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A Book of Titles A collection of very short stories

Jennifer Lorraine Fraser

A journey with The Famous Loner A. A Book of Titles Strange B.

Chapter two

Ivy C. Chapter three Page 19 D. Chapter Four A Poem or two E. Chapter 5 To Be A Woman F. Chapter 6 To Cry G. Chapter 7 The Rainbow How did this become you


Sincere Thanks to: My Family, Judy Derlachter, Kenny Sprackman, Ana Cop, Vincent Gallo, The man who wrote Amazing Grace, The spirit left by Kahlil Gibran My Guardian Angels, all of my ex-boyfriends, friends and lovers and this list can go on and on... for everybody who shares their spirits no matter what... if they pursue their hearts dreams and visions they inspire me


A Book of Titles Her daily routine has been none other then that, plainly a routine. She wakes up from a befuddled sleep, rolls out of bed. Not to disturb the unused portion of her bedding she quickly fidgets with it and puts it back in place. She stumbles swiftly around her side (all sides are hers, for it has not been shared in an estimated six months now) of the Queen sized bed. She rushes to the kitchen, wondering if to have a coffee or tea for her wake up call. Pours some water into the kettle, turns it on‌ decides on coffee, reaches for the filters, grinds the beans, places in the sugar, and waits‌ somewhat


patiently, for the water to boil. Mulls over the story about waiting for the pot to boil… “ they not say that it doesn’t if you watch”. The kettle always boils while standing above waiting to pounce. She pours the water into her one hit wonder, a little plastic doohickey placed above an average sized, white mug. Watches as the brown liquid makes its way inside the mug. The aroma of ground energy fills the small bachelor-ette pad. Pulls the milk out from the mini-bar sized fridge, and pours just enough to make the heavenly coffee caramel coloured. Stirs, sips… smiles Once she tastes her coffee. She begins her favorite activity… thinking, pondering, musing


and above all else, she wraps her mind up in pensive speculation. Hopefully to come up with a brilliant life plan before the caffeine takes hold and moves her to dance, daydream and wonder. Her latest challenge or thought of doing is to write a book solely on titles‌ titles for plays, stories, poems, songs, dances, frowns and smiles. Titles for hunger and for pain. Reminders of laughter and of joy. She puzzles about which words would sound the best overall, for which hoped for piece of writing that will find its way to her pen. She has always daydreamed in titles. Her favorite title, so far, has been one she found hidden in the far corner of her mind at age six, (or was it seven, eight perhaps). “The Case of


the Juvenile Briefcase”. A story about a princess, trapped on the second floor of a white house. Set in the middle of the night and a young passerby, a young man taking a walk hears her yelling at something… yelling with a jealous rage at none other then a briefcase. However, by the time she was 15 she had lost her love of finding the perfect title. Her poetry began to take shape, nameless shapes that she found at times soothing and at others frustrating and boring. Perhaps, they would be different if they had titles… they had names… She attempted this. Writing a couple of named poems Vancouver, Dove… then decided that if asked she would simply say that the first word of each poem was the title. By her mid-twenties,


the girl found herself naming the poems that had stood shallow and incognito. She compiled her favorite poems into one little book-ette (she loves ending words in ette, so cute don’t you think?) The title of which is “Good Night and Sweet Dreams”, a collection of thoughts and doings. Lately, she has returned to the love of titles and has decided with much thought to begin jotting down the titles she comes up with. “Flash” “The undercurrent of soul” “And yet another story of the Girl who ate her cake”


“Finally” “A Book of Titles” She does not usually even bother to think up what the something named under which title would be about. Her only focus is to name things. Perhaps, it is because now that she finds herself alone, without dog or cat, rabbit or child, she is missing the entire joy of name making. All of the interesting decision processes on what to title someone or something that represents life for her. So, as we have made ourselves back to the beginning. She is sitting on her big comfy couch (yes much like the children’s program) reflecting upon titles for plays, stories, songs and dances… even names for those pets that have yet


to find their way home to her. A Book of Titles; lays softly on her mind and she dances with it for a moment and realizes‌ YES!!! That’s it she will write a book of titles, only to help her soul find name-full meaning.


Strange The girl was always finding herself in the middle of a daydream. A daydream to find the man of her soul, the one that would teach her heart to ache, teach her tears reality, teach her body ecstasy and to teach her mouth to form words of love and praise. The girl was in search of her true love, one that would not be found at the end of the bar through tears of gin streaming down her cheeks into a sambuca laugh. Her quest had begun at the age of fourteen, while noticing the ways in which her body had begun to change. She was noticing the way with which her mind began to play tricks on her senses. Her soul followed her footsteps in search of a man


that would gather her up in all of his strength. Her search for the perfect stranger began. By the time, the girl was sixteen she had experienced life through the sheets. With all of her savoir-faire, her spirit began to loose patience. She would walk the streets, go to all of the coffeehouses and bars in hopes of meeting a doe eyed stranger whose gaze would be as soft as his touch. Through all of the free spirits and wasted money, she found herself on a road littered with empty bottles. Bottles of what ever she could get her hands on, to numb the pain of perhaps never finding the one, her one. By seventeen, the liquor was quickly taking hold of her memories and joy, the girl found herself in


a constant silent scream. A silence, so dead that it froze the movement of dreams through her heart. A scream so piercing that it shut down her waking mind and replaced human actions with those of an animal. She would find herself in many beds, soaked with anguish and frustration. Her only comforts were the times she awoke to find her clothes still covering her tattered shell of a body. She became notorious in all of the Vancouver alcoholic hotspots. Tripping, halfnaked over stages, dancing with tears streaming down her face, laughing through clenched teeth, falling through holes as black as they were long. With all of her might, trying to forget her quest, to forget her dream. To forget any sort of love altogether.


However, when morning would come with scattered rays and heated pillows, she would awake through a hanging glimpse of what she could not remember. She would stumble to the kitchen to her daily hangover ritual, chugging back a can of sprite. She then would be off to the shower to attempt to scrub away the putrid smell of alcohol seeping through her pores. No matter how many times she brushed her teeth, how many products she used she would continue to smell like the tavern the night before. Her heart would fill with hope, and her mind would not let her forget where she was‌ spiraling down an unbalanced, psychotic staircase. Fear would immediately replace hope, and she would


wonder on when they would come for her with the crisp, clean, white straightjacket. Perhaps that will be the key. To be whisked away to the land of the not so living and maybe by chance she will meet a doctor who will realize her potential to a great life, to a great love. She’ll start with an affair at first, but then the man in question would come to realize her shattered genius and he will begin to help her pick up the pieces in a tender and loving way. He will be the Knight in shining armor. The cowboy destined to love the fallen girl, the doctor who falls in love with a mind that has yet to see the light of brilliance and intellectual


thought, yet nonetheless has a sort of understanding of generosity. While caught in the sober daydream, the girl, heavy with worry would find herself at one of the many mundane jobs she attempted to keep. Fitting narrow skirts over curved hips oversized tops over waif like torsos. Serving the daily special to lunchtime executives and their assistants. Building sandwiches with layers of nutrition. Only to realize she could not possibly hold anything down except a pancake and another sprite. The first job she had was for a large movie house in North Vancouver, and was one of the first North American hawking cart girls. She would


fill a metal two-tiered cart full of over-flowing popcorn bags, regular sized drinks, and an assortment of candies and try to walk steadily down each aisle of the theatres hawking her wares. She would position herself at the front of the theatre, right below the screen and begin to stare into the wave of eyes crashing into hers. Eyes that were sore and embarrassed. Two years later, the day came for her to work again for the same company, this time at their location on Granville St, downtown Vancouver. The girl was now 18 and attempting to stay afloat in the ocean that was a mixture of beer, spirits, and wine. She worked hawking popped corn and cola. Licorice and gummi-bear packages lined her trays. The theatres at this downtown location


were much larger then the ones she had worked in before. The building itself had four floors of theatres, seven all together. She would have to find her way up and down aisles, by way of the elevators that ensured her job. She would know all of the screen times and would have to be in and out of each theatre before the films began. On a few occasions, she would find herself in her usual daydreams about love and happiness and turn up at the wrong theatre. When this occurred, she would set up in the front lobby and use the excuse that one of the theatres was so busy that people had kept her to long. What really happened during these bouts of imagination? She would have set her sights on one or another gorgeous man and begin to


wonder about how his mouth would taste? How it would feel to be picked up into whose ever arms and carried out onto the street‌ perhaps to a quaint restaurant down Robson and then home for a happily ever after. The girl served John Ritter, the gorgeous guy from the X-Files (okay, watched intently while he was being served, her knees molded like Jell-O and her thoughts spun madly about) and she even thought she served a glass tiger. She probably came across some others, though she had a serious problem recognizing anybody. For, to her the people of her imagination were far more real then, any living superstar or pseudo-star could be. Until, the fateful day that he came to visit.


It was fall or perhaps springtime‌ sometime when one could really feel the change in the seasons. When everyone around her began to complain of some sort of allergy. The only allergy the girl had was the only thing sustaining her ‌ her need for affection... This particular time of year, there was a new Canadian film premiering, a film based on a Canadian novel by a fabulous author from Vancouver. The most wonderful thing was that this author was to be at the cinema promoting his novel along with the film. The girl was intrigued. Not knowing what to expect of such a person, she began to imagine all sorts of scenarios.


