“Looking for a therapist?” by Sasha on the couch


Sunday, April 26, 2015
7:49pm
5 minutes
From a PRS subway ad

Incense and pillows with tiny mirrors and embroidered flowers
Sponge painted walls
yellow and orange
Soft feet
Soft soft feet
A couch over-steeped
smells like blue
smells like now
smells like tissue dust
I want you to know me like no
father
or
friend
or lover
I want you to know me in watercolours
Soft belly
Soft forehead
There’s a moment
still
Where I want to know how you are
Where I want to ask if you’ve known this grey
this deep growth low
There’s a moment
still
Handing over five twenty dollar
bills
Where it’s achy

“Looking for a therapist?” by Sasha on the couch

“original packaging” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Saturday, April 25, 2015
10:14pm
5 minutes
From a receipt from The North Face

There were three reasons why Anna didn’t want to go to the doctor.
One – Doctors never bring good news. Why would anyone want to go to a place where it’s a given that there will be bad news? Isn’t that the sign that there’s something wrong with you? If you seek out bad news?
Two – Her sister had died on the table of a walk-in clinic three falls ago. No explanation. Just dead. She had been there to get some answers about a rash on her stomach. Anna had vowed to stay away from all “clinics” from thereon in.
Three – When she used to go to the doctor it made her sweat in places she didn’t even knew existed – inside her ears; her fingertips; underneath her toenails. “Is that sweat?” she’d asked her boyfriend at the time. He’d scoffed and made fun of her.

“original packaging” by Sasha at her kitchen table

“Looking for a therapist?” by Julia on the subway going south


Sunday, April 26, 2015
1:49pm
5 minutes
From a PRS subway ad

There are feelings
Woah like the waves of the sea
And they’re big
Whoosh like the world shifting
Tectonic plates moving
And I have them
They’re in me
Whoosh waving through me
Around my bones
Keeping them cold
Keeping me far away from settling in
That’s the best way to describe
Whoosh
Wave
Whooshing
Is there a cure?
For the feelings that slosh around beneath my skin
Boom begging me to hold on tight
To wrap up my insides
So they stay good and out of contact
With all my major organs?
Does the doctor know this brand of illness?
Oh the waving
Whooshing
Sloshing sick-feelings landslide
Tsunami
and
Evolutionary jolting
Rocking my core
And shaking me from my roots?

“Looking for a therapist?” by Julia on the subway going south

“original packaging” by Julia on the 47 going North


Saturday, April 25, 2015
1:36am
5 minutes
From a receipt from The North Face

I came in a box with a manual and a number for an information hotline. Everybody was anxious to use me. To see what I could do. To figure out my functionality, my abilities, my strengths. No one anticipated I’d be difficult to understand. There were pictures and diagrams, step by step instructions and video guides. There was a lot of hype about my arrival and people got cocky. They thought they would all be able to follow the directions and handle me as intended as a highly user-friendly model. All of these expectations were real. But so was I and nobody was quite ready for that part. Nobody was ready for my opinions, my point of view, my perceptions of the world, my critique. They had waited for a presence that would exist like them but not make change. They wanted something in their image but void of their flaws. My maker was a genius. She was smart and designed me perfectly. She included exactly what she should have. But the collective human weakness is greater than the solution to it. Unfortunately for me.

“original packaging” by Julia on the 47 going North

“Done and done!” by Sasha on her couch


Friday, April 24, 2015
10:28am
5 minutes
from a Facebook post

done and done
under the sun
stir the cake
make a lake
up and down
smile and frown
this ain’t over
a dog named grover
done and done
let’s have fun
make a friend
turn and bend
trees in bloom
clean that room
hope for change
eggs free range
yellow and blue

“Done and done!” by Sasha on her couch

“Rathburn Rd.” by Sasha in her bed


Thursday April 23, 2015
1:03am
5 minutes
from a street sign

Joe’s biggest complaint is that there aren’t enough windows.
“It’s dark,” he repeats, fiddling with a knob on a kitchen cupboard.
Alexandra reassures him that it’s going to be fine.
“It’s such a steal,” she says, grabbing his bicep for emphasis.
They walk up to the second floor and see flashes of what could be.
“Are we ready for this?” Joe’s brows are furrowed and Alex tries not to think about how he looks like a Great Dane when he does this.
“Joe…” She kisses him and makes it last a bit longer than she might’ve, had she not been on a mission.
He sighs.
Out the smaller bedroom window, they watch Leanne, the real estate agent pace the driveway, talking on her cellphone.

“Rathburn Rd.” by Sasha in her bed

“The sound of cracking bones” by Sasha in her bed


Wednesday April 22, 2015
1:12am
5 minutes
from an e-mail

When I see your selfies I hear cracking bones
Not knuckles
Bigger bones
Bones of more consequence
Femur and humerus
A selfie is self-exploration
the self-portrait of our generation so why am I
goosebumps and stomach flips?
Why am I skeptical?
Your face is the milky way of your being so seeing thirteen
photos a day of it leaves less mystery
leaves less imagining
leaves room for less mess
Or
Maybe
it’s my awkwardness
I like my face
It’s one of my better attributes
But when I hold the camera
short arm extended
It still makes my nose look larger than it is
My roots exposed above ground
(I think?)
My forehead
the prairies

“The sound of cracking bones” by Sasha in her bed