Saturday February 28, 2015
overheard at Amanda’s house
It hadn’t happened in a while, so when it did she was extra surprised. I mean, she’s always surprised, but it’d been seven months since she’d awoken with that thud. It always started the same, like she was being dropped into her bed from the ceiling. She woke, swore, and also said, “AGAIN?!”
It had started just after Monty died. She knew it was him. She said, “Hi, Monty,” that first night because she almost had expected it. Every night for twenty six weeks he would visit, usually around one or two in the morning, when he used to go to bed. Once, she asked Pauline to sleep over. “I wanna see if you see it, if you feel it too,” she’d said. Pauline had slept sound as a puppy. In the morning, over granola and tea, she’d said, “I honestly think it might be in your head, honey… Are you seeing the grief counsellor?”
Friday February 27, 2015
– You’re making that face again…
– What face?
– That face.
– It’s just my face. I don’t know what you –
– It’s not just your face! I love your face. You’re making that face you make when you know you should apologize –
– I’m not gonna apologize –
– Then stop making that face.
– You’re making a face too, you know!
– Oh yeah? What does it say?
– It says “I’m smugggg…”
– It isn’t funny. I’m mad.
– I know that –
– And I’m offended that you think something’s off with my face. I always thought it was one of the few things I have going for me –
– You’re spiralling…
– I know… It’s taking me a second to apologize because it’s not that black and white. It’s not just “SORRY! MY BAD!” and then let’s go watch a movie!
– Stop being so –
– I’m sorry.
– Thank you.
– Your face is back now!
Friday February 27, 2015 at the Bloor/Gladstone Public Library
I’m trying to fix it, that’s what I said I was doing.
Well why do I feel like you’re a balloon filled with unkept promises, floating out into the big big sky.
Because you read a lot of garbage and your head is filled with fairytales–
Or maybe because you can’t hold anything tight enough to keep.
That’s probably true.
Impermanence scares you.
No, that’s not it. I’m not a quick fix over a night of deep question-asking.
You don’t like thinking things end, and I see it in you, and you know it in you.
I’m sorry, this mumbo jumbo, this psycho analytical bullshit is making it really hard for me to think of anything else. It’s taking me a second to wrap my “clouded” head around.
Not everything has to end with a commitment. That’s very limiting. If you understood that the end goal is not important, you would find that much needed peace you’re always searching for.
Thursday February 26, 2015
My Immortal Promise
shouting and laughing and throwing dirt
our clothes are the earth’s fingerprints
and our shoes are the bits of bulbs
the new life will come soon
we can feel it between our toes
we make mud pies and sell them to each other
for three butterfly kisses
two sets of sisters
we were born to be here
naked as the days we were born
nothing of it
only bodies and unselfconscious beauty
drinking from the spout at the side of the house
painting our faces with beet greens
drawing stories on our backs with dandelion
Wednesday February 25, 2015
Betty and Veronica Double Digest
The Archie Library 215
You played a trick on me – running like there was something chasing. I’m being chased but that’s the funny thing, that’s the strange thing, you’re not chasing, you’re TRICKING. Every time you say, “I’m not”, you mean “I am”. TRICK! Every time you touch my face, gentle like dew, you say, “I’m here”, you mean “I’m gone”. TRICK! And then I do the inevitable thing of looking at your phone BEEPING all the damn time and there are names I don’t know there, so many names, S names and L names and M names and O names and I’m overcome with the TRICK and the TRICK tastes like garbage. I do the inevitable thing of pretending. Now I’m the TRICKSTER! I pretend I didn’t see the S and the L and the M and the O and you pretend you didn’t see them either and we’re both so fucking good at pretending, we’re the TOP TRICKSTERS, we’d get the gold and the silver and the bronze.
Tuesday February 24, 2015
Don’t get your back up all hunchy
I’m not tryna make a big mess
I’ve got this cat’s cradle across my body
And you’re fighting fighting fighting
The war-cry was the radio
Set to a station I don’t like
The advertisements are the liquor
Ouch ouch ouch
Paper-cut across the boundaries
Blurry and sweaty and new
Ouch ouch ouch
No one’s bleeding
It’s going to be alright
Eventually the clouds change
That always happens
Eventually we change
Ouch ouch ouch
That always happens
Monday February 23, 2015
When I look at her, I see all the birthday cards and the Valentine’s books, stuck with stickers and written in blue ball point pen. When I see her move, slow, deliberate, I am overcome with sadness. “This isn’t how it was meant to be!” I say, quiet, under my breath. Who am I to know?
Pain has been described as a gift. Seventeen years of ache, of muscle tightening and bone rubbing. Seventeen years of patience and faith. Seventeen years of the break, the tears, the stomping feet on the ground, if only the strength was there.
Here it is. The moment we’ve all been waiting for. Wings spread, she flies.