Would he be outstanding? A bit frumpish perhaps, tall and lanky or short and sweet? A new man was such an exciting thought especially that of an artist type. Would he cleverly witness how well she stood, greeted, and gazed passionately into the eyes of passing strangers? Would he see behind her buoyant exterior into the shadowy recesses of her soul? Would he feel the urgency she felt to have a man look longingly into her flickering spark? Fashioning herself as a sort of writer as well, would he be able to guess that she was completely in awe of one who knew his purpose and knew that only he could achieve it. Would language replace her confused state or perhaps


will she be able, at least, to have a dialogue with somebody, which did not include themes of drinking and the party the night before? The more she thought of this visitor the more anxious and excited she became. Perhaps, he would be the object of her admiration or perhaps, she would become invisible, along with the famed ghost who drifted through the theatre’s many corridors That evening she arrived at work to find a table set up just at the base of the escalators. There was nobody around. She scurried down the stairs to the dreary change room and prestochange-o she was a candy girl. Dressed up in her shirt and bow tie with the little vest buttoned


up, she found a new embarrassment‌ her bloody uniform. How was she going to be perceived? What if he really is the man of her dreams, she tucked away so long ago. If not, then what if he was just going to be a passing fancy like so many others? She could not possibly make an impression dressed up as such. She could have passed up the option of waiting in the lobby before show times, waiting upstairs instead. Selling to all of the people hurrying into the before mentioned film. Though she was now far more curious as to what he would be like so she swallowed her pride and headed straight for the elevators, descending to the main floor. She walked slowly and surely to the lobby of the building, stationed between two theatres. She


glanced over and gasped‌ he was striking. Average height, with dark hair and an energy that attempted to swallow up the remaining dignity she had. The scene was so typically Canadian. People hurrying to watch the buzz of the town‌ yet completely unaware that the actual author of such buzz was standing a little bit off to their right. Copies of his books stacked up along the table and he standing, somewhat perplexed, perhaps a bit perturbed. Why, the hell was he so far away from the actual screening? Standing in the middle of oblivious moviegoers? Maybe the reason was more cryptic then one would have thought. Maybe the reason he and his books were so badly placed, were purpose of what happened next. For the purpose to remind


the girl of who she was, not who she portrayed… a frightened wisp of a thing drowning in unattainable fantasies. She badly wanted to suggest that she took with her on her tray, between the Reese’s pieces and Junior Mints, copies of his book. So that she could help share his language, with those who walked past… not even noticing there was an absolutely gorgeous and intriguing man with books in a movie theatre. Instead, his eyes caught hers… She swallowed a smile. Trying not to appear so fluttery, the butterflies though told of another story. He began to walk towards her; she prayed that nobody would notice how nervous she had


become. If only she could keep it together, perhaps say something completely witty, to further disguise her appetite. He spoke… she gulped… smiled, not wanting to look completely in shock though she was sure sparks flew off in all directions. He said her name… she forgot who she was. Then “It’s strange meeting like this” because her name was in the film yet not in the book, “though it’s spelled not with an I” pointing at himself “but with a U” pointing at the girl. Before she could faint, kiss him or both at the same time, she said, “Strange, yes strange is a word”. With that she immediately turned, took her cart and rolled, half hovering, directly to the elevators


and floated up to the top floor in utter amazement and disappointment. For, again she had fallen head over heels for an absolute stranger through the sweetness of language.


Chapter two “Wow” She has decided upon a course of action. To, actually write something that will fulfill her obsession. The obsession of having the perfect name, the perfect title. She could just sit and jot down all of the “that would be a great name for a song!” or “Oh, my goodness you should totally name your band that”. Before she finds a way to completely dive into her thoughts and passions, she spends a few more days of just sitting, thinking… with her considering cap fastened, “What would a considering cap look like?” She quickly becomes sidetracked from the task at hand. “Perhaps like a bathing cap, though with two snaps side by each on the right hand side. And I suppose that the tighter


you snapped it into place, perhaps the deeper you would find yourself immersed in your thoughts.” Then she realized that she does nothing except for sit and think, speculate and consider over things that should be as easy as saying a yes or no answer. Therefore she comes to the conclusion that her considering cap is a bit to tight and she will find the way with which to loosen it. Before that happens though, she must get on with the task of writing her book of titles. “The Sad Song” “The Woods at the end of the Gables” “The Uncommon business of … Puzzling Proportions”


Yes, that one sounds heavenly, yet what would be the puzzling proportion? What would be so uncommon, though still a business that had puzzled the proportions. Perhaps, there is still hope for the perfect title. There is another search to do on the old, trusty Internet “Uncommon Business”. Another question creeps up “Why does the Internet have to be capitalized?” Is it because it is a name of a place? Oh that must be it!” “The Pen at the end of the Hand” “The Question Mark”


Ivy Crouching, laughing vibrant beauty‌ Ivy was spinning. Up and around backwards and forwards. The girl never ceased to amaze. She would flutter around her home imagining what it would have been like to live through a great love affair. Like the one shared by her Grandmother of the same name. The man nostalgic for the way things were and the woman blind of his faults. He would be the man, sitting reclining staring off into space, not mentioning his past. He would only be forming fantasy around who he had been before the day they


met. When they were strangers and fate revealed itself. It was late August and the man had been let go from his post at the office. It was so long ago that he could not remember a thing except the day he was asked into the boardroom and was given his walking papers. The day before he had snapped‌ something had gone terribly wrong with one of the files and he was the one to blame. Without hesitation, he had whipped out a batch of matches and lit the contents of his cubicle aflame. Thankfully, he worked right beside the fire exit and a fellow, about as tall as he had stepped out of the elevator at that precise moment to see the whole commotion. The other man ran directly at him and


grabbed his hand patted his back, stepped into the stairwell and grabbed for the nearest fire extinguisher. The flames were extinguished, and had surprisingly done little damage to the wooden desk and chairs. He was furious for now not only did it look like he had made a great deal of problems with the missing file he was also caught trying to burn down the entire floor. The other man came over and said “Listen man, I’m here for you”. With that he walked to the elevators and took one up to the thirteenth floor. In shock and awe, the man quietly packed up the remaining papers and things, stumbled out into the stairwell, and began to weep violently. Sure enough, the next day he was escorted into the boardroom and was asked to leave.


Once outside the building, the man realized he had left his umbrella. It was the most magical, sunny day‌ when every thing glowed in gold and there was a slight warm breeze pushing itself gently against the cheeks of those walking by, a breeze gently caressing the hair. Yet, still in his state of unrest, the man could only think about his forgotten, his umbrella. As he turned to re-enter the huge revolving doors, he felt a soft and tender touch. It was as though he had just brushed by some sweet smelling flowers and within himself, he felt his heartstrings begin to play a melody of hope. He turned covering his eyes from the sun and looked around. His gaze fell into crystal green eyes, sparkling silver locks slightly


covering the almond shaped pools, and he knew he had found his way home. They grasped hands and stood. Both, taking a step sideways to let a passerby through and turned towards the park. Ivy recalled the day her breath became calm, her heart grew fond, and her spirit rejoiced. It was the day he carefully lifted up her hands towards his mouth and kissed each finger. It was the day; she accidentally brushed against the man who is now her comfort. They had made their way into the park, sat upon the grass and felt the hug of the warm late summer air, entwine around them, and bring them closer together. With hands clasped, they each said a thank you to the spirits around and began to share their stories. They spoke of nights


out playing street hockey, days wrapped up in blankets reading books and drinking hot chocolates, summers that never ended, springs that were, to the brim of excitement. They spoke of growth and fertile dreams. Wishing away, too once again see a firefly in the midnight sky. Fall came over them and they nestled side-by-side awaiting beauty. Locked in an eternal embrace, they began to grow quiet and still. Planting roots and building an everlasting foundation. A foundation of hope, courage, and care. Taking in all of the nutrients of love, they have become two of one. Winter brought with it the snowflakes and rosy cheeks. The pair stood watching over the small iced over pond, where children in tie-on


skates rejoiced. Their roots began to grow stronger everyday, and with it brought joy. Spring returned the pair was pregnant with a flowering surprise. They shared their joy with other couples showering loved ones with plenty of care. A child came to them at the start of summer and they gave her the hope for peace, and a token of their love. A solid root for her to find her footing and plant in time. The child grew and found her way to her own patch of land she continued the triumph of life passed down through the magic of her parents. Ivy and the Oak tree were proud grandparents of the Ivy that now wrapped her vines around the warm loving home of the man and his precious heart, his wife and family.


Crouching, laughing vibrant beauty…

Chapter 3 Back to where she left off. Tired from puzzling… understanding the quest at hand is going to be long. To write a book that only exists at the very beginning of a thought. A thought… Yes, that is it! ... she began to think. Do people really write works of art, only to come up with the title at the very end of the last motion of word? All through the girls childhood she heard only of writing down whatever came to mind and worrying about the title afterwards… yet what if there was no such worry? What if you only wrote a book of titles so that once you are finished writing your masterpiece you can


open your treasure and find the golden language left from before‌ Long before, you even had the bit of finished written thought and daydream. “Standing in the Rain on a Heartbreakâ€? The titles are somewhat forgotten and the girl attempts to force the depths of her soul onto the page. She quickly remembers that perhaps to continue with the task she must remind herself of why it is that she is doing what it is she is doing. My drink was sour the words the tears the prayers for longing for searching I ripped at the ceiling I danced on the bare floor


pondering truth Sour my hopes became truth found your arm Wrapped in something untouchable power failed in the light of the spirit Powder was what it became For truth is surrender your hope is forever Clasp my dress pull up my stockings stand... still now I relive your past


The girl was reliving her past and not able to focus on the future, let alone the present. She is caught in a vortex of trying to realize why so many spirits she has loved find their way to have hatred towards her. What it is that she locks herself into… she has become sick with heartache and fear of what has occurred. If only, she screams silently… I could forgive my past… forget my past… for to let go of oneself is to open the possibility of becoming someone else, a better you with a clear head and an even clearer goal. Maybe she needs to think of self-help titles to get her through this rough patch of memory.


