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

Trouble is that I also know to go easy on pasta and it's a treat perhaps once every two weeks or even once a month, rather than weekly or every other day. But the dreams that come from eating pasta are dooseys. Take last night's dream... I held my male kitty, Brando (R.I.P.) in my arms and jumped off a very tall building, and naturally began rapidly falling to the ground. But I didn't feel myself hit the ground. In fact, I reincarnated into a new female body that was taller. Suddenly, I was very concerned about upsetting my mother when she would hear the news that her daughter killed herself and her cat, and that they found my body ground into mush in the soft ground from the force of impact. Not a pretty thought, to be sure. But that wasn't the case at all, as I said. I went from falling off a tall building to walking in a shopping mall and getting the distinct impression that men were watching me closely. So, I stopped in front of a mirror and took a good look at myself. At first, I yelped because I didn't recognize my face. My hair was darker. My face had changed and I had dark circles under my eyes. Funny... I actually liked my new face.

As I flipped through my book of 10,000 Dreams Interpreted by Pamela Ball, a thick, imaginative compendium, I pulled out the definition of what it means to dream with a mirror. The book says that a dream which contains a mirror suggests concern over one's self-image. We are worried as to what others think of us, and need self-examination in order to function correctly. There may be some anxiety over aging or health. To be looking in a mirror, which I also did in my dream, can signify trying to look behind us without letting others know what we're doing. We may have a concern over past behaviour. We may also need to reflect on something we've done or said. Finally, the mirror in a dream suggests self-realization which reflects wisdom. As a means of understanding oneself on a deeper level, we set up a dialogue in real life between one's mirror image and oneself. Many of the insights can apparently be quite startling.

Thank you, dream book. I am startled. I am concerned. I am reflective. Also, I'm a tad confused. I suppose that is the purpose of a dream, to dialogue with your inner self, someone who doesn't necessarily want to have dialogue with their outer self, otherwise why would your inner self use weird images to get a point across? The more disturbing aspect of the dream is the part about feeling as though I was committing suicide. After researching this aspect in my dream book, I felt relieved. Because dreaming of suicide is not about actually wanting to commit suicide but it's more about embarking on a path of spirituality. We must let go of the old self. This often occurs in dreams as a kind of suicide. It merely marks the end of a phase, before the onset of a new one. Whew!

The medical community has now concluded that Botox injections in the face are the direct causes, in many cases, of heart failure and death. Imagine that, someone so in dislike of their own aging that they'll resort to injecting dead botulism cells into their face, which is a rare nerve toxin that can lead to paralysis and be deadly fatal. No doubt the actual injection doesn't contain live specimens of botulism but the very idea of putting that stuff into your face is enough to make me run back into my dream and jump off that high ledge again. Let me assure you that I am happy with myself and my aging face. It suits me just fine. And as for the weird dreams, I added last night's gem into my dream collection, scratching out the foggy details I could remember while half asleep. I'll probably come across it again months down the road when I want to have a good laugh. I read through my dream book on occasion with a glass of red wine. They really are a hoot and a half.

Dreams are a portal into your subconscious but I don't want to be held responsible for any out-of-character violence. To this I recall the philosophical words of one dead person, whose name escapes me at present, "... only in dreams is the lawless beast unleashed."

Incidentally, Botox injections do not remain in the original injection site. Your body naturally pushes out this foreign substance to your liver. And this fact should concern you.

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


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

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

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

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

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

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


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


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

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

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

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

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

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


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


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

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

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

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

COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy

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


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

And here the split of reality cracks into two.


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

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

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