By: Sasha 11/27/201712/08/2017 creative writing, fiction, ongoing writing practice, short fiction, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectChristmas, fiction, five minutes, Mariah Carey, santa, short fiction, unedited, Writing

“Calls of guilty thrown at me” by Sasha at her desk

Monday November 27, 2017
10:51pm
5 minutes
Cherry Wine
Hozier

Mariah Carey makes me think about the Christmas that Ken dressed up as Santa and got wasted. Her Christmas album was playing, that must’ve been it. I don’t know what Ken was thinking. Dressing up was Dad’s thing. He found the suit when he was looking for tinsel in the garage and I guess he just couldn’t help himself. He was already starting to lose weight, so he wrapped a bungee cord around his waist as a belt to keep the pants up. Dad was a bit pissed, but he got over it and I think he actually was relieved that he didn’t have to sweat his balls off in that suit for four hours.

“Calls of guilty thrown at me” by Julia at her desk

Monday November 27, 2017
9:24pm
5 minutes
Cherry Wine
Hozier

If it weren’t for the husk of corn left in the sink
the distinct sting between us: barbed wire, fenceless,
I wouled have decided to stay.
Instead I left and gave you the buzzing shell
still hot from the guilt of not saying goodbye.
You didn’t know the absence well enough.
You knew the actor, she was brilliant.
On nights like Tuesday and 6pm
the space hung in the kitchen is never
big enough for the both of us.
On nights like these you mmm
too easily at the kiss of me.
You always start speaking right
in the middle
of my hand trying to write you.

By: these five minutes 01/08/201712/08/2017 UncategorizedChristmas, daily, dip, flight, heavy, honey, suitcase, travel, unedited

“we drove past the honey sign” by Julia on the plane

Saturday January 7, 2016
11:28pm
5 minutes
Summer of My Amazing luck Miriam Toews

Mom packed two jars of honey in my suitcase and because of that I had to leave behind the conditioner and the peppercorns and the bamboo wipes and the Italian grappa with my name on the label from my brother. We packed the checked luggage the best we could but there were a lot of bottles and jars that we didn’t want to break and were already too heavy to wrap properly with other things like sweaters and socks. My carry on weighs more than I do and my mom and I both overpack things that don’t have a weight limit even if we won’t be able to lift the damn thing over our heads. The flight attendant asked if I needed help and I thought she was going to get angry at me for being so brazenly unlawful. She tried to lift it in the overhead compartment then asked me if I had rocks in there when she realized she couldn’t lift it either. All I managed to say was “Christmas” but she didn’t seem to care even a little about that.

“Can you please bring me my water?” By Sasha on the couch at Macdonell

Sunday December 25, 2016
6:23pm
5 minutes
Overheard in the kitchen

I don’t know what to write today. I’m tired. I’m sick. I’ve overwhelmed. I’m sad. I’m full of buttery, meat-y, spicy, sweet. I don’t know what to write today. The sound of my pen moving across the page feels like shit. I’ve got nothing. I’ve got nothing.

Layah asked Oli to bring her water because she is nursing the baby. I never realized that nursing is pretty much a full time gig. I romanticized nursing, like most things. I romanticize everything. What a strange quality. Ugh. Ugh. I’m pretty sure I have a fever. I hope I don’t make everyone here sick.

By: these five minutes 12/29/201612/08/2017 creative every day, creative writing, UncategorizedChristmas, creative writing, hymns, mass, non fiction, prayer, short story, short writes short reads, unedited, Writing, writing every day

“people who called themselves atheists.” By Sasha on Nadeem’s bed in Mississauga

Thursday December 22, 2016
11:35pm
5 minutes
Dust
Charles Pellegrino

We’ll go to Church on Christmas Eve, with the whole family. Mass at four, with the children’s choir singing carols. The priest will say what he always says. He’ll talk about Bethlehem and the black sheep of the family and we’ll say, “Peace be with you”, and shake hands with strangers and kiss cheeks and pat backs. I’ll sing harmonies on hymns, a small subversiveness. I’ll pray for all we’ve lost and all we’ve gained.

By: these five minutes 12/26/201612/08/2017 UncategorizedChristmas, daily, dip, family, feeling, heart, home, laugh, lift, love, observer, reunion, sweetness, together, unedited, write

“Can you please bring me my water?” by Julia in her childhood bedroom

Sunday December 25, 2016
11:52pm
5 minutes
Overheard in the kitchen

Young one is half laying beside me, nodding off and meeting sleep somewhere in the middle so it doesn’t have to come all that way.
Older one is propped up against the fire place, figuring it out pen in hand or holding space for the opportunity in case it comes knocking.
Fire starter keeps banging on the wood, offering silly comments, and roasting chestnuts even though they’d taste better if we were still hungry.
Happy heart is stuffed into the love seat, smiling at me every time something deserves an eye roll or a gut laugh.
You are on the other side of me, keeping my leg and my spirits up, holding my water and my elbow, lifting more up than you ever could hold in your two hands.

By: these five minutes 12/16/201612/08/2017 UncategorizedChristmas, couple, daily, dating, dip, drama, family, fiction, five minutes, holidays, home, issues, project, sister, unedited, write

“Can you take that out of the oven?” by Julia on her couch

Thursday December 15, 2016
9:20pm
5 minutes
Overheard in my mother’s kitchen

-If Rachel is going to be in one of her moods–I’m gonna be honest–I don’t think I’ll be able to be around her.

-Quin. Come on. It’s not going to be like that.

-I’m not kidding, babe,like I’m not going to do well in a setting like that.

-So what are you saying then.

-I’m just saying.

-Okay. But that she’s what?

-I’m just saying that I know she will 100% be in one of her moods and it will 100% destroy my time there and maybe everyone’s. So I don’t want to go if Rachel is there. Not this year.

-I can’t believe you would ditch me and my entire family’s Christmas because my sister is going through her things.

-I need this year to be good. This new year of good decisions and good behaviour and good food and good drugs. I can’t truly embrace my year if I’m anywhere near the things your sister is going through.

“We have a Christmas cake box?!” by Sasha in her bed

Monday June 20, 2016
8:30am
5 minutes
Overheard at Starbucks

It’s Christmas, which means that Aunt Cathy is hammered and Pa is smoking pipe after pipe and Jason, my twin brother, is likely going to try to hang himself again. He does it every Christmas. The attempts are feeble, but are attempts nonetheless. Our mother, Joan, recently got a tattoo of a turtle on her right bicep. Jason thinks she’s having a midlife crisis but from what I’ve read, those only happen to men. Jason lives in the weird loft space above the garage. There’s a box spring and a mattress, a hotplate and a mini fridge. It’s where we used to hang out with friends and drink forties when we were in high school. I only see him a couple of times a year and every time I do he has more grey hair. We aren’t identical, but we look a lot a like. My hair is still entirely brown. I haven’t even spotted one grey strand. Aunt Cathy whispers that Joan went grey in her early thirties, too.

OUR FORMULA

1. Inspiration “dip” (find a phrase, word, image or audio clip arbitrarily in a source of our choosing).

2. Set the timer to five minutes.

3. Write (without editing).

4. Share.

“My miracle is not that you can’t knock me down” by Julia at G and C’s house

Wednesday August 15, 2018
9:01am
5 minutes
Monday Night Class
Stephen Gaskin

weak knees she said
she didn’t want to marry someone who had weak knees
what about running?
does that just go out the window? I know how she feels. when indigo’s shoulder slipped out for the eleventh time in three days, I got worried too. how will we play catch for the rest of our lives? timidly? it’s worrisome. And it’s so very mortal. I suppose nothing lasts forever. we are, at best, temporary. I guess I’d choose an unexpected shoulder pain over a partner who can’t even take a night walk. I’d rather good shoulders though too.

“Hey, man, fuck that.” By Julia at The Common on Bloor

Tuesday August 14, 2018
11:44am
5 minutes
A quote by Elvis Presley

I have never been to florida and now addie is planning to have her wedding there. she says it’s so dean’s family can drive there and some of them don’t handle flying very well. when we were young she used to invite me but I was never allowed to go. my mom said there was something she didn’t trust about florida but she had never been there either. addie wants the resort to plan the wedding because she plans events for a living and wants a day off where friends and family can drink and eat and tell her how awesome she is. if people give her a hard time about not doing a tradional (stupidly expensive) wedding at a hall she usually flips them the bird and tells them to fuck off.