“You’re shoes are not to tight, you’ve just been walking backwards far too long” “If you find yourself bringing out the worst in people, bring out your best” “The challenge of remaining true” “The philosophy of you; knowing yourself inside and out”


Page 19

This is a story of a woman who forgot she's no longer a girl one who searches through faces for the brilliance of eyes, eyes of love This is a story of one traveler who is afraid to wander, a gypsy afraid to trail behind a band of revelers who encircle that which she longs for The ones who are constantly packing, moving then returning Losing herself in their arms she finds solace in the chaotic


she finds comfort in their never-ending struggle The girl with her good shoes on, walks gracefully down the stairs… pausing… the mirror is cloudy through her tears... the tears that will not fall, for that she regards as defeat. She finds her strength to walk past the chatter and perfume into the night sky. Which is waiting for her next step? The step where she opens her arms to the wind and flies through trees… or perhaps it is her imagination and she is locked in a tower approaching her end… the end of her rope. “Will there ever be a soul as strong as that I needed the last day I was a child?” She questions to the birds in flight around her window. “The day I chose to give up another’s growth to fulfill my own?”


Chapter 4 Weeks have past and again we find the girl sitting, captivated by daydreams. Without realizing that, she has not left her thoughts for a long time. A week or two at least. This is her problem this girl. She is in her head constantly… if only one could view what it is she creates, through her hypothalamus (is that it?) Well, what she creates through the part of her brain that has the energy of genius within. If this could occur then her art would be revealed. It is not. She wanders through life with a dance in her step and words melting off her tongue before they can reach you… them… all. “Alright then back to the task at hand” she reminds herself, to come up with the best titles for


something so that maybe one day if she finds her way, she will be able to fill in the stories. Flowering Nights Only a few know the way Shattered Genius on the Doorstep The girl sits, crosses her legs and wishes‌ Wishes for knowledge on how to share her soul with the world. Whenever she began something sacred to her own, she would clam up. Loose interest and wander swiftly away into her imagination. Come Back


A Poem or two

I stood‌ lit my smoke and inhaled. While the breeze brings with it calm hope and reflection. My heart feels heavy. I am forever thankful! For my life has not been witness to the sadness that fills the dreams of so many. My tears and spirit are torn for those who dance beneath invisible shelters of fear. As I sit here, imagining the worst for others my life is calm. With a coffee, a smoke and a dream.


What can I do a little me, somewhat poor faced with different challenges to help those who find themselves hopeless without the basic care that we all are entitled to. Every single one of us is put upon this earth to learn how to care for one another. Yet, the experiences the world is apart of presently has come from lack of lessons taught on how to love ourselves fully and deeply. This comes to my mind, as I have been taught fundamental reasoning to the truth yet so many of our people in the world have not. They have been taught, through pain and


depression, through disaster and torment how to fear, how to hate themselves, how to mistrust those of whom should be the ones we need to trust in times of despair. Instead of building foundations of courage and hope they are only making it known that their sole purpose is to rule without love for humanity. Their sole purpose is to conquer the self. The spirit of goodwill. Their sole purpose is for life to be theirs for the taking! My prayer is that everyone finds the light of love


within their own souls finds the light of what their truth is and through the diminishing fear everyone is able to love like never before!

Look into the mirror, smile wrap your arms around yourself, take a deep breath stop your mind for just a minute and realize who you are. Stop the fear that climbs and begin to trust in the self. For that is the first step to overcoming the trials set before you! That is the first step truly to learn how to love another


For you know

The language of the moon, gentleness of spirit Dreams of that which we long to fulfill For you know the deepest prayers you know the sweetness of mouth of words gently swimming The flame the fairies play a game together they wish for longing they wish for the gentle wishes to be true Thank you dear for reminding me of life reminding me of the tears to be shed the joy to be found after the fallen rain


sweet dreams to a soul sweet dreams to your held out hand to your forever spirit Thank you for my journey through the fields the valley found at the base found forever together smiling If this could be my gospel song I'd sing it proud for you have spent a day and years in my shoes you've reminded me of you you've reminded me of truth Thank you


Chapter 5 Waiting patiently, she scrambles for recognition of how she once was. She’s back. Has been for quite a long time, though the questions continued to fill her thoughts. What happened in the dark of past shadows has been brought to light. My goodness has the dream revealed it self. That of when she was younger, the one that tugged on her heartstrings for so long. The one that kept her safe, the one of herself, sweetly in her childhood bed, lying down. Surrounded by Strawberry Shortcake, Buddy, Fred and Rocky while being


visited buy a man‌ a gentle man, with the message that all is to be okay. Through the streets of her youth, she kept this safely by her side. For this was how she was able to remain true to her spirit no matter how many demons and like minded people attempted to bring her to her knees. This special angel remained with a guide to shelter her innocent soul. She knew that at one point there would be an awakening of art, for her to begin on her journey. Through her lessons, she faced grimaces and evil eyes, those from people jealous of her spirit. She attempted to hide this spirit she was blessed with‌ she would try to


hold back her shouts of joy and her cries of pain so that they would not hate her for what she is. A Gypsy Wind Running Through Flight Remain Still Letting go of the past, the girl is feeling scared‌ excited. For so many years, she has been trying to figure it out. The rules to the never-ending game, realizing it is way to soul consuming to dwell on such things. You must let go of this if you are to grow, if you are to follow your path. If not, you will find yourself stranded in the forest at night.


To Be A Woman I awoke from a dream I awoke I awoke I awoke to the magic of a voice Singing a hymn I’ve never heard The voice of a woman Was what shook My tired spirit awake A woman’s voice was Singing Singing to me within my dreams I was lying fetal


On my couch With a newly wet canvass Upon the fabric My drop sheet I had lied down for a rest A rest from the above A rest from my thoughts I no longer seem to be able to share Through language To share through my voice I was calmly woken By the singing of a voice In my head Surrounding my shoulders Off to the right A woman’s voice sang me a tune of hope She sang And I went dancing with a hand in a million cities Was this voice my own spirit Reminding me


Who What Where When Why A voice from my dreams Sang me awake to remember All that I long to shelter All that I long to experience All that I have been neglecting Why have I become the woman I am? How am I to shine How can I look above at my minds eye And see nothing within How can I continue to betray My heart My spirit My goal My love How can I continue to be a woman Afraid of the past


Fearful of the future Without a glimpse of hope For now I am reminded of this voice today During the language of the rain I am reminded that only I am keeping My dreams at bay Only I am the one who has ceased to believe Through out my life I have blamed my lack of faith In myself on the adventures That life laid out for me I have blamed lack of belief In myself On those who have attempted To curse my love Yet it is I Who has never known how to believe In my own I am reminded of vanity While reading


The unbearable lightness of being Recently I have questioned the words that come out of my fingers To ink I have ceased to believe in them For fear of what another may question For fear of which Temptations may arise I am the only one cursing my right to love freely Through my fear of the temptations that I long to remember I’ve been questioned I’ve been feared I’ve been the one who has allowed this to happen Only because I have not lived according to my own Philosophy I have questioned beauty because I forgot to see the beauty


I’ve questioned beauty because I wanted to live in reality I wanted to live according to those found within the screen I’ve wanted to follow the leader I wanted to be the last standing survivor Sweetheart I tell myself Sweetheart I long for you to be that way again I long to dance with my hands in a million cities I have been overcome by fear This fear is my own It has not been put upon me by anybody else but myself Sweetheart wherever you may be I am here Blessed but naked Naked but sheltered Sheltered and scared Scared because the above is nothing


I no longer wish to live a life of Ignorance I wish to utilize my mind I wish to love my body I am not allowing the child within to grow up. Sweetheart I come to you only a phone call away The only constant in our lives is the rain I’ve gone out to get cigarettes The rain has become my shelter I cry To cry I cry wandering through the rain Then there is a purpose for the smudging of my mascara Reminding me of in the fifth grade I cried My excuse then was that I was allowed to wear make-up Now my excuse is nothing


Now that I cry I cannot pretend that I am wearing shadow For now I am a woman And my shadow has become my make-up The rain gives me the excuse to cry openly For I can blame the rain For my eyes to look wet Instead of vain circumstances My face is cold Signifying my allowance of the rain to become The shelter of my tears Now I long for the rain it shelters my emotions it hides my vanity it forgives my laughter of the absurd I’m home now Outside my windows The sound is magical An orchestra of forgiveness Joy ceases to be a mask Calm replaces anxiety


My faux-poetic nature Is pardoned My vanity My pride Is no more I am only me here Allowing the heavens to conduct my pen Allowing the water To cleanse my nails I dirty With the paint of my soul It clean With the soap of all spirit The breeze reminds me to stop To dream To remember hope The rain is the shelter of my joy For I know The sun will come In the form of brilliance I will always be able


To find my way home The pot of GOLD At the end of every rainbow Is LOVE revealed I awoke from a dream I awoke I awoke I awoke to the magic of a voice Singing a hymn I’ve never heard The voice of a woman Was what shook My tired spirit awake A woman’s voice was Singing Singing to me within my dreams I was lying fetal On my couch


With a newly wet canvass Upon the fabric My drop sheet I had lied down for a rest A rest from the above A rest from my thoughts I no longer seem to be able to share Through language To share through my voice I was calmly woken By the singing of a voice In my head Surrounding my shoulders Off to the right A woman’s voice sang me a tune of hope She sang And I went dancing with a hand in a million cities Was this voice my own spirit Reminding me Who


