

 

The moments are in hearts

reliving the kisses

and the touching

 

every spare day

I spent it all. Poor again

loveless;

Childless.

The Fire of my Storm

Inside my chest

is a raging child

she buckles up her seat belt

and waits for the accident

it is coming

it always does.
I remember her at six

how the piano freed her soul

and anger burned her wings

in burial grounds

where her mother met her fate.

This storm inside her at sixteen

tore apart all her friendships

these addictions to people

taught her about toxicity.

Now at thirty-four

she sleeps alone

and waits for the shores

of her youth to be

taken by the roads she missed.

She is a calm wave

waiting for her destiny

and lightening.

Healing Hugs

 

Everyone needs some healing hugs

that connect us all

without a touch.

One body to love

so hold onto

your mystery

clasp it like a lost key

embrace the wrongs

don’t make them right.

Let your soul flow like your hair on a naked body

want no one

ask no questions.

Sleep poets and dreamers,

do not ask why, do not,

don’t let the bastards get you down.

Are you aware? Are you asleep?

Keep driving, don’t stop at pit stops, they suck you up and never let go of white souls

-Christina Strigas

———————–

Photo by @antoniodjanikian ———————–

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