“have another cup of coffee” by Julia on the 511 going north

By: Julia 08/13/2018

Uncategorized5 minutes, coffee, creative writing, daily, dip, five minutes, morning, poem, poetry, routine, short story, short writes short reads, these five minutes, unedited, wake, Writing

Monday August 13, 2018
10:34pm
5 minutes
A quote by Joan Didion

in the days before these ones I was waking without assistance
the sun bright enough to light the room
the birds bright enough to sound the alarm
he wished I drank coffee
he begged
his headaches kept him from peace
his breakfasts too small to count
I would shake my head fuzz slowly
I would sometimes wonder at the fridge
but I did not drink my alertness
I did not know how to work the machine
which buttons to press
how long to wait at the foot
of an appliance

“have another cup of coffee” by Sasha on her balcony

By: Sasha 08/13/201808/15/2018

Uncategorized

Monday August 13, 2018
7:08am
5 minutes
A quote by Joan Didion

How many points?
How many calories?
How much fat is in half an avocado?
Is this nourishment?
Have I had enough broccoli?
Weight Watchers?
Have you lost?
Have you gained?
Am I succeeding?
You do not know
how full of health
she is
I am
we are
BMI is a lie
Did you know that
What about
What about
What about
“She’s looking so beautiful! She lost a bunch of weight, and not like she had much to lose, but… She just looks so healthy!”
BARF.
Actually, though.
All these gorgeous chickens vomiting in the bathroom.
“Could you please pass me some toilet paper?”
Everything is points.
Here are your points.
If you don’t reach your limit, you’ve succeeded!
If you aren’t listening, then you aren’t losing.
But here’s the thing –
when you’re losing, you’re
actually winning!
And who gives a flying fuck
what you feel like and if you like your life!
Thinness is the prize and GOD I am displaying
it on the mantle.
Who has a mantle anyway?
How many points, though?
How many calories?
Is this an indulgence?
“I know I shouldn’t
but I think I’d like the
brownie
sundae
cookie ice cream sandwich”
DON’T FEEL BAD PLEASE
DEAR GOD FEED YOURSELF
FEED YOUR GOODNESS
FEED YOUR HEART
YOUR DAUGHTER DOES NOT
GIVE A FLYING FUCK
ABOUT WHAT YOU’RE
PUTTING IN YOUR MOUTH
AS LONG AS YOU ARE
FULL FED LOVING
TURNED ON

“the splendid ugliness of this disguise.” By Julia in Jess and Rick’s nook

By: Julia 08/12/2018

Uncategorized5 minutes, daily, dip, lies, mask, poem, poet, poetry, short poem, short story, truth, unedited, write

Sunday August 12, 2018
11:10pm
5 minutes
Ode to Invisibility
Ellen Bass

behind this mask is a person afraid
of not living up to the hype she bestows upon herself
to the hype she gets from others
it is ugliest when she lies to herself
big dreams and cotton candy promises
do this then you’ll…
be this then you’ll feel…
one day you’ll wish upon a star and
find yourself among the wreckage
little lives left losing
little hopes laid to rest in the fields
filled with shoulds but didn’ts
knows but won’ts
the mask looks confident
the mask looks like a lot of things

“the splendid ugliness of this disguise.” By Sasha at her kitchen table

Sunday August 12, 2018
7:36pm
5 minutes
Ode to Invisibility
Ellen Bass

I buy another black pair of jeans, another white T-shirt, a blue blazer, a grey pair of leggings. $364.99. I buy a coffee at Starbucks. $6.21. I buy food from the hot bar at Whole Foods. $14.10. I Car2Go home. $6.45. I sit on my $2,475 couch and I go on Facebook and I see that fucking Cathy is in the Dominican Republic again. Who is that disgusting hottie she’s holding onto is that her new boyfriend SHOOT ME?! HOW DOES SHE DO IT. Onto Expedia. I text Jacquie, “What are you doing next week?” I see that she’s typing back, and then she stops, and then she types, and then she stops. “What the fuck?!” I throw my phone across the room and luckily it lands on the footstool. $220.

“play the role of devoted son.” By Julia at G and C’s house

By: Julia 08/12/201808/12/2018

Uncategorizedask, can, can't, daily, dip, family, five minutes, list, parents, short stories, son, unedited, Writing

Saturday August 11, 2018
1:33am
5 minutes
Tincture Of Mother
Alan Craig

you can call them while you’re walking home on the busy bridge and tell them you love them.
you can ask them if they can pick you up from the airport or have the bed made ready.
you can tell them what you’re afraid of and that you need their help.
you can bring back their phone charger so they don’t have to spend the money on a new one.
you can make them laugh and get a good reaction when you try out your jokes.
you can be honest about the pot you’re about to smoke on their porch after midnight.
you can make as little noise as possible so you don’t wake them up.
you can take them to the best sushi place in town.
you can make them dinner for the first time and show them the sunset.
you can thank them for the good advice, the good company, and the good food.
but you cannot ask them for the toothpaste.

“play the role of devoted son.” By Sasha in her bed

Saturday August 11, 2018
10:02pm
5 minutes
Tincture Of Mother
Alan Craig

You groomed me to be your little sidekick. Until I was thirteen or so, I liked it. I ate it up like a peanut butter sandwich. The role of devoted son was the best one I played. I could’ve earned a medal, or a Golden Globe, or at least some kind of pin/ribbon. God knows I didn’t have enough coordination for the school musical, and I wasn’t fast enough for softball. But being your boy? I had that down pat. You taught me exactly how you wanted to be treated – always “Maman”, never “Mom” or “Mother” or “Mummy”; a gin and tonic with a slice of lime and five ice cubes in your hand at 4pm; “I love you,” and kisses on both cheeks before getting on the bus. When Papa left you sat me down (drink in hand), in the parlour. We only ever sat in the parlour when we had guests over, important guests, colleagues of Papa’s or the Westford’s from the across the street who you always wanted to impress. You said, “You’re my man now, Francois.”

“it has been six and a half years since you died” by Julia in her sister’s bed

Friday August 10, 2018
10:48pm
5 minutes
Welcome to the Club
Marion Winik

I don’t remember the day you died but I remember how you lived. Your chest was an open x-ray. Here, the place where love scarred you. Here the place hope left. You smiled through your eyes, through the pain, and we knew we were getting the best of you left in you. We knew you were telling the truth when you said you wanted us to find what makes us happy. I remember how you sang Elvis at New Years and Easter and my dad’s birthday. You left every room you entered brighter. You entered every room.

“it has been six and a half years since you died” by Sasha on her balcony

By: Sasha 08/10/201808/12/2018

Uncategorized

Friday August 10, 2018
7:18pm
5 minutes
Welcome to the Club
Marion Winik

I wake up in a cold sweat. Felix is sleeping at my feet, like he always does, and when I jolt awake he digs his nails into my ankles. “Stop it!” I yell. He does. He comes up to lie beside me, purring. Cats are dicks. Then, it hits me like a tree falling – I missed it. Oh my God. How could I? I just… It’s been six years since you died, six years yesterday, and I missed the anniversary. I didn’t light a candle. I didn’t call Mia. It was just any other Thursday, where I drank a green smoothie, shat, went to work, procrastinated, stirred the pot in a team meeting, asked Don if he wanted to make out in the handicapped washroom (he said, “No thanks, Becca…”), came home, went to yoga, made pirogies for dinner, cuddled Felix on the couch while I watched three episodes of Queer Eye and then I went to bed.

Eyes roaming distant waters,” by Julia at Amanda’s place

By: Julia 08/09/2018

Uncategorized

Thursday August 9, 2018
1:26am
5minutes
Wandering At Oblique Creek
T’ao Ch’ien

we both belong to the salt bath healing
you and I both know it
the way we know the rub of a cricket’s chirp
the slow fade of a mosquito’s sting
the good bridge before the song changes key
we know how to put our skin far away
how to put the bon in voyage
how to ask for forgiveness

we both learned it in a book that repeats

in a child’s colouring pages

some times you take a lover from another continent

and you study the places they’ve used to hold their bookmarks

“Eyes roaming distant waters,” by Sasha at her desk

Thursday August 9, 2018
3:52pm
5 minutes
Wandering At Oblique Creek
T’ao Ch’ien

You walk to the lake before sunrise. You barely stumble on the path because you’ve tread it so many times but once or twice there is a new root, a new rock, and you almost trip but you don’t because you’re listening. When you arrive at the water’s edge, the light is rising. The sun isn’t on the horizon yet, but the light is reaching up up up up up and there are colours like you’ve never seen before – a new lilac, a new azure, a new lapis, a new rouge. You find a place to sit, the quiet, familiar dome of a boulder that you’ve sat on many times before. You unfocus your eyes over the still glass of the water. Sky and lake blend. You and this place are one, these birch trees, these ferns, these cedars.