What Where When Why A voice from my dreams Sang me awake to remember All that I long to shelter All that I long to experience All that I have been neglecting Why have I become the woman I am? How am I to shine How can I look above at my minds eye And see nothing within How can I continue to betray My heart My spirit My goal My love How can I continue to be a woman Afraid of the past Fearful of the future


Without a glimpse of hope For now I am reminded of this voice today I set out to share it with you To repeat it as necessary To repeat it Because all women need to hear this voice The singing of the souls I have set out to share my story of this song with you So that you may remember your own song This voice has come to me while I was in a dream On a hill Far away from a stage Watching a woman sing her songs I turned to see the lights of the performance I was reminded of my sensual nature A man walked past me I was on the hill Standing free My hair long behind me


The wind lifting it towards The trees Asking for the birds to play I was standing on a hill With people sitting around me A creek between us and the exhibition I turned my head To the left and The images ceased I begun to be only in my thoughts I begun to experience blackness I heard a voice singing A woman’s voice singing Through the blackness Between dream state and wakening She was reminding me of my life She was reminding me of my soul A woman’s voice was singing me awake Guiding me through the dark Guiding me through my excuses A woman’s voice sang me awake


And I went dancing With my hand In a million cities

Chapter six

The girl found herself in the middle of her inspiration. Forgetting the beginning, failing to recall the times spent in worry and stolen being. This memory is the true reason to start a project only at the beginning of a thought. For is that not what life lessons are? “Is that not what coincidences remind us of� she wonders, while sitting in front of a glowing screen wanting to be able to let go of the fear of unrecognizable faces. Finding herself back to where she is supposed to


lay for a time. Remembering the scent of her childhood only to be able truly to write a title that express’ everything that has happened up to this point in her life. Can so many stumbles and pick-ups be written into a few words? So that life can continue and the girl is able to grow-up? How can we truly be sure that what we read and hear is the truth without dissecting the conscience? There is no way, unless we have it documented in the simplest form of language, and still then one is able to read between the lines of thought and find another journey, find another meaning. Perhaps, that is the key‌ the ways of the world, of our being human is to understand that there is


always more then one true story within the functions of our heart. As it is with the many faces, the girl has worn through her many nicknames; quirky, eyes of love, Rock and Roll, annoyance, guilt, alone. For to reflect upon those who left her life such a long time ago, she will be able to realize that she is following her path… she is experiencing the right journey. Always have been, always will be for her life is laid out, as pebbles in the sky. Wait a minute… oh her goodness! Could that be the title she searches for to begin at the start? Is that the ending of her worries? “Pebbles In the Sky”


...or at least it would be an amazing song title, once she learns how to play her guitar.

To Cry She slept with danger and vacant faces. She wandered the streets searching for the light, her light. She sat in doorways, writing what would come to mind. Just steps away from the library with her eyes glistening and searching. Searching far beyond her own excuses, she repeated‌ repeats. The excuses and blame she constantly carried‌ carries. Perhaps, now is the time to accept her responsibility. Now is the time to forgive. Not wanting to stay locked in a tower waiting for her hair to grow back she cuts it. This cutting is yet another excuse to stay


behind the bars of her past, her psyche, her terror. The windows are bright eyes. The bars are locks of golden hair, turning gray with each passing day. Will she ever let him loose? Sunday She sits with a heavy sigh as her only companion. She has released it all. She sits and now there is silence. Her thoughts have become this silence. No longer is she scrambling for recognition within her own tattered past. She knows how hard she has fought. She is free. With her order in, she looks up.


Six thin and two thick lines are across her shoulders. While they walk towards the street, reaching for the others hand. She looks down, pen in hand and no language reaching between the pages. The music suddenly is loud. The girl in a daze, is pulled from her book. “Be gentle with this heart of mine…” is loud. Then lowered. She follows the clues, and returns to her book. She is calm and fragile She is strong and frail Her body is reminding her of mortality


Her spirit is dancing in the immortal A drunk man looks. He begins to talk above and over her. She cannot make out his words. He swills back his blue, walks up to the bar and talks of forgiveness and freedom. As the man stumbles out into the rainy street, she again lowers her eyes to her blank page. The page becomes wet. She has just been witness to another sign. God, the universe is still protecting her. Leading her to her destiny. At one time, months ago. She continued to hold on to the negative in her life. Feeding the horror


of her past and not realizing the beauty of her truth. Through the continued acknowledgment of physical and sexual misconduct from men, she forgot heaven in an embrace. A stranger asked: “When was the first time you cried after sex?� She replied with a mess of pain and heartache. She gave her abusers wings and neglected her lovers. She neglected heaven. In images, he held a box in his hand. Her painful secrets no longer her own. Never were.


So to answer the question she replies‌ The first time I cried after sex, was the time I knew how deep my love is. It was the first time I realized my beauty. The first time I cried after sex was the day I knew I was free.


Chapter 7 Sitting in pajamas after the last of the coffee has been drunk. The girl wanders into a happy memory, a memory of when times would come and bring hope into her life. Wanting to share her unbroken spirit with all, she realizes the task, her responsibility is to all that happen upon her journey. This responsibility finding titles for her sorrow through her laughter of the absurd. For if she never knew her soul she would still be at the end of the bar. She would still be dancing under spotlights, with a grimace of fear upon her smile. “The Cliff” “Thank You”


Rainbow You saved me When the car almost went over We were frightened I remembered you in the field Touching the blades of grass With your colours of love With your sister above you You reminded me Though the ones I was with were stoned And Schizophrenic‌


You did not allow this to be my end We drove over the center of the highway The wheels lost their grip, Above the cliff‌ We flew up and over the road With your help Dear memory of a Rainbow Dear Angel You saved us Thank you


Chapter 8:

Lost and Found, How Did This Become You “You are the chosen one!� a voice quietly whispers in my ear while I am practically minding my own business, walking down the street. I say practically because how could you only, possibly mind your own business on one of the most busy streets in Canada. I realize, while I am sauntering home I was neglecting the reason for my journey. I was to buy more incense, instead I found myself sitting in a coffee shop, drinking an americano, eating avocados in


a salad with toast. I have just arrived home, home for now at least, from a couple of chaotic days outside of this urban center. A couple of days reading a book (and finishing it mind you), having a competition on who could scream louder, you know typical family stuff. I have just gotten off the bus, come home and rushed out the door to buy incense, perhaps eat something and chat with a few locals. Though I do not feel like smiling and I do not feel like giving my money to the poor. I do not feel like walking or skipping, doing much of anything at all. So, then I hear a soft whisper, “you are the chosen one!” Okay, do I listen to this voice to hear what it actually has to say, or do I check it off as another one of my mind’s insane tricks,


doubt my sanity full on. Run screaming down the road, look at every homeless person on the sidewalk and squeal with delight that I am not about to be like them. “You are the chosen one!” Is it my imagination tearing at my eyes for me to see a somewhat famous director coming my way to tell me that I have the look, that look, for the next up and coming remake. What could it be? What role am I being called to portray? Surely not Annie, for I am now far to old and the sequel already occurred a few years ago. Perhaps it is Anne of Green Gables, though I am 26 years old I’m sure I could pull off playing a twelve year old. Oh, it just occurred to me, perhaps it is a new film, a new redheaded heroine, one that is not the strongest girl in the world, that is not a


lost orphan looking for a family to open up their hearts because she is not a boy… gag... What could this new redheaded person be? What sort of stereotype could I confront? Maybe a schizophrenic writer, wandering off around the world, only to find out that I’m not schizophrenic at all, to find out that it is only my creative and sexual energy, as a true redheaded cursed being, narrating my story. Yet, as I come to think of it that one has been done as well. It was so amazing, of course it had to be a true story. There we have it, I’m wandering down the road; and quite suddenly a voice calls out to me, one of those loud yet quiet whispers you only learn about in acting classes. The loudest possible whisper of my life has just started


shouting “YOU ARE THE CHOSEN ONE!!!!� Now on to the biggest dilemma of my life. I come home to put together my sad yet functional computer. I sit down at my shaky half-a-table, sitting in my wiggly chair only to frown at what I am about to do. Doubt myself fully, cascade within my thoughts, and start writing a story. I am completely consumed with guilt, do I write a fictional story using my life as the backdrop or do I write a non-fictional story, yet icing the cake so much that it becomes fictional, therefore I do not hurt the feelings of those I love, hate, like, care for, use to care for, Dream with, dance because of... you get the picture. I use to say that it was a shame that I was not famous because the press would have had a field trip with my


escapades, with my adventures. I still say that if it was not for the angels and some distant caregiver I would not be living the life I do. Now don’t get me wrong this soon into the story, this will not be my attempt to try to steer you towards any God of any kind. If that is what you want me to do you should go and write your own book. I am not that kind of redhead. I now can see your shoulders beginning to wilt, and your eyes beginning to get dreary. I can hear your thoughts beginning to scream at me‌ Okay, okay I will get on with my story. I will bring you into a head that is red. My first memories of me are actually not true memories, they are the stories I have made up by looking at photos of myself. I have always been quite stylish sporting


the latest fashions, of the nineteen seventies... I actually have yet to change my way of dress. My favorite photo of me is one that I find that explains me, my inside me, my outside me, all of me. They say a photo is worth a thousand words, and I believe with that one photo I would not even have to bother writing this account of my life. I am standing, with grin on my face, my jeans rolled up, (I have never been really tall, there was only one year when I wasn’t sitting in front of the class picture... that was the year I was only the second shortest person in my class,. Thank you Kevin!) and a black little T-shirt with the writing creme de la creme upon it. Oh ya, how cool is that, thank you Mom. You see from that point I truly believed that I was to be


