The Bloody Doors Off

There’s a website, called Post Secret. (It’s hosted on WordPress, btw.)

People — thousands of people — mail their anonymous secrets, on a decorated postcard, to Frank Warren, the founder of this project.

It’s spawned a Ted Talk, tours of college campuses.

I often wondered if I had something buried so deep, that the only way I could confess is to do so anonymously, and see if it appears on the website.

And I do.

But I’ve spilled the tea on a fair amount since I started this blog in 2013. (Okay, I created it before that, but I didn’t actively use this page until after I was released from lockdown in Ward H at Michael Garron hospital.

(And no, I’m not gonne recap this here as a “previously in Koster’s fucked up past”. Go to the archives.}

A have a superficial secret.

When I walk Maisie late at night, we turn down a narrow walkway between two nearby buildings. There are exhaust vents there and, if you stand in just the right spot, you’ll be rewarded with a calming breeze.

For me, anyway. This has always been the case for me, since I was a child.

Standing still, ambient sounds of distant cars and pedestrians drift in and out of focus. And I can free my mind. For just a few moments, enter a crystal palace of my making that doesn’t have to face the fact that my nearly 18-year old cat, Izzy, doesn’t have a growth in her abdomen, either attached to her spleen or her liver.

Either way, it sucks. We were explained several scenarios, from foregoing surgery and be cognizant of specific behaviour/actions should/when the mass ruptures. We could get an ultrasound (perhaps) to see exactly where the mass it, what its size is, and what unlucky organ it’s attached to.

Or there’s surgery. They can biopsy the tumor (it’s an unknown mass, what if it’s a tumor) and look for cancer and treat appropriately. (It’s easier if it’s the spleen; and A LOT of money if it’s the liver (this would require a specialist).

None of that matters in a few brief seconds in a walkway, enough light to keep the dark at bay.

In that moment.

I am not in pain. Physically (recent sciatica week, walking impossible sitting and standing accompanied by excruciating pain), mentally. Emotionally.

Christ, I’m a mess right now.

I need sleep.

Goodnight, Missus Izzy, Mama Izzy, Isabella Grace Koster.

See you in the morning?

The sweetest, cuddliest cat in the world. Izzy used to sit on my chest whenever I was seated on the couch. Which is a lot.

For some inexplicable reason, my mind spun my focus to movie tropes.

One in particular.

(And trigger warning — uh, I can be abrasive.)

Visiting your deceased (insert relationship to our protagonist) at a (random) cemetery.

Where he or she. Us.

Me.

Talks to the dead.

Was that callous?

I believe that whatever resides within us — a soul, computer code fed into an ever expanding universe.

They’re not there.

You’re talking to their vessel.. Maybe they have Starlink 5G wi-fi in heaven. And those bones are a receiver.

Why does it have to be this way? Why can’t we have a conversation with our loved ones at a place you shared many happy memories. Get a table, a glass of wine.

And dish.

How cathartic it would be, sharing the joy of speaking to/with their spirit at that beachside cafe, or shopping in Yorkdale, or Yorkville Mall.

The pure joy.

This. This honours the dead.

And why only now have I come to this epiphany?

And. Am I crazy?

I made spaghetti with meatballs. Meatballs I got at the St. Lawrence Market.

It came with a lot of sauce.

I got the bright idea to heat it up

Both are on the stove top.

A few minutes go by. The taller pot is close to a boil.

The meatballs and sauce are just sitting there.

I reach for a wooden spoon on the stove to stir. I burn my left middle finger. There is a muffled word or two.

Minutes later, I reach for the, you know, the piece of plastic you rest your wooden spoons on when not in use.

I burned my right middle finger.

Spaghetti comes out perfect.

The sauce is room temperature because it’s only then I realize I had turned on the back burner.

This too?

ps

I figured it out. Howard’s come from away.

And he drove up in a U-Haul truck.

A funny thing happened when I took down the recyccling.

To preface: there is a small wooden open bookshelf tucked into the far corner. When people part with items that are still functional (however that applies to the object in question), they will put it on a shelf. Kind of like the Little Free Library. Give one, take one.

Today I found a small jar. It feels like it belongs in the 1970s. I was hooked.

I got upstairs, and showed Marlo my find. And I said to her:

Pandora’s Box let forth all the evils of the world,

What came out of this jar?

It struck me.

Keys.

And now I have a rough outline for a play that came from nowhere.

That’s not true.

It also came from this jar.

A muse.

Polyhymnia. (Not everyone gets Calliope.)

Welcome back, inspiration. I’ve missed you.

You know what else I haven’t done, ersatz…

I have no clue what ersatz means.

Just looked it up. Huh. Didn’t help. Knowing.

Right.