“full of tenderness” by Julia in Amanda’s kitchen

By: Julia 08/08/2018

Uncategorizedbed, camping, daily, dip, generosity, gift, heart, nightmares, non fiction, short story, sister, soft, stream of consciousness, tender, unedited, write

Wednesday August 8, 2018
11:36am
5 minutes
Chant
Wang An-Shih

I sleep in your bed when you’re away and I toss and turn and have nightmares about people breaking into your apartment because I’ve done something wrong in a past life to ruin the trust you have in me. On a different night I dream of having to find an outfit for prom. 13 years later and I wonder what I have accomplished since then. Still trying to fit in. Still worrying if I will be perceived by them as I perceive myself. On the night with the nightmares I am landlocked to the bed. I can’t rise. I can’t wake up. Sleep paralysis plays a slideshow of disturbing footage and I’m not allowed to leave. I’m not allowed to leave. Your bed used to be softer. I think you gave that one to our parents. I think your heart full of tenderness gives everything to everyone. I’m sorry my body heavy with jet leg and self-doubt can’t ease into the gift. You’d be sorry if you knew it was hard, and it shouldn’t be hard. It should be soft. You’re sleeping on the cold ground right now and I pray that your bones aren’t wet all the way through. I hope you’re sitting on the garbage bag instead of a damp log. I hope you find peace in the stillness of the wilderness. You impress me. Someone who knows when to say yes.

“full of tenderness” by Sasha on her balcony

Wednesday August 8, 2018
6:52am
5 minutes
Chant
Wang An-Shih

Gimme a minute sweet one I’ve got water boiling on the stove
Gimme a minute honeypots I’m on the phone
Hold on darling there’s something I need to finish here
Can you wait?
Why not?
Okay…
Hold on…
HOLD ON…
Okay.
What is it?
A caterpillar?
My goodness!
You’re right!
Can you could those legs?
How many do you think she has?
Gentle.
Gentle!
See that little yellow stripe?
How do you think she feels about it?
It’s not quite time for lunch yet but I have some apricots if you’d like.

“whose eyes are a thousand blind windows:” by Julia in Amanda’s kitchen

By: Julia 08/07/2018

Uncategorizedassumptions, car, conversation, creative, crying, daily, dip, fear, friendship, heat, honesty, Julia Pileggi Poetry, poem, poetry, shame, silence, Stories, Summer, tears, unedited, Writing

Tuesday August 7, 2018
11:52pm
5 minutes
Howl
Allen Ginsberg

We wait for each other to stop speaking
silence drifting between us in our car seats
Sometimes saying nothing is saying everything
How shame lives in my cheeks when I can’t
“say nothing”
“say nothing”

We spend three hours staring into each others’ eyes
separated by green tea and a key chain
and some blurry tears streaming without warning
We don’t call me what I am but later I feel it
The reckoning of too much information shared
Too much honesty not yet checked in the echo

We both say how lovely it is and how sad it was
and how soon we will do this again
nobody is crying now
The summer night too hot for tears to puddle

“whose eyes are a thousand blind windows:” by Sasha on her balcony

By: Sasha 08/07/201808/07/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, short writes short reads, Uncategorized, writers, writing, writing practise, writing projectcreepy, eyes, fiction, five minutes, short writes short reads, these five minutes, unedited

Tuesday August 7, 2018
7:30am
5 minutes
Howl
Allen Ginsberg

He’s got a tight face. I wonder about plastic surgery (try not to judge, each to their own, I guess)… He’s expressionless, which is super odd given his job, given that he’s a self-proclaimed actor. I wonder how much he actually works. It might sound awful, but his eyes are hollow, like looking into them is very unsettling. I bet he pulled the wings off flies as a kid. Maybe still does. I bet he googles weird, really weird shit. You know those people who you see and you just know that if you went into their search history it would be worse than a murder show?

“You should always be sure” by Julia upstairs at Amanda’s

Monday August 6, 2018
10:55pm
5 minutes
The Law of Success
Paramahansa Yogananda

you won’t always be sure. some things take learning and living. some opinions need to be deconstructed and rebuilt and seen with new eyes. this happens for me and it makes me unsure. because if you must always be sure then where is discovery? were we born sure and lost it? will we ever even be? other people’s shoulds make me unsure. they can’t be taken as gospel when we all have a unique pattern to follow. we’re all stitching our hearts up with different yarn. how can we be sure about anything? unless we’re sure about being loved. this one, no matter who or what, is something true. and I am sure.

“You should always be sure” by Sasha at her kitchen table

Monday August 6, 2018
7:02am
5 minutes
The Law of Success
Paramahansa Yogananda

The thing is, we’re never sure
And we leap anyway
Off the edge
Whatever that looks like for you

It’s often a dock
like the one at Knowlton Lake
Sometimes it’s a cliff
something I would never do

Every big decision
doesn’t come from a place of sureness
It comes from an inkling
like the loons calling at dusk

Did you hear that?
Was that their song?
Is it time?
Is it now?

We’re never sure
or maybe I’m never sure
But I am on the other hand
My gut whispers “Go”

“all-new, feature-length” by Sasha at Jericho Beach

By: Sasha 08/05/201808/07/2018

creative every day, creative writing, creativity, ongoing writing practice, short writes short reads, Uncategorized, writers, writing, writing practise, writing projectfive minutes, music, unedited

Sunday August 5, 2018
1:30pm
5 minutes
Teamsters and Tutus
Simon Lewsen

Do you ever hear the soundtrack of the movie of your life playing? Do you ever imagine the Norah Jones, Gypsy Kings, Tori Amos, TLC, Marvin Gaye… It happens to me most when I’m on public transit, usually a train, occasionally a bus. Looking out the window and there it is – the music.

What’s the song that plays the most in your head?

Have you ever been to a concert and thought, “this must be what heaven is like?”

Have you ever heard the quote, “Without music life would be a mistake”?

I once thought that if I didn’t have music I might shrivel up and fade away. I don’t think that anymore, I’m in a better place, but I get it. I get that.

“all-new, feature-length” by Julia at Amanda’s place

Sunday August 5, 2018
7:24am
5 minutes
Teamsters and Tutus
Simon Lewsen

it’s the movie of our lives
the stop and go the faraway
the you call me in the morning on your way to buy peaches from the market
the me call you back before the family reunion and the butter tarts
the mesaages of sweet when I wake up and you still asleep
in another time zone
the missing you from here
and I point to my heart so you know exactly where here is, where here lives in me, where I carry you
it’s the meeting at a wedding two summers in a row
a new suit and a new pair of heels to show our loved ones
look, we’ll say, we’ve done all this growing
and the credits won’t because the movie isn’t over yet
it’s only just beginning
it’s only taking shape even after all the years and tears and open wounds
and still we both look at each other and say, I’m into this so far
this is going to be a good one
I can tell

“Hear splash blue” by Julia in Amanda’s bed

By: Julia 08/04/2018

Uncategorized5 minutes, creative writing, daily, dip, five minutes, poem, poetry, relationship, short story, short writes short reads, sky, sun, sunset, these five minutes, unedited, Writing

Saturday August 4, 2018
1:53am
5 minutes
Here Room Sleeps
Dale Smith

She’s the colour of the sky

You’d think I meant blue but

I mean lime green

It’s that line that hovers in between the pink and the purple

It does a good job of loving me there

She does

Oh I’m the sunset then I guess

And sometimes she’s the whole sky

And sometimes she’s the sun too

I don’t know what colour I am to her but she is the lime green to me because she is the in-between

The always centred

The glowing line of equilibrium

She is subtle and yet she makes the whole picture sing

When she’s not the whole sky she is the reason the whole sky wakes up

She is the sun and the lime green and the sky and I am happy she is above me and she is above me

That’s where she should stay

“Hear splash blue” by Sasha on her balcony

Saturday August 4, 2018
2:42pm
5 minutes
Here Room Sleeps
Dale Smith

“Do you hear that?” Mimi tilts her head up, and cocks it a little to the right.

“No…” This happens often, but I play along. I got a good sleep last night so I’m feeling game.

“It’s it’s it’s it’s BLUE!” Mimi laughs.

“You’re hearing the blue?”

“M-hmm.”

“Mimi, how are you hearing a colour?”

“It’s easy! You just feel in your tummy and your tongue and some other places like maybe the liver or the kidney! And it’s clear that it’s BLUE.”

I haven’t heard her explain something like this before, about her experience of the world.

“Mama, are you crying?” She touches my face.