something... unknown, perhaps a famous loner. Later in life, whenever I would pull out my journal someone will have to question me about it, because I look absolutely mysterious and enticing. If only they knew that most of what I write I find a great need to repeat it. So that I completely bore the out &**& myself and curl my toes and realize that today, or that day was not the day that I was going to write my masterpiece. Oh well back to me. My name is Jenna Thompson, I'm 5.10, blond curvaceous, an absolute knock out. I know all about the girlie girl things, make-up, pedicures, manicures, waxing, pink and blue, long term high school loves, the boys next door, trips to the alter, yoga, pilates, atkins, south beach, test shoots, vogue,


ice creams, nice dreams, men with surf boards, stalkers, stockings, nails, gardening and herbs, sports and L'oreal, spas, gyms, hair dyes, entrepreneurs, jewels and diamonds... for they truly are a girls best friend. I drive . I cruise. I am absolutely fabulous. New York wants to give me a key to the city and men want to give me a key to their shorts...SCREEEEECH to a halt........ What am I going on about? What was I saying? “You are the chosen one!” a silent tear is about to fall, yet of course I won’t let that happen, I am happy, I am intelligent... The happiest girl in Toronto… as someone once pointed out. A little fairy, a dancing queen, A FAMOUS LONER. Back to reality, though I do not spend to much time there. My daydreams are


the basis of my life, I swoop along sidewalks and sunsets... melting in strangers arms. I love strangers, for all they really need to know is what I am at that moment... though when all are strangers it sure does get lonely. My name is Jennifer Lorraine Fraser, I am 5.1 and a bit, though I stand really tall. I’ve been known to say that people would be scared of me if I was any taller. I have strawberry/copper blond, okay, red hair. I am constantly being asked if I am Scottish or Irish... don’t you think its time for a new pick up line? When I was 17 a boy about the same age actually surprised me, then I got to give him a shock of his life Excuse me, are you Australian?" Of course I am, replied I. You should have seen his face, all spotted and red,


stammering and shocked. You see you only get the truth when you are expecting something other then it. AS I was saying, I am of Scottish, Irish, British and Australian descent‌ so it makes sense that I am completely Canadian. I was born in St. Paul, Alberta. A place with a claim to fame of having a maintained UFO landing pad in the middle of town. It was my exboyfriend that pointed that one out to me, and, as you can imagine, with plenty of comments... It all makes sense now, hardy har har... I was born to two people, as most of us were, Philippa Ann O’Brien and Kenneth Patrick Fraser. My Mom is the strongest, most loving and courageous woman I know, a true inspiration!! I truly have no clue about Ken...Though, he was born and


died in Australia, so there you go, half my blood is Australian, a right convict I am... without even trying I have found my way to the wrong side of the tracks and back again, many times... now I am just coasting along on the tracks for fear of which side is actually the wrong one. I have grown up all over Canada, or perhaps I should say that I have aged all over Canada. As a friends mother put at the age of eighteen, You haven't grown at all..." "Ya, Thanks for mentioning it� Just because her daughter grew to a nice size of 5.9 and a half does not make me one that does not grow. For my growth in spirit out weighs or perhaps, out lengthens any teenage growth spurt. While all my friends were out there physically growing I was swelling with


thoughts of insane philosophies, beer and blackouts. Each time I would reach for something new to help my body to grow in certain ways, my mind would do the fishing and I would be on my belly, looking up at the lights above my cot. (okay I only wished for mirrored floors, yet surprisingly they seem to have been there through all my dizzy spells.)Everything happens for a reason, does it not. Everything has happened before, everything has been and gone and been again. Then why do I feel as though I am the only loner out there? Why do I feel as though the world has spit me out and I am looking through the shop window unable to pay for what I wish I needed. You see I am not some blond bombshell, I am a wee redheaded of a


thing with big hopes and unbearably sized dreams, unknowing where to start. The shittiest thing about all this is that something went ahead and woke up the inspiration within my ginormic ( I love making up words, when I cannot find a word to express...) dreams. I wish it actually never happened, because now whenever I ponder I get a flash of what I could be doing instead of dreaming and I get scared, petrified really. My daydreams are so close to reality that they make me wonder if I am actually going crazy, yet there already has been a redhead with that prerequisite, hasn’t there? My memories start in Edmonton, Alberta. The ones I know for sure are the ones of my daycare and beyond. I forget names and faces. Though I do remember my first time


being a star, my first time being told not to share my stories and the first time something made me throw up for no reason what so ever. “When did you realize you were a star?” “Well, I would have to say it was when my uncle Mark decided to bring me to my daycare for visit. You see I had just started grade one, and I was extremely excited for myself. That summer, I had learned how to ride my first bike. It was pink, with streamers. I think we got it from Canadian tire, we’ll ask the uncs. Anywho, it was a day, though I’m not quite sure of the date and we went to visit my daycare classroom. As soon as I walked in the door a younger (and of course) boy ran up to me and proceeded to give


me the best hug. I’m sure he was about four or five years old. I was a big six year old, just stepping into the world, the real world. Where you go to school for the whole day and you begin to learn about things. We got to do readings, out loud, by ourselves. My first ever performance was reading a tale from Winnie the pooh, US Two. Quite possibly the best ever dramatic event in my life. I then was on stage for my fist time as none other, then one of the most famous redheads (or so I thought, why would they have chosen me, if not) Miss. Muffet. And did I ever fling that curds and whey. My scream was petrifying, I can still hear it to this day and that was twenty years ago.


“Have any of your work or ideas ever been censored?” “Well, let’s see, uhm... my first trip down the censoring aisle was probably when my Dad had the talk with me. This probably will ring true for alot of people who were raised on the folk festival circuits, I was told not to mention the fact that my parents smoked cigarettes, due to the fact that other kids parents would not be pleased to hear of any such thing. Though this kind of talk took me by surprise, I suppose it taught me to be careful of what I say in public. For not everyone appreciates everyone else. People are always on the prowl to judge you, you always


have to keep your back up, especially when you are in the Grade one spotlight.” “Now about your health, how was your health during your youth?” “Well, I must say thank you for asking such a serious question. It shows that not everyone is a complete egocentric nerd. My health during my youth was actually quite good. Except for, well I hope your stomach can handle what I’m about to say. One day in the great one, (which is what we ended up calling my time in grade one) I secretly brought a banana into the washroom for a little snack, after I had finished eating it I threw the peal under the bathroom stall, into the next one. Within seconds, it was kicked back towards me


and the sight of it made me, well I won’t get into details, just put it this way, it was not a pretty sight or sound. After the first grade my memories are long and somewhat realistic too. I got alot accomplished in the next few years. For example, as many of you know, I had my own radio show with 630 ched. There was that mix up though, when I recorded my Dad talking on the competitors channel, and played it on air. I realized that all I wanted to do was dance and sing to ABBA and Pat Bennetar, to my dismay I think I may have hurt the feelings of another great performer, who I only began to acknowledge after the third grade, Tina Turner. My oh my, how I danced, the routines were


many and I spent a trying time keeping up with all the new trends in dance.” “Now, tell us about your religious upbringing!” “My what, Oh that!!! Short, yet tormented time of my life. I was considered a catholic at the age of eight, until around the age of fourteen… Though I do admit, once in a while, I still enjoy communion just do not let on that I have never been to confession, they might revoke my privileges. Anyway, back to my short period wanting to be a nun. You see half way through my eighth year my Mum decided that I should be baptized and that I should begin communion, so I went to catholic/bible school, learning to be a good and proper catholic. I had the opportunity


of a lifetime, I was allowed to decide whether I wanted to be baptized or not (or so I thought‌) Of course it was exciting for me, loving my little courses, memorizing prayers. In the end I had water splashed on my brow, I ate my first little, melt in your mouth bread, last but not least, we had a party! I got presents in spring, and my birthday was in August. How could I not be pleased, a party, with presents, in spring. Then it started to dawn on me. This meant that my radio career would have to be put aside every Sunday until after eleven thirty. There would not be a party every Sunday, and because I had two Christian happenings at the same time, I was jipped, ripped off. I only got one party for two promises, how unfair. I tell you if I ever get


married we (whomever that could be) are having a Christian wedding, I am not going to lose out on another party with the Catholic faith. “Well what about the torment, what ever happened?� “Oh, did I say torment, I guess I did. Well, lets get this part over with. I know if I mumble this part I will be making many terrible friends. I was fourteen, alot happened when I was fourteen. I blame everything on the church (or its just easier to make them a scapegoat, considering they wrote the rule book on such things.) I was fourteen, minding my own business, in church with my Mum. The priest was about to give his homily, he walked off the


alter stoop, proceeded down the steps, then began his rant. It was all about how disgracing it was that the school a few yards away, a catholic school, was going to put condoms in its washrooms. Sure this seems like an innocent rant, yet I left out the most discouraging part. As he was going on and on he had picked one teenager in the front row to spew all this mumble jumble onto, and that being yours truly. Sure I was wearing a little tank top, ripped jean shorts and long johns. My hair was its usual mess of waterfalls and eighties rock stars. I had yet, to passionately kiss anyone, and this prick called a priest was directing his jab to me. Only me!!! I felt my face flush, my knees quiver. Little did he know that I was to be me. Praying daily, writing


