cotton milk

my mind is cotton batting
soft, bound by sleepy circumstance
and wooden window frames
through which a gentle sunset soaks
the shadows, steeped in soft light,
imbued with quiet morning milk.

© Emily Bragg 2013

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steel girl

take my melted flesh and bones
pour them into this hourglass
let them set until
the heat fades
these pliant steel struts
wrap around me, I am chosen
I am a steel girl, laced in the past
half history, half whispered triumph.

I received a corset for my birthday, made at Lace Embrace Atelier in Vancouver, BC. It’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever owned. So many people pitched in to make it happen, it was incredible. My friends are the best friends since chocolate dipped pretzels.

When I wear it, sometimes I feel like I’m nullifying decades of feminism and battles for women’s rights, but then I think “it’s my right to wear what I like, and what I like happens to be a corset”. I wasn’t born in the wrong era, I was born in exactly the right one: where a girl can wear jeans one day and a corset/crinoline/bloomers/skirt/blouse outfit the next. I can get tattoos and piercings, go to university, speak my opinion freely, and vote on election day. I can learn my favourite things from every era and chances are, there will be a subculture in Vancouver replete with weekly or monthly events and like-minded people for me to share my interests with. Burlesque is making a comeback. Steampunk was invented. We have healthcare and plumbing and corsets and pocket watches and Lindy Hop, and I plan on revelling in every patchwork minute of it.

© Emily Bragg 2013

tweet tweet

I’ve joined the ranks of the tweeters. I’ve yet to tweet a haiku, but you can probably look forward to that in the near future. 160 characters seems like perfectly haiku-shaped box to me.

tweet tweet

tweeeeet

If you, like me, have succumbed to the great reign of Tweet, follow me? I’m still a little inept, my hashtag skills are stumbling and mediocre at best and I’m finding it increasingly difficult to compress my verbose self into 160 characters, but at least my background is pretty.

Here’s the link: https://twitter.com/embraggles

Ch-ch-ch-cheers. Peace. Pound it.

(get it)
(pound it)
(’cause hashtags are really just glorified pound signs)

#twitter #wordpressisbetter #wordpresswillforeverhavemyheart

3am why’s

I’ve just had that moment where I’ve reread the instructions for my assignment and realized I’ve been writing in the detail that a 6-8 page paper deserves, and all they want is one page double-spaced. I chose a poem that’s 94 lines long. Ffffft. 

Grumpy Cat AWesome

This is my score for myself. I can’t remember where I got this from. If it’s yours, please tell me, I’ll give cred. It’s lovely.

And so it goes. Tomorrow, stay tuned for a) why my friends are the best friends ever, and b) how much Afrikaans I’ve learned in the past two hours (it is so difficult my mouth doesn’t make those sounds). Cheers.

Birthday Festival Begins

Today’s my birthday.
A one-woman holiday!
The party starts now.

My family adopted a new tradition about a year ago from one of my parents’ friends: Birthday Festival, also known as Birthday Week. Starting a day before your birthday (so as to include the last day of the previous age), you get to do/eat/party whatever you like for a whole seven days. Within reason, of course. For some reason university doesn’t accept “Birthday Week” as sufficient reason to extend paper deadlines.

For me, this is the perfect invention. I love my birthday. Always have, always will. I think it has something to do with my being very self-centred, because the thought of a day where everyone is nice to you and you get free things (sometimes) AND presents? It’s glorious. Like the haiku above states: a one-woman holiday. All for me (and everyone else born on April 5th, but that’s besides the point). And now it gets to last a whole week! My cup runneth over.

BIRTHDAYS

art by me

art by me