$750-million investment” by Julia at Amanda’s place

By: Julia 08/03/2018

Uncategorized

Friday August 3, 2018
1:04am
5 minutes
From an Enbridge ad

okay so universe, are you there? are you comfy? i’ve got a few things to run by you. i’m not going to beat around the bush. i know i’m worth it. i mean big time big money big big big time worth it. when i think of everything i know and want to know and can do and will do i’m pretty pleased with myself and there is love all around me. so i guess what i’m telling you is i am ready. i have put the long hours in, i’ve been truthful, i’ve been patient. if there is something else i’m missing, shoot me a message and i’ll add it to the list, no big. but if you see me telling you that i don’t need any more nos-that i want to invite the yes into my life full force, then hit me with your best shot. amen.

“$750-million investment” by Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 08/03/201808/07/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, poem, short poem, short writes short reads, tiny poem, Uncategorized, writers, writing, writing practise, writing projectfive minutes, poem, poetry, unedited, Writing

Friday August 3, 2018
9:33pm
5 minutes
From an Enbridge ad

It’s a million dollar
three point two
seven point nine
three and half
oh my word
it’s dollar symbols
and decimal points
and I can’t even
count that high

They are building a
new skyscraper and
every new story
makes me
every new story
gives me
I joke about
going down there
and getting a tour
dressing up
I’ll wear heels and
you’ll wear a three
piece suit

Two million
down payment I can’t
believe I ever thought
owning a house with a
garden and a bird bath
was going to be

Oh wait
here are the angels
in blue

Oh wait
we’re getting
somewhere

“But when he reached the age” by Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 08/02/2018

creative writing, five, five minute story, five minutes, ongoing writing practice, these five minutes, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectage, five minutes, growing up, these five minutes, unedited

Thursday August 2, 2018
9:35pm
5 minutes
Atheist at the Pulpit
Larry Krotz

It wasn’t okay for you to smile like you used to. When you reached a certain age. Suddenly upturned corners of mouth and sparkler eyeballs means something you don’t want it to mean. Shit. Why does that have to happen. You have to start thinking about the kind of shirts you wear. The boys in your class stare. Shit. You stop playing soccer at lunch on the icy field because you’re not sure about how things are moving. You steal subway tickets from your babysitters wallet because no one thinks you’re a kid and you don’t like when the bus driver makes a scene and asks to see your birth certificate. You carry it in your yellow wallet, though, just in case.

“But when he reached the age” by Julia at YVR airport

Thursday August 2, 2018
9:07am
5 minutes
Atheist at the Pulpit
Larry Krotz

Elliot, Romy’s kid, had a wine stain birthmark on his hair line. It bled out a bit toward his eyes and cheeks but framed his face in a sweet way. He smiled at me when I caught his eye. It made me feel good. then I watched him smile at anyone he looked at and realized he was not in love with me alone but with people. With life. That made me me feel good too. he pointed at the man on his bluetooth next to me. As if to say “you’re the one that I love the most.” I liked his birth mark. I imagined the skin kissed red to be extraordinarily smooth and squishy. My best friend in high school had a wine stain birth mark on her arm. Her skin was so fun to press myself into. She used to get teased but she was so beautiful. People really suck the life out of you when they dont understand something.

“a family house can remain empty” by Julia on the couch

Wednesday August 1, 2018
11:15pm
5 minutes
The Highest Bidder
Kerry Gold

My sister answers the phone when I call even if she is with her friends. My brother did the same a few days ago when I called him on his birthday. He was at Montana’s eating a burger before going to the Falls. I felt bad for calling but it felt like he would have chatted all day. That’s the home I’m going back to. The house emptied of the three of us years ago. I was the first to leave and stay gone. I keep boots and books and pictures there. I like going back if we watch the old home videos. We all keep saying we should turn those VHS tapes into DVDs so we can keep our memories longer but no one ever does. If I can find my old glove in the garage I suspect we’ll hit the field behind the house and go long.

“a family house can remain empty” by Sasha at her desk

Wednesday August 1, 2018
1:03pm
5 minutes
The Highest Bidder
Kerry Gold

Snap and we’re sat at the table and we’re talking about more money than I’ve ever had/dreamed of (that’s not totally true) and Snap we’re talking about a house a place where we’ll grow and scream and hug and make salads and Snap I tell you my secret and you hold it like you hold me Snap to the gentleness of the realization that words aren’t enough and the present is all we have and Snap okay baby you say okay baby we’ll do it Snap how do I deserve this (that’s not really it) Snap scrolling and scrolling and scrolling Snap rock a by baby on the tree top Snap lines of credit and how will the mortgage work and life’s short but also let’s hope life’s long and there’s no time like the present but timing is everything Snap

“Of course we should postpone.” by Julia at the desk

By: Julia 07/31/201807/31/2018

Uncategorizedcommunity, creative, daily, dip, five minutes, leadership, longing, school, self love, Summer

Tuesday July 31, 2018
10:02pm
5 minutes
from an e-mail

I’ve been reading about community and how you don’t always get it without making one you fit into on your own. It brings me back to middle school. I was put with all the kids who weren’t try-hards or try-at-alls and I had to do the leading. I had to do all the deciding. I had to do all the work. And I still didn’t get anything out of it. I still didn’t get any respect. Didn’t get any thanks. Didn’t get any friends. Nobody surprised me. Nobody learned anything new about me. And those were the people I was getting. Were they the ones I was asking for by refusing to set boundaries or make my own rules? Maybe. Am I simply adverse to work? There are many maybes here. The point is, it’s not for free. It’s not a guarantee. So I have to learn to love myself instead. I have to learn to love myself so much so that the absence of community doesn’t destroy me. I have to be stronger than that. And it is more work than waiting around. It is more.

“Of course we should postpone.” By Sasha on her balcony

Tuesday July 31, 2018
9:31pm
5 minutes
From an e-mail

Typing into Google (the all mighty 8 ball of this century)
“Why am I so tired?”
“How do you know you’re pregnant?”
“How far away is space?”

All these kittens in their bedrooms
Nirvana posters and twinkle lights
condom wrappers and Fruit by the Foot
belly button lint and a card from a grandmother

Searching for God in a screen
little or big same difference
searching for connection alone
little or big same difference

You’re tired because you don’t sleep enough, peanut
You’re pregnant when magic happens and blood doesn’t
Space is here
God is here

Let’s spoon until it’s winter
and make soup
and sing anthems

“Happy Monday Lovers” by Sasha at her desk

Monday July 30, 2018
10:55pm
5 minutes
from @a_belovedgreen on Instagram

I bobbed in the water at Indian Arm
let my hair turn to seaweed
let me toes touch tadpoles
kissing the salt
kissing the sun
kissing you
oh the sweetness
of the dead man’s float

remember
remember
remember

Happy Monday from
the cove of the free
and the spot of the brave
uncomfortable conversations
trying to explain
land acknowledgements
these nations whispering
through our feet

remember remember
remember

I bob in the water at Indian Arm
drove her stretching elbow
swam under the freckle at
her wrist

“Happy Monday Lovers” by Julia at the desk

By: Julia 07/30/2018

Uncategorizedbright, colour, daily, dip, gratitude, heat, heatwave, honesty, Julia Pileggi Poetry, light, monday, poem, poet, poetry, rain, seminal, short writes short reads, sky, Summer, sun, sun god, thank you, these five minutes, truth, unedited, Vancouver, worship

Monday July 30, 2018
10:25pm
5 minutes
from @a_belovedgreen on Instagram

It’s raining somewhere that isn’t here.
Somewhere deep and mysterious and easy
to get to but not here because here it
is not raining. Some us of are praying
for rain, and some of us are praying at
the alter of the sun god shining, staying
up, warming our bones, illuminating all
the things we might rather go on not
seeing. And isn’t that a risk in of itself?
And yet some of us are worshiping. Some of
us really like the truth. It is a day of
reckoning when all is lit up like a beacon
of hope or desire or loud. It is a Monday
for lovers of the light and lovers of the
afternoon. I am happy loving this seminal
summer from the inside out. Hazy sky and
all, blurred lines and everything. The
colour of my new skin would tell you that.
I am out there chewing ice cubes, singing
thank you through my teeth

“hence it is important that you DETERMINE” by Julia at the desk

Sunday July 29, 2018
6:24pm
5 minutes
Snark Tuner Instructions

You must be able to read the language of your personality with care
Know how to take the truth and swallow it
Understand how to protect yourself
how to avoid swallowing too much air along with it
You must get good at asking yourself the right questions:
Am I hungry?
Am I Lonely?
There are others
They can work for all of us
You must be able to determine which thing is occurring
You must be able to listen to the answer as if it were a
new born baby crying with reckless abandon
As if it cannot be ignored
And then don’t ignore it
Pick up your baby (You)
rock your baby (you) with love
Kiss your baby’s (your) cheeks
And wait there for a miute
to be informed