poems for my angels, wishing on stars and loving unconditionally, for hate is too strong of a word. It is much easier to love, even if your heart gets lead astray. Doing all of this because I love, I have felt, I have torn my sheets, I have questioned everything, I have asked for what I do not need only for it to be for others. I have loved, I have fucked with and without condoms... I have drank myself to hell and I have dreamt up heaven... To that ignorant son of a bitch I LOVE YOU TOO!! “What is your worst habit?” I couldn’t possibly say picking my nose and flicking it. I think Johnny Depp once said biting my nails. So I couldn’t say that one. In a couple


of years I could say smoking, but is that the right kind of answer for a teen sensation, and I could never let my Mum know that I started smoking at the age of twelve, and what would the other parents say, my kid is idolizing a teen who smokes??? That would be the worst kind of publicity any good ALL American girl could want. (You know I did live in Montana when I was 1...) Oh, ya I guess I failed to mention that ever since I figured out that I could daydream, I have always been in an interview. Like the ones you would see in teen beat magazine, I even thought that I would be oh so pure and smart that even OWL would want to interview me. I would then, meet all the other used to be teen sensations and they would eventually include me on the list


of used to bes, then I would get my next big break and off to the hotel rooms again answering all sorts of questions about myself. To inspire the other young dreamers, the other fab set of people dying to know me and to dye their hair like mine, to wear flats because being taller then 5.3 would be a disgrace. You would hear all about my humane society antics. During the middle of the night slipping into to the shelter, letting the animals free and bringing them to my grand home. Where all the best animal trainers would be waiting with open arms, only to treat them with the love they deserved. There would be a five minute slot on the local news, every night at 6:15, about my young street kids, whom I built a house for, and which school was begging to


bring them back. Which family was getting the help they need, to share their new, found love with their lost dreamers. To realize their lives were far more important then the piece of concrete they slept upon before. As I said I have always been one to dream, yet I have also always been one to open up my heart to those less fortunate then I. I have even been known, to live that life for reasons I am still questioning bringing up, for reasons to know what I can talk about. You see I am a short, yet pretty redhead. I know all about the other side, the dark side of the moon...I started drinking when I was 13, then quit when I was 21. An ex used to say I have already cashed in all my party chips. I can talk about hippies, dreamers, stories, jail, travelers


and aid, miracles, films, panhandling (could you spare some change for some pads...) weed, LSD, alcohol, sambuca, 26ers (not the team...) laughing, abusing, tears, pain, anguish, running through fountains, love, sex, twosomes, threesomes, love and hate, hobo's, tranies, gays and straights, karaoke and god, tattoos, pancakes, late nights and early mornings, seeking help, losing control, anger, friends, roommates and heartaches, cats and dogs, bands of fools and good wishers. I CAN DREAM!!!� “What made you lose control?� To some losing control is going bankrupt, is losing a career, forgetting to dream is perhaps the main control losing scenario. Sure I have never


been one with a lot money, one with a known career. I have been one that forgot to dream, yet my biggest downfall was my love for the opposite sex. Boy, do they ever help me never to forget. Men, men, guys and more men... I am always falling in love, at least twice a month. It is always quite a shock when it occurs only once within a few months. I was actually in love for three whole years, yet of course that had to come to a complete halt. Men, I used to rate them when I was eight. I used to dream of being swept away, of learning that I too have a soul mate to laugh with. I have a soul mate to share every laugh, and tear of the skin with. As much as I try not to fall, I am always stumbling along the path towards obsession. I always find myself


forgetting what it is that I’m supposed to do because my heart finds its way to the depths of not realistic hopes and dreams. I hate loving men!!!! I, perhaps should be one of those women, who write a self-help book to realize that there is far more to life then the caress of a man. Though, I’m a redhead and that, surely, will not do. I am always searching for the best redheaded joke. There are plenty of blond jokes, yet I have only come across one for us redheads. ---you can sleep with a blond, you can sleep with a brunette but you don’t get any sleep with a redhead.--- I have to admit that its all true. I find myself in a constant dilemma, every few months a man shakes me awake, I fall head over heals, then silence... He forgets to call, thinks when I


call, I’m being to demanding. Realizes that I am a free being and that I should not, solely, be tied down to him. (or so I am beginning to imagine, for I never truly get a true answer) Though there has been a couple who wish to cage my freedom. Make me only regard them. “If you’re in my presence then you’ve got to only be in my presence.” No more daydreams for you. AHHH When will I find the man of my dreams who considers me.... Then once again the spiral of my control gets lost in the shuffle. “Okay, so you love men. Any type in particular?” “Any type, do you really need to ask such a question? I suppose it doesn’t hurt to tell you. I


feel such joy when I can talk to one about 6.1 (or taller, but not taller then 6.5) Though I must admit I have found sweetness in shorter men lately. I have an attraction to artists, all sorts of artists. I am always wishing to be a long lost muse. One with chestnut hair, golden skin... Have you ever heard of a redheaded muse, except for that model, (what was her name). Okay, lets rephrase that, have you ever heard of a short, redheaded muse. Or even a short muse… Well, there was Frida... “Do you think that women have muses?” “I do not know to much about that topic unfortunately, yet I believe that men, who are musicians, have always been the muses in my


heaven. No matter what, I dance the name of prayer to many drummers. I am consumed by tears and laughter because guitarists and singers. Bassists remind me to soar. I love ROCK and Roll. Musicians are the muses of my words, and lack there of. They are the muses of my silence. Here, let me show you... This capture is one that I want to sit quietly through I want to surrender to the calm blood pounding through my hands swelling in my mouth I do not want to hear the storm may the smile continue to grow


within the depths from my toes from the grass, the dirt Come dance with me on unknown beaches where sun shines brilliant Soar along with the ray of your eyes. Though, my bed is not made of water. The waves and the breeze is what I long for. Wash me up on your shore sing to the moon listen to the sound the ocean makes when you hold my hands to your ears. Taste the salt from my shoulder once we come up for air.


Dusk is about to fall the waves are still pounding over my legs...may the calm continue to dance... “Wow, who was that written for?” “I can never tell. If I were a groupie, if the only thing that attracted me to artists was just to kiss and tell; I would not be able to share my own art with the same convictions. I, too am an artist finding my muse. Writing what love would render brilliant. Writing my own shaky nerves during a time of wonder.” Times up!!!!! Sorry about that, I suppose the interview went into over time. You see, there is nothing I like better then sharing my stories,


sharing my soul. I think that if more people did that we would be much better off. There would only be signs of mental illness when there is an actual chemical problem in the brain, not only repressed dreams, anxiety, stress, pain, swollen egos, and I could go on and on. Life is wonderful, life is sad, life is anger and pain, dreams and smiles. Life wakes you up, life lets you down. “You are the chosen one� Okay, maybe I am ready to listen to the voice whispering above the music, whispering above my thoughts. I still need to clear my mind. I need to clean out my ears so that I am able to comprehend fully what it is this dramatic voice is attempting to spell out for me. I feel as though life is one big spelling bee. Always, there are


times cropping up, where you need to stop speaking in metaphors. You need to stop searching for the hidden messages. You only need to sit quietly with yourself, without games. Forget yoga forget meditation. Forget worried perceptions, for that is not life. I am always wondering who started the game. Who began the guilt trip? For we are all a part of some stupid labyrinth. We are not that different, we are all trying to realize what it is we should. What kind of world have we dream of? Why has it not become so? why oh why????? There are so many questions in the atmosphere of thought and being. Will they ever cease? Will we ever just be?? Be without judgment. Be without the wrong perceptions. If it feels wrong it probably


is, if it feels right it usually concerns your dreams, never give up. How did this start? Why do we let it continue? I REFUSE!!!!!! Okay, so now what? I’ve finished my little rant of why dreams are what they are and why fear has to be forgotten. I’m smoking a smoke, drinking my tea. Everything I’ve ever written , everything I’ve ever thought has now begun to collide into each other. My mind must look like a good session of finger painting. If you were to take an ex-ray, the colors would be melting into each other. “I’m sorry for my crimes against the moonlight” Leonard Cohen is beside me on my right. His voice is crawling up my spine. Hallelujah.... Thank you for you!!! What was I doing here in my kitchen? Why is my computer


set up? What is it that I have forgotten? Today is a new day, a shelter of control has relaxed my nerves. I am beginning to remember why it is that I sit here. The voice is beckoning me once more and I don’t think it will be the last time. “You are the chosen one!” Now it all comes racing back. Two days ago I decided to bring you into my soul. I decided to find yet another redheaded heroine for all, to sit upon their shoulders. The rain has fallen, the air has become sweet for what is a poet without the curse of love? What is a poet without the cleansing of thought? Perhaps that is the reason for my quest! To cleanse the mind of unknown loves, to prepare it for what comes next...