I haven’t dropped acid.

Again, no desire really to try it.

(Save for a safe environment guided by an anchor.)

A workmate gave a tiny tinfoil square that held molly.

Never took it.

Could’ve.

Didn’t.

Gave it to another.

Fuck.

These random thoughts keep popping up.

And now I’m looking at passed experiences as missed something.

I don’t know.

I can’t know.

It’s the road not taken.

And you can think to yourself,

Son, you can’t unwind decades because of a mid-life crisis. And that’s also why you shouldn’t do it now.

What about self-discovery.

This requires a conversation in the real world.

I’m listening to Johnny Cash sing Hurt.

My empire of dirt.

I can’t keep a thought in my head.

I’ll say it, or think it. Something to remember, something to get me off my seat and complete a task, yada yada.

But it’s pictures that fly in and out of focus.

Polaroids.

I haven’t seen Memento.

I had a good month, work-wise. Working alongside Marlo. I am Soluno the First. Do youu want me to do a conflict check?

One project got me to refresh the look of a client’s quarterly report. More hours. Tweaking, and teasing until the layout was. It was something I’d created.

And it’s down to minor edits now and that means after I send them the PDF for distribution, I’m done. I don’t know where my next cheque is coming from.

The money is already earmarked to paying off overdue bills.

Because when you work for yourself, you can’t guarantee a paycheque every two weeks.

Or one week if you’re contracted out.

I work with Marlo. I am her administrator. I took on several tasks, so she can do Lawyer Stuff without distraction.

My me, my wife works for herself.

She also submits invoices.

It’s trickle down economics! But in a good way. Like you know the person in front of you is so kind and honest and smart and beautiful (and very, very nearsighted) (and sexy) (oh grow up) and dammit Koster she loves you and it’s gonna be 8 years for the first date, and 7 being married. We’re there for each other.

Perfect timing, Spotify.

Try, by Pink

You gotta get up and try, try, try.

Anyway, I owe her a conversation, to pose a question, and respond to her response.

You’ll know.

One way or the other.

I’m seeing shadows. Not the ordinary kind that just hang around when the light hits right. No, these are something else—shadows lurking just outside my line of sight. Smoke, perhaps? They drift like smoke. If you, like me, were a smoker back in the ’90s and spent your days in an office building, you might recall management trying to contain our vice by throwing together a smoking room that could barely fit a broom closet. You’d step inside and be engulfed by the swirling haze while colleagues took much-needed breaks. And those shadows? They’d sway.

Sure, they threw in a tabletop air purifier, but that thing was a joke.

At first, I wondered if it was just the floater in my left eye. My optometrist assured me back in September, “You’ll get used to it.” And eventually, I did. That’s probably why I shrugged it off at first.

Oddly enough, it seemed to vanish a few days back.

But then came the Smell™.

I stepped out to toss the garbage and, after passing the second unit on my right, it hit me—like a freight train and impossible to ignore. The Smell™: a grotesque blend of rancid meat and some harsh chemicals. It was overwhelming.

I took a few cautious steps, broke through that invisible barrier, and sprinted to the garbage chute. I shoved the white bag in and hurried back.

I paused before unit *07 (keeping it vague for reasons). One step. Another.

Nothing. Whatever it was seemed to vanish. Maybe I was just imagining it.

Then came the Taste™.

Out for a walk with Maisie, washing the night air down, I carefully navigated the steps and turned toward the Distillery entrance.

Yep.

That rancid smell was back, lurking like a ghost, and it clung to the back of my throat.

I’ve had my share of epic heaves. More than a few left a nasty taste that just wouldn’t quit.

But this? This was different. The aftertaste lingered for what felt too long.

Now I’m at the kitchen island, chopping up a salad for Marlo.

Out of the corner of my eye.

Those smoky shadows again, gliding past like they own the place.

I can’t make sense of it—what this thing is trying to tell me.

If it’s the makings of a dark story or a short play, I’ll roll with it.

But if it’s not?

God help me.

Because something’s definitely out there.

And it’s coming.

Gone way too soon.
That’s what they say.
Full of promise.
Of light.
Shining a light on fanciful ideas.
Stretching them into stories.
Filled with stardust.
But no longer.
For today we gather to mourn my creativity.
Taken far too soon (if you call 58 years too soon).
Some say my gift for stories was wasted.
That I fretted too much over the narrative.
That I couldn’t ride the wave of the unknown.
To let my fingers dance across the keyboard.
Discovering new worlds. New voices.
Allanah.
Myles.
Mary Berger.
Dexter Bishop.
All silenced now.
Because I doubted.
Because I was too scared.
To write.

Thank fuck I still have my looks, or I’d be 100 per cent screwed.