“hence it is important that you DETERMINE” by Sasha at her desk

Sunday July 29, 2018
3:05pm
5 minutes
Snark Tuner Instructions

Today I scrubbed the glass
of the sliding door and thought
Oh this is spiritual practise
as prayer is
Oh this is prayer
Sweat beading on my forehead
squatted and smelling of
newspaper and vinegar

In May when we’d get
the cottage ready for
a summer of rentals
it was my job to wash
the glass of the sliding doors
and while I probably procastinated
I loved doing it
giving to this home that held us
through the joy
and the madess
giving to this mother
who gave everything to us

I’m glad that we know the
clarity of clean space
that the act of clearing
dust from the surface of the altar
sends a smile to my lips

“Truth rambles some moorish in-between, but that’s poetry” by Julia at the desk

By: Julia 07/28/2018

Uncategorizeddaily, dip, five minutes, in between, inconsequential, knowing, lie, metaphor, passive aggressive, poem, poetry, punishment, truth, unedited

Saturday July 28, 2018
10:30pm
5 minutes
Rhinocerotic
Ellie Sawatzky

It’s probably the password if I forget
that place between here and there and doing and not doing
somewhere, there, hedged beside the good choices

Truth is the heartbeat that carries the body
The metronome of where and why
this body loves this way
this body lives like this
I knew a Truth once who didn’t know me
That was a hard one
I saw her like the the french fries, jumping beans in the pan,
the minor knuckle burn and blister on the back of my hand
pulsing just slight of ordinary
not bold enough to remember
but raised enough to cause omparison
She was standing out
She could stand out
Or maybe she was just loud convenient
hiding behind the lie of her own name
I don’t care if she sees a poem or
a proclamation
a punishment
a passive aggressive persecution

She’ll never read this anyway
She doesn’t know me, after all.
She wouldn’t think this was about her

“Truth rambles some moorish in-between, but that’s poetry” by Sasha on her balcony

By: Sasha 07/28/201807/29/2018

creative writing, love poem, ongoing writing practice, poem, short poem, tiny poem, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectfive minutes, love, love poem, marriage, poem, these five minutes, unedited

Saturday July 28, 2018
4:42pm
5 minutes
Rhinocerotic
Ellie Sawatzky

Truth rambles out open pores
and I smell goodness on your skin
drink it in
maybe that’s why I like to bury
in your armpits

I’ve never known a love
with these peaks and valleys

When someone I enjoy
asks me about the first year
of marriage
all I can say is

“Yes
it’s different
Yes
it’s the hardest thing
Yes
it’s all a beautiful mystery”

“The roots went down
that day and they spread
wide always reaching always
ready”

all I can say is

This is how I
want to be

“Kensington Prairie Farm” by Julia at the desk

Friday July 27, 2018
9:45pm
5 minutes
www.kpfarm.com

Don’t talk to me about alpacas.
I’m not interested in giving those assholes any more attention than they deserve.
You come at me and running your mouth about alpacas?
I swear to the holy ghost that knows you that those will be your goddamn last words.
I don’t have anything weird about alpacas. I don’t have anything weird about alpacas.
I think their wool feels gross.
I think their faces are stupid.
I don’t have anything weird about alpacas.
Okay so my first boyfriend used to be obsessed with them.
He’d talk about them.
He’d ask me to go to the fucking farm to see them with him.
Now that is having something weird about alpacas.
Get a dog, you know what I mean?
Like go smile at a goat or whatever.
Why was he obsessed with them?
Don’t ask me why!
If I knew why, I probably wouldn’t have anything weird about alpacas.

“Kensington Prairie Farm” by Sasha at work

By: Sasha 07/27/201807/27/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, Uncategorized, writers, writing, writing practise, writing projectfarmer, growing, nature, office, peas, poem, sun, work balance, work life

Friday July 27, 2018
5:40pm
5 minutes
www.kpfarm.com

She types on a tickity tickity keyboard
in a square office
in a tall building
on a busy street

The sun shines in through her window
lucky she has one
she tells herself

She wonders about dirt under her fingernails
what that might feel like
she chews a hangnail
and thinks about planting seeds

Literally
she remembers how peas grow
clinging to anything they can
holding eachother up
growing tall

Her garden on the balcony
of her apartment
gets so thirsty she can’t keep up

At the farmer’s market
she touches peaches and plums
radishes and chantrelles
like her children
like her beauties
like her friends

“a couple in a living room” by Sasha at her kitchen table

By: Sasha 07/26/201807/27/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, Uncategorized, writer's block, writers, writing, writing practise, writing projectcouple, five minutes, poem, short writes short reads, these five minutes, unedited

Thursday July 26, 2018
7:08pm
5 minutes
From audition sides

A couple

A friend
A dog

A friend
A friend

A child
A father

A woman
A woman

A woman
A child

A non-binary person
A man

A man
A woman

A man
A man

A couple

Sit on a
sofa

It’s purple
It’s red
It’s speckled
It’s dirty
It’s covered in cat hair
It’s covered in plastic
It’s new
It’s old

This sofa

A cherry sized
space between
them

They look

She
They
He
They

They look

at the clouds

“a couple in a living room” by Julia on the 99

Thursday July 26, 2018
12:33pm
5 minutes
From audition sides

I see this couple get out of their car, walk up the stairwell, into their apartment, turn on the lights, sit on the couch, flip on the tv, get up, walk around, close the blinds, get up, walk around, steep a tea, come back to the couch, turn off the light, leave the room. They do this on Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays. I dont know where they go on Saturdays but I suppose that’s not for me to know seeing as though I’m not a part of their couple. I am a part of my own that does all the same things and none of the same things. And yet, I watch them but I don’t think they watch me. We are always moving but they are never looking. When I see movement, I look. Maybe it’s just a crow, or the guy from upstairs throwing his couch cushion by cushion from his patio into the bin. Maybe I don’t catch them looking when I am in my living room because I am busy living.

“I want to walk with you on cloudy day” by Sasha at her kitchen table

Wednesday July 25, 2018
11:03pm
5 minutes
Come Away With Me
Norah Jones

I’m not sure about this peanut butter sandwich
or the pink kissing the clouds french and open mouth
this taste of clumsy fat of oil fake of ok ok I’ll surrender

All the hours wasted honey it’s ok it’s ok

Lie down so the breath can go low so the stomach can relax
all tight in pants all day all sat all day all held all day
cradle the baby that is you in these loving arms in these
knowing arms stroke the baby that is you and tell her

it’s ok
it’s alright
it’s ok

There’s a lot of rules that are implied about womanhood
and I like how we’re poking them in the belly button

like is this

“I want to walk with you on cloudy day” by Julia on the 7

Wednesday July 25, 2018
9:29pm
5 minutes
Come Away With Me
Norah Jones

I walk out of the council woman’s house and stare a mountain square in the eye.
My jaw drops. The sky cartwheels. The pink drips off the clouds and into my veins. I drink, greedy, like a humming bird first to the bloom.
I tell her I would like to bring you here for an urban hike so you can see this pocket of the city we live in but don’t even know yet.
I think of taking you to the Rosemary sanctuary. I know if I do you will have to pull me away with some force.
The council woman says nobody knows about this place. She knows all her neighnours.Loves Carla’s garden.
Down the road a teenager lighting a joint under a tree asks me if that guy’s okay.
I ask what guy.
That guy down there, she says, the one who just got shot.

“The sun has risen but gives off no warmth.” by Julia at the desk

By: Julia 07/24/2018

Uncategorizedburn, daily, days, dip, five minutes, heat, heavy, hot, july, morning, poem, poet, poetry, rest, rise, short writes, sleep, Summer, sun, sunset, timed writing, tired, unedited, Writing

Tuesday July 24, 2018
11:24pm
5 minutes
Waiting for the Barbarians
J.M. Coetzee

On days like these I rise heavy, rub the sleep heavy
from my eyes heavy, and nod off on the hot bus.
I carry the heavy thing I’ve borrowed in the heavy sun.
I carry all of it pressed in the furrow of my brow-
the one that confuses people, Is she okay? Is she mad?
This morning’s sun burnt a hole in my head and reminded
me of it every second after it. I could have moved my
face but I was smitten there, sitting there, luxuriating
in the imminent ache. I might say I know better but on days
like these I don’t know what I know, if anything. The heavy
is only heavy until you put it down. I could put it down
and catch my breath for a minute, write a song, say hello
to the man with no teeth, nodding at me from the passenger
seat of the helping van. Later, I will watch the sun set
inch by inch to prove that even this shall pass. When the
sun stops, I take off my pack and rest.