I spent the first part of my memories in Edmonton, Alberta. I vaguely remember life without Chris, though the majority of my life this far was with him. My Mum met Christopher Andrew Dobson in my fourth year of life. She was a teller at a Canada Trust and this tall, dark haired, good-looking man approached the counter. He attempted to cash a cheque with only using a hunting license and a library card. “my gosh he can read..� was the reaction from my Mum. The story is the most wonderful story of love at first sight that I have ever heard. The next day they went for lunch, played backgammon, then as soon as they met we were all settling into our new lives together. I am actually not sure when it was that we moved to


Summerlea Court, but it seemed like we had not lived anywhere else. We became a family. I had a Dad. We would always have special family outings. I would be able to dance and sing as loud as I wanted to. We would sit all together reading aloud and in silence. My most favorite times were when we spent them alone. On special Saturdays I would be dropped off at the Princess, which was a theatre in Edmonton. I would go on in on my own and watch the most recent Saturday matinee. I got to choose if I wanted to sit in the balcony or on the floor, sometimes I would even spend half the movie in one place and the other half somewhere else. One of the most fascinating and memorable films that I saw there was the Dark Crystal. I was so


scared and intrigued, lost and confused, I fell in love for my first time, I suppose. After the film I would walk a couple of doors down and meet up with my parents at the local tea shop for tea and scones, with whipped butter and jam. I fell in love for the second time. Once tea was over, we would take our time to walk down to the most wonderful bookstore, and spend hours looking for the next best thing. Oh, those were my hardest decisions ever, and I fell in love for a third time, all in one Saturday. After every Special Saturday my love grew and knew no boundaries. I always wonder, now that I have worked in the service industry, if the servers, knew how special they were in my eyes. They were the ones providing me with some of the


most joyful memories of my life, Thank you. For as long as I can remember I have lived in a dream, I have fallen in love with everything, I have prayed always no matter if I was part of an organized religion or not. I have always dreamt in poetry and care. My life has not been full of rose petals, yet for some reason my imagination has helped me through some horrible and painful times. Maybe it is the music, I never forgot to dance. I do not remember alot, only tattered reels remain in my mind. I feel as though I have always been destined for something. “You are the chosen one.� A few days later...I’m at the same spot, the one that I know so well. This space in time is one, that tugs at my mind, tenses up my shoulders, cleanses my eyes. The tears


are aching to come crashing out, they are hiding behind my eyelids. My moist mouth is yearning for a second one to talk with... Though when I get the chance to talk with one I come colliding with love. If you give me the right amount of time, the wine will be ready. I am constantly in a state of anguish. Sartre could have been right writing the emotions of a thousand dreamers. What left my heart so shattered? No matter what I do, I can not shake the glass. No matter what I do I can never give up on love or the lack thereof. I am finding my heart in a hundred shades of violet. I am finding my heart in love with another, what am I going to do? I let on as if there is nothing weird about caring without the words of love at your finger tips. I act as though


I am just in it for laughs, though my scream almost let out my newest secrets. I drifted in and out of your arms, I am falling in love once again. No matter what I dream there is no denying the glimmer in my eyes. There is no denying my actions of indifference. I am now so consumed with my hopes and wishes of this heart, that I am at that space in time where it has all stopped. It has brought out my fear, once again. How can I tell you... I just want to love unconditionally. I want to ask for your hand. Are you the one? I feel as though I know this, I am craving for it. Will you do me the honor of being my love? Perhaps, I love the depths, for it seems as though they are all I have ever known. The depths are what I remember. What is it that I am clenching


my fists for? What is it that I am trying to say? I am so blocked, what do I need to do? I am in agony, I am grinding my teeth. I am sad. I am happy. I am scared. My heart has not healed, why am I pretending like it has? It is on its way to the loss of control, the island where no one else dwells. Please come, hold my hand, wipe the tears from my eyes. For I am Jennifer Lorraine Fraser, I am not allowed to cry, though that is all I know how to do. For I am poor, my spirit feels as though it has left the building. Where is my God? Where are the answers that I long for. I hate the game of patience. If I do not tell a soul about my dreams, about my curse... will I make you love me?


Silence Where did the voice go? What do I need to do next for the voice to return? It has been a constant in my dreams. The past few weeks have been a spiral that I no longer know. I’ve been down this road so many times, I’m beginning to bore myself. I could go out to search for a new stranger to occupy my bed, though I do not want to be intimate with anyone else. If there is love now please let it show its face. If there is love, I am here to share. I have learnt my lesson, and I am on to the next one... If you have the control please make this time good. I do not want any more heartache, I do not want the dread. What will I do if something else


goes wrong? How will I survive as myself, a being of love if something else shatters the new windows in my heart. Okay, maybe I am sweltering in self-pity right now, please let me. I try so hard to be one with out the pity, one that tries to look on the positive side of things, I try so hard, please bring the voice back from what ever barstool it has found this Sunday. I am a woman, a poet... one that has forgotten all the words to my favorite songs. Write what you know is the only advice people give. Write about your experiences, make them shine so that a little flicker of hope can find its way across deserts and oceans. Well, I will write the truth, perhaps that is where I will find the voice again. It is January 2004, I am sitting in my kitchen


writing to you, an unknown soldier in the tower of hope. Where are you from? How did you get here? Are you a woman or a man? Have you begun to realize your dreams. Are you in anguish without knowing where to turn? Have you bled? Have you laughed? Have you cried? Have you lived? How old are you? What year are you from? I sit here asking you to show yourself to me, asking you to show yourself to yourself. Go look in the mirror, look in your eyes and speak one word of truth. Go ahead now... I’ll wait here for you. My words will be here holding your hand. If your eyes are wet do not worry, you are allowed to have them, they are yours. If your smile is fading that is allowed. If your angry be angry, if your guilty be guilty.


Follow through with your emotion right now, do not try to bottle it up for that will only be worse. If you are sad, be sad. If you are happy be happy. For your emotions are your own, they are what you are. Follow through with what ever it is that you are thinking, think it, write it, dance it scream it, just what ever you do, do not hurt yourself or anyone else physically. Jump up and down, run around your room, make a tea and let your mind and soul feel what ever it is you are feeling. Do not feel bad for feeling your feeling, for it is yours and yours alone. Feel it, think it, dream it, wander into your mind for that is what you need to be. Wonder into your soul, even if it is dark.. I promise there will be a candle waiting in the center for you and I will be here waiting


for your return. Now go find a couple of stories and books, The girl with the incredible feeling , Poohs BedTime Stories ;, Kahlil Gibran's Tears and Laughter, The Taking of Mariasburg, Maya Angelou ;The Heart of a Woman , Simone De Beauvoir When things of the spirit come And whatever other books happen to come onto your path to open your eyes and to open your heart. Don’t worry I will be here still waiting for your return, I will still be here to allow you to feel your feeling. Now remember, it is said that you are only given the life you can accomplish, things happen for a reason, you can change your fate with a smile. You are strong and every stepping stone will only be there for you to be able to share. Every struggle is given you a


shelter of hope, every tear is there to remind you of your laughter. They are there to remind you to live and to trust yourself. Look into the mirror and tell yourself another piece of truth. Stop hiding from yourself, feel your feeling for it is yours alone do what ever you need to too realize your triumphs. It does not matter if you have gone to school, if you have drank yourself to the streets. It does not matter if you have loved for 2hrs or seventy years, feel it... own it for it is yours. Your life is for you, not for anyone else. Dream your dream!!!! No matter where you are on your path you can always come up for air you can always love yourself, that is one reason for being, one reason for the meaning of life, LOVE YOURSELF!!!! Realize that nobody else knows


your truth and it is up to you to share it. Sure people can share their dreams and tears, give you insight and suggestions, yet they too are searching for their own love of themselves. The journey through life is fast and slow, it is unknown and formulized. It has been mapped and carted out, it has been shed of skin and purity. Though all you need to do is look at the sky and smile... No, the clouds will not give you the answers, the trees will not give you the sweetness you desire and need... For it is only you that can do that for yourself. And trust me, though I am only 26 years old, it is mighty scary, yet as people have been known to say the opposite of love is fear‌ I thank you for being. I thank you for you. For we are all on this


journey for love, to be together...I know I say all this and I try to live my life accordingly, it is hard it is a trial... No matter what always remember it can always be worst and if that is the case you can always find your way home to your heart. For that is where they find the fires of your being. Learn to dream, for I believe we are all dreamers, we are all artists, we can all love. Break down the walls, feel your feeling and tell yourself the truth. Take your time or no time at all... Begin to love your truth for that is what brings you to laugh, for that is what brings you to cry... Rebirth into something you want to be no matter how long or short of a time you take. Love yourself and nothing more then you will begin to love your world your dreams are


yours alone your fear is only yours work it out in your mind you are not crazy. You are not depressed. You are only asking yourself the way home find your heart find your smile for we all know where they are...Open your door, sit in the cold and remember that you are warmth. Remember that you are you!!! “You are the chosen one� YAY, the whisper is back. It is trying, once again to tell me something. A few weeks later... All I want to do right now is fall.. Go to sleep and forget the lessons forget the worries. You see the above is written from my soul for you and myself. I search, I wish I could pull out my hair, stand on one foot stare laughing at the sky, forget all that I am to who I


wish to become. In the past couple of weeks I’ve accomplished something so amazing for myself that I still can not find the words to explain it. So for the next little while I am going to try to do just that. Two weeks ago, January 18th I found myself on a greyhound, on my way to New York City. Something I have been longing to do now for a couple of months. To go to New York City by myself and walk around to see where I end up, to see if I can be. So, now I am home just over a week now and alive and well to continue on my journey here in Toronto. I got on the eleven fifteen bus and arrived in New York at eleven thirty in the morning that Sunday. I walked a little bit down the road, ended up on 25th street, in the slush and the rain and finally


hailed a cab. I arrived at my hotel about ten minutes later checked in, had a shower then begun my saunter around the city. I was cold and wet. I had forgotten why I wanted to do this insane trip. Cursed myself for doing it in the winter then found myself at a movie theatre reading the voice to see what I needed to do. My goodness I was in the most hyped and talked about city in North America, possibly the world... sitting in a movie theatre. Okay, so I found myself a bit boring, yet it was rainy and cold, I had just traveled for eleven hours, over night to arrive to my destination, hardly slept and decided to be adventurous. I ended up seeing a wonderful film, The Station Agent, and I too decided it was time for me to go for a walk. I


