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

Those who master time are efficient and are able to compartmentalize and judge what tasks require immediate attention vs the items that can be put at the bottom of the "things-to-do" list. But whether you choose to play the game of master and slave, time will force you to assume a role, nonetheless.

Time waits for no man. Time often waits for women, however, particularly if we are having our hair, nails and faces done up to go out on a fancy occasion. Then men become the clocks and wait for their gal to doll herself up. The trophy on the end of the arm requires polishing from time to time and therefore the man will eventually concede that no matter how many times he pressures his lady to hurry up, he cannot move time forward or backward to accommodate just the right amount of time she spends to accomplish her goals. That's why they invented beer and cigarettes for men, in order that they may pace quietly outside while they wait. I didn't create the world. I'm merely a participant who observes and offers enlightenment, only to those of course who are open to receive it.

But there is another kind of time, what I call late energy. Late energy is the kind you generate when you wake up past your alarm and realize if you don't hustle your buns, you won't make it to work on time. The amount of energy that is generated, while in the throes of running around like an idiot, preparing yourself to leave, is enough to operate a portable generator, I swear. I've done this a few times, sleeping soundly with my ear-plugs, sleep mask, and a white-noise making machine... that my alarm was chiming away for ten minutes, only for me to finally wake up, wondering how is it possible that I slept so profoundly deep that I missed my alarm, and why is it that I'm not able to do this at will?

Some psychologists believe that individuals who are perpetually late do so because this is inherent in their passive-aggressive natures: they don't want to adhere to societal expectations of them, so they'd rather that you adhere to theirs. I've one friend (male) who has a slightly different spin. "I arrive late intentionally so that no one expects me to be on time all the time and this attitude gives me wiggle room to arrive when I'm ready to arrive!"

Is cleverness a component when it comes to the artful management of time? For me, arriving on time means you respect the individual who awaits your presence. This I wholly appreciate.

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


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

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

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

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

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

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


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

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


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

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

Inherently earnest.
I had you,
with large moans.

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

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

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


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


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

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

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

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

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

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


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


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

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

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

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