“The sun has risen but gives off no warmth.” By Sasha on her balcony

By: Sasha 07/24/201807/27/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, Uncategorized, writers, writing, writing practiseboyfriend, choosing, femisim, man, single, unedited, women

Tuesday July 24, 2018
7:00am
5 minutes
Waiting for the Barbarians
J.M. Coetzee

Marsha wonders why it seems like ever since she broke up with Jeremy she’s valued less by society. She remembers this feeling. When she was in her early twenties she gained thirty pounds and suddenly felt invisible. She’d never been thin, but she’d been average enough to be considered conventionally attractive. Even writing that makes me feel gross. What does that even mean? Anyway, back to the story. Marsha wonders why it seems like ever since she broke up with Jeremy (it was amicable, but she instigated, he was sad and called a lot in the weeks following, but now he’s stopped and she’s convinced he’s probably banging his neighbour who he always secretly lusted after)… that she’s valued less by society. “Oh you’re single?” She hears the judgement, she feels the hairs on her arms raise.

“exiled to the foothills” by Julia at the desk

By: Julia 07/23/2018

Uncategorizedacceptance, alone, daily, dip, five minutes, poem, poetry, rebuild, reflection, self love, short writes, solitude, time, truth, unedited, writer

Monday July 23, 2018
6:36pm
5 minutes
The Gulag Archipelago
Solzhenitsyn

Send me out to the no where place and let me weep there
Water the dry earth with my ache and pouring
I need to be alone, in a place where spider webs take over the sky
Will I continue to decompose when nobody is around
I exile myself before it is too late
Before I am stuck forever in the shape of how things used to be
I banish my lost and force my bones to build something
from the inside out
I am already dreading it
and that is how I know I must
I do not have time to sit and wonder how the world knows me
Give me fields to lay in
to pronounce my epiphany in the echo
Let me know me
Let me know that this is my enough
my contribution
A care package tied with a strand of my hair

“exiled to the foothills” by Sasha on her couch

Monday July 23, 2018
12:02am
5 minutes
The Gulag Archipelago
Solzhenitsyn

“Let’s go to the mountains, mama…” Oli looks up at me with longing.

“Why do you want to go there?”

“Because I’ve never been!”

“Why do you think you’d like it?”

“Because mountains are tectonic plates that smashed together and that’s so cool and I want to do my project on them and how can I when I’ve never seen them in real life?!”

“Please don’t whine.”

“I’m not! I’m just saying that it’s only fair – ”

“Honey, nothing about decision making when it comes to vacation has to do with what’s fair.”

“BUT – ”

“I’ll think about it, okay? Now, go brush your teeth, it’s already seventeen minutes passed your bedtime.”

“he had this reputation because” by Sasha on her balcony

By: Sasha 07/22/201807/27/2018

creative writing, fiction, ongoing writing practice, short fiction, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectanger, asshole, deserves, fiction, five minutes, unedited

Sunday July 22, 2018
10:21pm
5 minutes
Under The Skin
Michel Faber

He deserves this reputation like he deserves the calluses on his feet and the chapped lips. He deserves the ridicule and the rundown. He deserves everything that’s happening to him. Forgiveness is a hoax. Compassion is a joke. He deserves to rot in the bottom of a well, like the fairy tales always say. He deserves sunburns, cancer, ulcers, dementia. Don’t look at me like I’m being a bitch. I am not being a bitch. I am being real, I am being powerful, I am being truthful and articulate and I am on fucking fire.

“he had this reputation because” by Julia on the 7

Sunday July 22, 2018
8:05am
5 minutes
Under The Skin
Michel Faber

Because he was good
Because he was kind
Because he was thoughtful
Because he was sweet
Because he was playful
Because he was funny
Because he was grateful
Because he was honest
Because he was forgiving
Because he was generous
Because he was happy
Because he was smart
Because he was curious
Because he was willing
Because he was respectful
Because he was adventurous
Because he was unique
Because he was listening
Because he was trying
Because he was athletic
Because he was vulnerable
Because he was hard working
Because he was loved
Because he was love
Because he was true
Because he was different
Because he was strong
Because he was light
Because he was committed
Because he was disciplined
Because he was musical
Because he was mine
Because he was real

“Brady and Rix” by Julia at the desk

By: Julia 07/21/2018

Uncategorizedboys, creative writing, dreaming, family, fiction, future, god, happiness, imagination, life, love, motherhood, parenthood, parenting, poem, poet, poetry, pregnancy, sons, story, writer, Writing

Saturday July 21, 2018
11:40am
5 minutes
Fever Pitch
Nick Hornby

Brady and Rix are the names of my imaginary kids.
They’re both neutral names but they’re both boys.
I am seeing my life with boys. I am allowed to see
what ever I want. God made me a writer. This is what
that’s for. Dreaming. Going there. Writing stories.
Brady is the older brother. My first. I love him like
an avalanche. Falling over myself every day. Knocked
down by love for the kid who can fit inside my pocket.
He holds my hand and calls me mama. He loves bubbles
and laughing and me. And his dad. He loves his dad so much.
He thinks everything he does is amazing. And everything
he does is amazing. Rix is the baby. He’s very serious.
He looks at everything with curiosity. He wants to know
my soul and does not let go. He is learning with a bit
of discernment. He loves being in the water. He pours
out of me and into things and into light. The whole room
loves him.

“Brady and Rix” by Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 07/21/201807/27/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectfiction, fight, ideas, property, stole, unedited, work

Saturday July 21, 2018
10:15am
5 minutes
Fever Pitch
Nick Hornby

Brady smiles at Rix and Rix isn’t having it.

“What?” Says Brady, playing dumb.

“You know what! You stole my idea! You acted like it was yours! That’s just an awful thing to do!”

Brady shifts in their chair.

“Stole is a harsh word. It implies violence – ”

“It implies exactly what you did!” Rix fights everything in their body not to get up and leave the room. Why do they have to share such a small office anyway? Who decided that would be a good idea?

“Look. We brainstormed together. Parsing out whose idea is whose seems reductive, does it not?” Brady takes off their glasses and polishes them.

“You infuriate me!” Rix no longer cares about making a scene.

“cultivate the kind of robust gladness” by Julia on the bed

Friday July 20, 2018
11:37pm
5 minutes
The Spiral Staircase
Karen Armstrong

When your heart opens you know it in the stiff of your ribs
the slow of your knee
Everything breathes, even the crease of your doubt,
the no in your lips
Wouldn’t it be wonderful to feel that?
If I were a witch I’d cast a spell that wouldn’t let me forget how easy it is to be kind to myself:
It would have it’s own incantation, sung by the bones wishing in my skin
to be held and touched
And I have to be open as it can’t get in if I’m not
I want to cultivate that and if I don’t say it out loud
it might never come true

Thankful now for moments of clarity like these
And for the wisdom of my future me, the one who knows how good I am

If I were a witch I’d…
oh wait…I’d…hold on…
close your eyes

say this one
with me

“cultivate the kind of robust gladness” by Sasha on her balcony

By: Sasha 07/20/201807/23/2018

creative writing, five, five minute story, five minutes, ongoing writing practice, these five minutes, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing project

Friday July 20, 2018
7:32am
5 minutes
The Spiral Staircase
Karen Armstrong

I try to cut you loose but then you show up when I’m least expecting.
Today you’re in my jaw. Asshole. It’s already tight.

There isn’t enough space for you! I try…

I use the heel of my hands and massage where you are, hoping I’ll squeeze you out like toothpaste – slow and gunky.
Nope.
You hold on.
You always were stubborn.

The last time I saw you was when I was going down and you were coming up at Bathurst station.
“SHIT!” You said.
“Hi.” I said.

“I thought you lived in Vancouver?”
“I do. I’m just visiting.”
“Want to grab a coffee?”
“I, um, I… I can’t. I’m meeting a friend.”
“I’m a friend.”
“Um…”
“I’m just teasing you.”
“Yup.”

“as I grow old and my friends leave me.” by Julia on the couch

Thursday July 19, 2018

1:30am

5 minutes

Psalms For Praying

Nan C. Merrill

As I grow old my friends leave me wanting them more

I get cravings for their hearts to soar

And for their souls to laugh

I want nothing more than their rise

Their absolute and inevitable rise.

And my friends leave me.

