i do believe we’re fu—-

The cat and I used to sleep in the dryer, all curled up and cozy warm. Felt like I was back in the womb. Five years old, and all I could think about was being warm and safe; I guess some things never change. I look out and in, and imagine I’m being pulled down, down, down into you. I don’t think or feel. If I had a voice, it’s long gone.

Do I have a voice?

We could communicate better if we learned to be still. I’ll be quiet as a mouse if you’ll let me. I open my mouth when I should not, and close it when I should speak out, and this is my most prized failing. “Are you okay?” is what I want to ask.

“I wish you’d leave me”

I’m a selfish asshole. So much effort to be courageous, but it’s just not in my DNA. The things fear will make you say when it begins to make a home in your gut. How it coils like a loaded spring, ready to fuck you sideways.
“I’m not afraid” is what I say.

“I am afraid” 





Today I thought about:

  • jumping off a bridge
  • impulse control
  • living in a dumpster with rats
  • getting high in a dumpster with rats
  • being a coked up boxer
  • murdering donald trump
  • being the prime minister
  • being transported back to high school
  • sleeping with the fishes
  • the movie “A Talking Cat!?!”
  • Face/Off
  • whose face I would off
  • who would off my face
  • how bad it would suck to have no face
  • wind blowing directly on muscle tissue
  • being a skinless human
  • everything would be bad
  • shitty tacos
  • shitting tacos without butt skin
  • everything comes back to poo
  • poo on you
  • mount pooinus
  • it never rains when it should
  • rain washes away the poo
  • petrichor is my favourite smell
  • rain brings out the snails
  • snails have beautiful shells
  • i don’t want to eat them
  • idon’twanttobeeatenbuttimewilldowhatitwill
  • Grave of the Fireflies
  • there’s dust in my eyes
  • going home
  • what is home
  • i think i lost my heart awhile back
  • i whistled but it never came back
  • back pain in my lower back
  • how i can never go back
  • taking up smoking
  • quitting smoking
  • you quitting me

On the plus I thought of you, so I guess it wasn’t all bad.




on something – no more, no less

It’s been awhile since I felt the urge to create.
No, that’s not entirely true.
The desire always sits heavy in my throat, but I erase the words before me faster than I can write them down. I don’t know, maybe that desire doesn’t mean anything; it’s just something I’m meant to curb for the rest of my life. Not everyone who desires can create beautiful things.
Or maybe it’s just easier to believe that.

I went swimming this week – went to work. Read a chapter in my novel – did the dishes. Worked on a song or two – cleaned my shower . And managed to avoid making any major decisions again and again and again and again.

Other people seem to have this… capacity for making choices that I don’t. Down one path lies a life with reckless abandon, down the other a life crippled by indecision. It seems like we’re all in this… boat, made up of our insecurities. Together. But you can be damn sure it feels like we all exist a million miles apart. So afraid to make the wrong choices, we (or is it just me?) throw ourselves into nothing and call it hard work.

I don’t know what the point is. Maybe one doesn’t exist. “Why worry about it so much”, I ask myself?

If only I could stop.

elishiva out




When I stand on a stage, I feel almost no fear. Sometimes I’m awkward, or my voice screws up; I miss notes, I emotionally detach from what I’m doing; any number of bad things can happen. But for however long I’m up there, I just push onward and don’t focus on the mistakes, or the poorly timed, self-deprecating jokes.

The second I finish, and step away?
Everything changes.

See, I’ve come to realize something about myself. When I’m performing, I feel untouchable. I’m somehow sharing more of myself than I ever would in a conversation with a stranger, but it feels okay. There’s this barrier, this lack of verbal discourse that makes me feel like I am shouting into a void. And the void absorbs what I have to say, without ever shouting back.

When I come back to reality, all of my fears, self-loathing, mistakes: they all hit me like a freight train. I’m afraid of what people will say. Will they ask why I wrote something? Did they notice my mistakes? Were they bored?
It gets worse. Are you ready?