had read in the paper that the Funk Brothers were playing, I walked up Broadway to 40 whatever St. took a turn and ended up waiting for the show to begin. Wow, I was so excited, even though most of the singers didn’t rock my world the musicians were unbelievable. I boogied a bit, on the spot then turned and left when the show was over. I walked a few blocks then my fears got the best of me and I hailed my second ever cab in the city. I have no idea with what I wanted to accomplish on my journey. I thought that something would just hit me over the head and I would be free of my anxieties, I would know just what it was that I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I thought that the journey to New York City would be my enlightenment. Strange as


that sounds, I hoped and prayed that love would find its way to my heart and my purpose would be revealed to me. I would end up writing that masterpiece I have always longed for. The emotions would create a fountain of wisdom and my pen the pail which would catch each sigh and tear that fell in loneliness... I thought that I would end up opening up my book, stare at a blank page and suddenly it would be full of wonderful art, poetry from the heavens, poetry from my soul. My second day... I woke up the second day of my journey to sunlight, jutting out of the curtain behind the radiator that found its life outside the window. I was speaking to a wonderful soul,


that of my friends Mum, making plans for the next day. I quickly showered and headed out to greet the day. I walked for hours, daydreaming and trying to find still a purpose for my visit. I walked into shops and galleries. I read menus and attempted to smile at as many people as I could. I spoke with police officers, actually I think they were the only people I spoke with. I was lost, poor and cold, yet I did not find my way back to the hotel until 10 pm. Where was the inspiration that I searched for. I realized that I missed the Canadian streets, were you can always find someone who smiles back. Someone who will say good day too, who acknowledges that you are beside them. Though I have lived in many places, I am always the new


girl, I have never felt stranger then I did during my quest. The third and last day... I met a beautiful person on my last day. Someone who helped further my inspiration, and exploration of me. TO DREAM BIG!! The Life and Times of a Rock and Roll Waitress “You’ve got the key to my heart, you’ve got the P.I.N to my guts…” The Rheostatics P.I.N The day after I broke up with my third rock and roll boyfriend I fell in love. It was sometime in November 2004, and I began to work at The Legendary Horseshoe Tavern here in Toronto. As the date escapes me, the night will forever be upon my spirit as one of hope, a place where I can be me. It was a perfect night… the kind that country songs are made of. Heartbreak, Flirting, Beer and spirits, dark crowded rooms of strangers, shattered glass, dancing,


sweating, tears and loud music. The beginning of a fantastic marathon lead by Canada’s “iconoclastic icons”, its very own ideal of the cowboy. The Rheostatics. No, the music wasn’t one of a western nature --- but of a country truth, a Canadian truth. Music inspired by our vast landscapes and those artists that have loved every nook of it. A perfect night for me to realize I have finally found a place of shelter in this topsy-turvy vibrating zoo of a city called Toronto. Little did I know that it was also to be my stepping boulder to what was waiting for me, waiting within me to be released. My own art began. “You can have the best of me on this old Carousel” The Mark Inside Carousel Immediately I realized that now I’m going to have to work harder than I have ever worked. I am to bring dances out of those who stare into space, worried that they may be judged, I am to cheer for those rocking to a room of ten and I am to be a comfort to those dealing with their own heartbreak. Girls running down to the washrooms, with tears welling up in their eyes. Guys, clenching their teeth out of jealousy. The people hunched over waiting for all of the alcohol and dinner to escape their swollen bellies. No matter what I am dealing with in my own little life I am now on display… the most important performance of my life has begun.


I am your waitress, your rock and roll waitress I am there to bring your frowns upside down and to help you to forget whatever grumpy related roller-coaster has been throwing you from side to side lately. I am there to make sure you have a good time no matter how mad you get at me. And trust me, I’ve partied with the best and worst of them… I know how to make you crave the rock, I know how to make you yearn for the roll. “come over here for just one little kiss…” The Mark Inside Sweet Little Sister Though I warn you if you grab my ass, or try to pucker up I will make you feel the punk and I’ll have you thrown out. “skinny white boy love..” Veal I hate your lipstick Unless, your hot then I’ll just giggle and wiggle off to another, but before I do I’ll make sure you want to give me your phone number and a really good tip. (hahahha just kidding.. sorta) “high hopes in the middle of someday” Daylight For Deadeyes This Night So speaking of tips, I do find the need to say a little something about this. For some reason in Ontario the minimum wage for servers is about two dollars


less then the average everyday job. That is $6.75 an hour. I do not know why the Ontario government has chosen to do this to us. Maybe to remind us that we in this aspect of the service industry have a strong affiliation with slaves, who knows… but because of this glitch in the system we actually do rely upon your tips. Sure, I have had many people tell me that they don’t have to tip its only a luxury, yet I say to those the government of Ontario doesn’t see it like that. They see it as a necessity without laws to make it a rule. So, think when you ask a server to perform a task for you, you are indeed hiring them for the time it takes for them to take on, deliver and finish this task. Would you work for an employer who refused to pay you? Refused to pay you what you are worth? Who insulted you with a 1% pay commission? So the next time you wish to leave the nickel on that 5 dollar beer, please think twice about it. Leave nothing or at least a whole 50 cents. I personally work this type of job because I love it. It makes me happy to share my smiles with you and to bring you a little bit of fun in a bottle. So I will respect and work for those who respect my love. “It could happen to you” Daylight For Deadeyes Pink Slip Once we have a good working relationship established, I may just surprise you with one of my very favorite things to do. A table dance! No, not


those kinds of table dances… but one that will make you want to get up and boogie too. One that will make you want to leave all your worries aside and remember that you’re downtown. A night on the town (Maps Of The Night Sky), painting it your favorite shade of colour. Reminding you that everything is what it is at that moment, a party, listening to people sharing their souls through music to help you get on with the next day. To inspire you to continue to rock and have a fun time in this life. For what is life without music? Without the vibrations of our emotions, our universe… our hopes and dreams. “don’t take me to the hospital” The Constantines Love in Fear Do this outing with all of your gusto!!! Know that those performers up on that stage are tearing out their hearts for you. There was once that a frontman for an amazing band (though I’m a nerd and forgot to remember the bands name so sorry!) cut open his hand about 10 minutes before taking the stage… instead of sauntering off to the emergency room, I recalled my first aid training wrapped up his hand as much as possible… and he ROCKED with his guitar!!!!! The show must go on and it is so much more amazing when you, the receiver of their hearts, give


as much of your heart back to those up there in the lights. So if you find yourself in Toronto at a rock and roll show… do not follow the crowd, unless its in a snake like pattern along the floor with legs kicking and bellies bouncing. “Watching Pandora’s box come unsealed” Starvin Hungry Contagious DANCE!!!!!!!!! SHAKE!!!!!!! SCREAM!!!!!! MAKE OUT!!!!!! Realize that it takes two to Tango… the band and the audience. And three to make a spirit filled orgy… your bar staff. We are all in the room to have a better time then what you find outside on the streets. We are all in it for the music and to find happiness through loud peircing guitars, soft bristled drum rhythms, the heartbeat of the bass, the sexiness of a crooning voice… the magic of a band, the serenity of a solo artist. “Under spiderwebs and dust and a million years of rust I have swallowed my regrets” Kevin Quain The King Of Everything Though I no longer drink myself, or take drugs… I have been on that road before. So if you get angry with me because I have stopped coming around as often. Think maybe you’ve had a lot to drink and


I’m just giving you time to digest all of the sights and sounds in the room. Enjoy the moment!!! Enjoy the feeling of forgetfulness… Enjoy the memory of a good time. I’ll be back around with a spring in my step soon enough, to giggle with you once again. Relax…. I am not there to make you feel bad about yourself I am there to give you smiles without judgement. I am there to shine alongside you in our hullabaloo. “I’ve been searching for compelling presences” Jerry Leger and the situations I’ve Been Waiting It has been almost two years since the marathon of bebop variety swing sounds began. I have become inspired, jaded, loved and hated. It is beauty in the puke of a hundred strangers. It is finding kindred spirits in a mess of attitude. It is inspiration for the paintings that have found their ways to my canvasses, for the words that have found their ways to my keyboard and pens. It is a brilliant smile lost in a sea of eyes… well in my case shoulders (I am quite short) Rock and Roll is my life and thank you all for sharing it with me!!! ROCK ON!!!!! I read somewhere that Those who travel only do so because they do not know how to be happy.


I know how to be happy. It is when I come home, make a tea have a sit down. Tell the person who I cherish I care. Watch a movie, order a pizza. curl up with a blanket and read a book. Its when I draw a bath and put in sweet smelling salts and soak. It is when I feel like I have nothing left to give and I lie down allowing the sun to cascade over my body, looking at the different shades it places upon my naked skin. How I radiate with life. How a breeze comes through my window and blesses my brow with its hunger to touch my naked skin softly, gently I breathe it in It is when I am silent sitting without thoughts drifting and loving myself Being happy is knowing that I have made a home and only the best is yet to come. That I have overcome serious challenges put upon me and I can rest Being happy is not travelling for me... It is when I touch my ass and imagine a strong hand lifting me up onto a lap, or against a wall It is when I look at myself in a mirror and smile see what all the world misses. It is when I feel the heavyness of my breasts


when they swell when my tummy gets soft and my curves are more defined When my body is ready for the carress of heaven only that is when I am purely happy. For I feel my body then before the blood begins to flow and the meaning of life is shared


Copyright 2006/ 2008 Jennifer Lorraine Fraser Found again in 2012


A Book Of Titles