They leave me when I have stopped needing them

They leave when I am no longer hunting them

They know I do not stay loyal on only one shoulder

Carry the weight of knowing them on both

I want to be your last leaving friend

And you can let me love you that way

“as I grow old and my friends leave me.” by Sasha outside at work

By: Sasha 07/19/201807/23/2018

Uncategorized

Thursday July 19, 2018
2:10pm
5 minutes
Psalms For Praying
Nan C. Merrill

Sam is off with Pete and Justin at the lake. I hate sleeping alone. I wonder what they’re doing. Fishing, that was the plan. But what else are they doing? Are they living off of chips and canned soups? What does Nana keep at the cabin anyway? I should’ve helped to organize groceries. The least I could do given how good Sam’s been to me with all the work stress, and my Mom. He’s out of cell range so I can’t call. I texted a few times but haven’t heard back. Why do I feel so strange and empty and ill when Sam’s away?! How can I be this kind of woman?! I never thought that – …

“What happened to the women?” by Julia on the toilet

Wednesday July 18, 2018
11:37pm
5 minutes
A Warm Moist Salty God
Edwina Gateley

They all bled out

I know this

I was one of them

The insides twisting

The ache throbbing

No couch soft enough to hold us

No water hot enough to soothe

We all bled out

The way we once did

Hoping someone would come along and offer some supplies

Something to tend to the womb

Wound

Nobody came along

And we got good at smiling when one of the muscles spasmed

When one of our girls got some feeling back

We couldn’t complain about it

Who would understand?

Who would know what we know?

One day we would stop smiling on the inside

That’s when things fell apart

There is only so much

Unfolding

Unravelling

a pulse can take

“What happened to the women?” by Sasha at her desk

Wednesday July 18, 2018
12:33pm
5 minutes
A Warm Moist Salty God
Edwina Gateley

They gather us in the camp. All of us strong ones, all of us pretty ones, all of us fat ones, all of us supple ones, all of us bleeding ones. The camp smells like cat food and compost. Some women hold their noses. I don’t want to be that obvious. I plug it from the inside, like Duncan taught me when we were at the cabin and had to shit in the old outhouse. The guards outnumber the women. This is what it’s come to.

“What’s your problem?” Shirley asks a red-headed guard who can’t be more than twenty two. He’s been watching her as she scrubs the floors of the mess hall.

“I don’ got a problem but chu…” He isn’t from here.

“I find it terribly strange that – ” Shirley can’t even get her words out. PhD.

“ENOUGH!” Captain shoots his rifle out the window.

“Age is a work of Art” by Sasha on her balcony

By: Sasha 07/17/201807/23/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectday, five minutes, future, poem, poetry, short writes short reads, sun, these five minutes, unedited

Tuesday July 17, 2018
11:47pm
5 minutes
from a Banyen Books bookmark

Let’s separate morning from night
with a stretch of time that breezy and blue

Let’s name a child Noon and call to her
when the grass is hot
when the sun is high

when the pavement is a griddle for tip toes

Age is the goal in this world
how much of it you can have and
how much of it you can’t share

I’ll love you to sleep
from now until eternity
no matter how much you gut me

Across this world
we’ll wander
a caravan of hope

“Age is a work of Art” by Julia on her bed

Tuesday July 17, 2018
11:40pm
5 minutes
from a Banyen Books bookmark

It is an ever changing thing today I got older and younger during the same conversation

I see myself reflected sometimes so young in her eyes

And when I see her as wise and older and let her be, she is kind

Remarkably kind

And generous with her heart

And that is age painted pretty

That is the poster child the reason why, the trailer for the good show kindness is age and love is old

Love is young

Love is ever changing

I hear myself laughing the way she does and I know we are born from the same legs, mixed in the same sky

“There are no edges to my loving now.” by Julia in her bed

Monday July 16, 2018
11:02pm
5 minutes
Quoted by Rumi

there are nothing but edges
I see that
you see that
we have perfected the dance of walking on pins and needles
the bed lays flat
the floor a running river
it is easy on the tile as if the room should know better
but nothing is soft
nothing is without conditions
or consequence
I know I am supposed to love you like a circle
like a knot
undoable
I’m meant to give much more over than I do
but I do not love anything like a circle
except for the idea that I do not

“There are no edges to my loving now.” By Sasha on her balcony

Monday July 16, 2018
6:44pm
5 minutes
Quoted by Rumi

the water of this wears me
this sweat and longing and heartbreak
and love and trust and dreaming and collision
of past-present-future
there are less edges to my loving now
that we sleep naked in the glory and mud

i set the same intention a million
times over set the timer for five minutes
twenty minutes
three days
as a marker that maybe then i’ll be
ready maybe then i’ll be healed

the words help they always do
the forest helps it always does
water helps it always
does
too

the fluid nature of love
can’t be explained can it
just as you can’t explain
the etches on the walls of
the heart
this heart
beating in my mouth
this love
this heart
fireworks in the aeorta
ventricle to ventricle
we reach towards
the now

“Are we able to live simply,” by Sasha on her balcony

By: Sasha 07/15/201807/16/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectfiction, five minutes, relationship, short writes short reads, simple, simple living, these five minutes, unedited, what does that mean?

Sunday July 15, 2018
9:32am
5 minutes
Living Buddha, Living Christ
Thich Nhat Hanh

It all started when he felt there was hole in his chest. Below his breastbone, somewhere deep inside.

“Are you okay?” She would ask and he would nod and she would take this to mean “no”, but that he didn’t really want to talk about it.

Seven months later he texts her that he wants to live more simply.

“What does that mean?” She asks, feeling her voice raise in pitch but not volume.

“I don’t know… maybe quit my job? Maybe buy a place in the country?”

“Oh. Oh wow. Really? Wow… I just – …”

“I have a hole in my chest that grows bigger and deeper and wider every day, Janessa. It’s not a way I want to live. I want to live more simply.”

“I get it.” She says, and she does and she doesn’t and they both know that.

“Are we able to live simply,” by Julia on her patio

Sunday July 15, 2018
9:26pm
5 minutes
Living Buddha, Living Christ
Thich Nhat Hanh

Every time this poor dog howls you look up at me from your book with those eyes that are trying to make a connection with mine.
I think you’re hoping that I will want one just as bad as you do; as if this three hour howling dog is helping your case.

How can we live simply with a dog suffering? Think of how much work it’ll be to love something who is always distressed.

And then I think about how you love me extra when I am visited by sadness, three hour tears streaming down my cheeks. You have some magic touch and a resevoir of love overflowing. You don’t even hide it. You give generously. You are there when I get thirsty.

And maybe we aren’t meant to live simply. Maybe some things are supposed to stretch us wide.

“I need my medicine” by Julia at S,G, and E’s house

Saturday July 14, 2018
10:05pm
5 minutes
overheard at Genavie’s house

I need this before I can do this I need the house to be cleaned the old milk to be taken out the practice of preaching

I need many things
before I can be enough

I need the light on
the story told
the writes written
I need the glory of the coming of the Lord

I need my medicine
drip drop in the throat before I can sleep
I need my mom to come
back to come back for me to not leave me here without saying goodbye

I need to watch Annie and pretend that my chance will come too
sing a little while I scrub the bathroom
tell you all the counters I’ve wiped and counting
counting to remind myself I am here and they are comig back
that they haven’t forgotten me
that I am enough

I need my medicine
this healing
this grace

“I need my medicine” by Sasha on her balcony

By: Sasha 07/14/201807/16/2018

creative writing, fiction, ongoing writing practice, short fiction, Uncategorized, writing, writing practisefiction, five minutes, medicine, short writes short reads, these five minutes, unedited

Saturday July 14, 2018
7:55pm
5 minutes
overheard at Genavie’s house

I need my medicine, Charlie! I need it right now! If you don’t bring me my medicine, I’m gonna divorce you, Charlie! CHARLIE! Oh. There you are. Thank you. Thank you so much. You know that I can’t make it down the stairs on bad days and today is a bad bad day! Charlie? Are you upset? Why do you look irritated? Are you – … Are you angry? Doctor said that you’d need to pay extra close attention during healing and that means medicine every three hours. You know that. How could you possibly be irritated?! Shit. It’s almost three thirty. Bella and Jeffrey need to be picked up because Hennie is at chemo! You have to go. The drugs haven’t kicked in yet!