No, that’s not quite right.


No, that’s not quite right.


I don’t know what I want.



I want everything.


Elishiva Phillips


Well, four months into a new city and what have I got to show for it? A new song? that’s… That’s something more than nothing, right?

Whenever I start to work on a new piece, I just start singing whatever words decide to leave my mouth, and see what sticks. Sometimes those words or phrases will start to create these really vivid stories and images in my head, and that is what ultimately starts to shape what direction I take the song in.

The guitar I’m playing lately is the guitar I learned to play on, an old classical that my dad learned to play on.
There’s something rather funny to me about the fact that I’ve moved away, only to move back to something I haven’t touched in years.

The lyrics in their entirety:

When I catch a sunbeam
on my face
It makes me happy
Like so little does these days

When I catch a moment
without you
I often wonder
if anything makes you happy too
I often wonder
if we could be happy too

Clean sheets and heavy hearts
are what’s left of us now
And distance is a thing I’m used to
Between my heart and yours

Clean sheets and heavy hearts
are what’s left of our love
And distance is a thing we keep
we sleep at least a foot apart

So I try to catch a
few sunbeams now and then
Keep ’em in my pocket
until you’re ready to love me again
Keep ’em in my pocket
until I’m ready to love me again

Clean sheets and heavy hearts
are what’s left to us now
And distance is a thing I’m used to
between my heart and yours

Clean sheets and heavy hearts
are what’s left of our love
And distance is a thing we keep
we sleep at least a foot apart

Clean sheets and heavy hearts
are what we’ve got now
And distance is a thing we keep

We’re better far apart
We’re better far apart
We’re better far apart
We’re better far apart

We’re better far apart


Clean Up

So I was organizing my Google drive today, when I found this old poem/song I wrote called the Currency of Love.
Yes, yes, I know, how pretentious.

And it was, at first glance. But then I got to thinking: Where exactly should we draw the line on what’s “pretentious”? I heard it said once, I believe by Jerry Holkins, who I will very loosely quote, that pretension is bullshit. If you are passionate, or driven enough, or feel compelled to speak and learn and create, then pretension is a myth. It’s assholes calling you out and stifling you as a person – there’s nothing wrong with wanting to create something beautiful or inventive.
It’s a nice way of thinking, though I wonder if artists could simply use that as a get out of jail free card. “You can’t criticize me, man! It’s art! You just don’t get it!” Much as I hate that particular attitude, (no one should ever be free of criticism or a desire to learn and grow), I can’t help but think it has a point. If you work hard and create something of value for yourself, who cares if anyone else “gets it”? It should have an intrinsic value to you as a person. Every thought, however random, inane, or flat out wrong that you put out there, forces you to grow when it’s confronted or conformed to.

I believe in calling people out for their ignorance, even if it opens myself up to criticism and disparaging comments.

I believe in creating art, because it makes us empathize, connect, and, ultimately, see the value in things beyond the surface.

I believe in working hard, no matter what anybody says about the value of money, time, effort, any of it, because even if it’s only to your direct surroundings, you have a responsibility to use your sensibilities to improve the lives of the people around you.

And you could say that all sounds pretentious – many would, I’m sure. But I don’t care. I will strive to be the best me that I can be, and if I sound pretentious along the way, who gives a shit. I’m trying to create here. And there’s absolutely nothing pretentious about that.

*mic drop*

Elishiva Out


I sat in my bed today, and thought

“What if I never get up?”

I could just lay here and waste away, like leaves in fall.

It was an idle thought. An easy out. But the world keeps spinning, and I along with it.

And somehow I’m grateful for that, though some days I question why.

It’s an odd thought. When I fall asleep, I’m afraid of never waking. When I wake, I’m afraid of existing at all.
I’m afraid of what each day will bring, and paraylzed at the thought of not being there to experience it.
I wonder what one ought to do with that.