“It gave her a deep sinking feeling” by Sasha at Vancouver Folk Festival

By: Sasha 07/13/201807/15/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, poem, short poem, tiny poem, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectfeminism, five minutes, future, grandmother, these five minutes, unedited, woman, women

Friday July 13, 2018
9:21pm
5 minutes
Cujo
Stephen King

I was bred to say yes
Keep my head down
Eyes have power I learned
too young
Waiting for the train
I accidentally look up
and he’s leering and
cat-calling and
asking how much

Taught to nod
Use the delicacy
of the clavicle
for broccoli and wine

I was bred to open
to suck
to receive
to mm-hmm
to reveal
to tempt
to oblige

Waiting at the gas station
whistles and waves

How far we’ve come
from how it used to be
my grandmother says

When women were lauded
were bowed to
were worshipped

“It gave her a deep sinking feeling” by Julia on the couch at Alma Beach Manor

Friday July 13, 2018
9:27pm
5 minutes
Cujo
Stephen King

She spent an hour reorganizing the spices. Rosemary in front,
Chinese five spice in the back. Somehow she has more Chinese five spice than anything else. Well not somehow. She doesn’t like it. She’s only used it once.
After that she moved the sugars and honey to a different shelf. “Everything has its home” and now everything looks like company’s coming.
That was the plan all along
But really it was just the catalyst. She needs clean cupboards so she can see all the spices she isnt using.
She slammed the cupboards around as if he wasn’t sleeping in the other room.
She didn’t feel much like being quiet. Especially now that she had “exhausted him” into an early evening nap.
He said some things earlier that she rebutted well but the tears came as they always do, as the Niagara Falls always does. She wondered if he was right about one thing. Maybe two.

“a flickering lamp, a phantom” by Julia on the couch at the Airbnb

Thursday July 12, 2018
9:41pm
5 minutes
Diamond Sutra
Buddha

We sit in the dark.
Connie tells me, “These wafer cookies taste like they cost only a dollar.”
I tell her, “that’s because they do cost only a dollar. People who buy these don’t by them for quality, they buy them because they’re trying to bury the thing inside them that keeps them itching.”
Connie says, “Who has a face long enough to shove one of these in without biting?”
And I say, “What in the world are you talking about?”
Connie says, “These things leave crumbs everywhere like a motherfucker. I’m not Hansel and Gretel. I don’t need someone to follow the path of them all the way back to me. Me and my face trying to hide the sadness in my stomach.”
I don’t really know why she keeps eating them except for the fact that she might be one of those people who eat the wafers that the people trying to bury the thing inside them buy so she can at least complain about them.
Connie says, “They leave a film on the roof of your mouth. What is that?”
“Regret”, I tell her. “Or something like it.”

“a flickering lamp, a phantom” by Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 07/12/2018

Uncategorized

Thursday July 12, 2018
12:27pm
5 minutes
Diamond Sutra
Buddha

The lamp flickers in the window of the cabin and Gemma squints to see if she can make out Liam’s shadow. Maybe he’s gone to bed. She’s taken to walking in the woods before bed. Henry, their mutt, goes with her. She craves the darkness. She wanders until her cheeks get cold. That’s her sign it’s time to get back.

“Do you have to go tonight, babe?” Liam had asked, pulling her into a hug. She’s taller than him, so she rested her head on his head.

“Yeah, I do. I’ll be home before you’re asleep. Promise.” Liam kissed her, and she stepped into rubber boots and left.

Henry barked.

“The joy of bursting and bearing fruit” by Sasha on her balcony

By: Sasha 07/11/201807/12/2018

creative writing, ongoing writing practice, prose, Uncategorized, unedited, writing, writing practise, writing projectbody, children, desire, five minutes, longing, motherhood, prose, unedited

Wednesday July 11, 2018
9:30pm
5 minutes
Earth Prayers
John Soos

It’s on my mind on my tongue on my heart in my hands. It’s everywhere. An obsession like none other that I’ve ever felt. A craving deep inside my body, and beyond my body. Of the body and not of the body. This profound ache. This transcendental desire. The distance from here to there feels long, but short, too. In moments when I value quiet, independence, my body being only my own. So much hinges on this, this choice, this timing, this trust, this surrender. I can’t know anything but right now, we all can’t, really. I read articles, I look at photos, I ache. I try to explain it to you, or it just is explained through the markings in my words, on my tongue; the etchings of my heart make a potato print onto yours.

“The joy of bursting and bearing fruit” by Julia at her desk

By: Julia 07/11/2018

Uncategorized5 minutes, baby, carry, child, child-bearing, choice, creative, daily, decision, dip, family, generous, gift, giving, infant, inner world, joy, life, mama, mother, motherhood, poem, poet, poetry, ready, self-love, teacher, these five minutes, tiny, unedited, witness, write everyday, Writing

Wednesday July 11, 2018
6:58am
5 minutes
Earth Prayers
John Soos

One day conceivable from here, from now, from everything that I know,
I will hold a tiny, living thing in my arms and I will feel this great love…
The one everyone talks about
the changing kind, the one that gently nudges, inspires, forces you into bearing witness

Each moment between now and then is a teacher
A dream
I will want this when I have gotten good at turning the love inward
At being a witness to myself
And there is much to see. This life has been long already, the one before this one longer still, I imagine, and it is going going
I would very much like to give a tiny, living thing, my heart beat in excess
I want to give everything away when I know I don’t need to hold onto anything I’ve gotten but a tiny, living thing
Everything of use to me is being shown to me from the inside out and the whole world knows it
At least it does if I give permission to the whole world to be within me

Last night I felt a connection with a tiny, living thing
that did not burst forth from my own joy,
but was able to recognize it
We rocked there, our heads touching
and that was enough for me to know

“Mixed Media-Pastels-Drawings-Photos” by Julia outside her apartment

Tuesday July 10, 2018
11:02pm
5 minutes
http://www.johnmcalpineart.com

Tells me he can’t decide what kind of artist he wants to be
I wonder if he really has a choice
Not to say you can’t do more than one kind of art
That’s like saying you can’t ever cut your mushrooms tail first
There’s no one way to do art but I want him to know
the kind of artist he is
What he stands for
What he looks at
What he sees
What he wants to say
Or fuck
What he must
He can paint and take photos and write
He can dance and sing and sew
He can sculpt and build and carve
He can dream and drink and draw
He can also be true to himself
He can cut the mushrooms lengthwise
Down the middle
In slices
In quarters
In bits
Regardless
Mushrooms are a part of this
The dish called for them
It wasn’t really up to him

“Mixed Media-Pastels-Drawings-Photos” by Sasha at her desk

By: Sasha 07/10/201807/12/2018

creative writing, nonfiction, ongoing writing practice, poem, short poem, tiny poem, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectArt, creativity, drawing, five minutes, memory, these five minutes, unedited

Tuesday July 10, 2018
8:31am
5 minutes
http://www.johnmcalpineart.com

I used to draw for hours
sat at the kitchen table
lost in purple and blue

Pastels worn down to nubs
and the rounded edges of
beeswax crayons
watercolour pools
paintbrushes left unwashed
and hardened

Somewhere along the way
I stopped
Was is when I started
writing songs?
Writing stories?
Performing?

Somewhere along the way
I stopped

Why does it feel
as though there isn’t
enough space
for all the creativity?

“Where every member is a minister” by Julia on her couch

Monday July 9, 2018
9:50pm
5 minutes
from a business card

I got this card from someone who I don’t know but might be reading this.

Free Press, he said, I said, yeah, good, why not?

I thought he was selling something,trying to get me to come over to the side of all the glowing. I might have gone with him if I didn’t have a bus to catch.

Where you headin’, Chicago?

Maybe he lived there. At the bus station, in Chicago. When I asked him he said he was exactly where he needed to be.

I could live with that, I thought.

I could learn from this and all the other apparition-wise sentiments.

He gave me cereal. In a ziplock bag, for later.

“Where every member is a minister” by Sasha at her desk

Monday July 9, 2018
10:03am
5 minutes
from a business card

She dreams of parliament. She dreams of platforms. She dreams of knowing how to articulate all the change that she wants to make and that everyone listens. She dreams she’s speaking to a cabinet of women. Some are stretching. Some are breastfeeding. Some are rolling their eyes. Some are interrupting. She dreams that they find their way. She dreams of a world where she might prioritize childcare, elder care, health care. CARE. She dreams of being allowed to fail and that failure won’t haunt her. She dreams of risk. She dreams of loss. She dreams of calling another leader and deciding she will unleash the tidal wave of wrong-doings.

“I do not know how to smile” by Sasha on her balcony

By: Sasha 07/08/201807/12/2018

creative writing, love poem, ongoing writing practice, poem, short poem, tiny poem, Uncategorized, writing, writing practise, writing projectfive minutes, happy, joy, life, poem, unedited

Sunday July 8, 2018
11:13pm
5 minutes
From a text

A woman
asks me why
I’m so happy
like how could I possibly be
so entitled to joy

Isn’t this
our birthright?
Now to convince
the masses

The forest
knows how to
bend and sway

This woman
looks skeptical
like I must be
on something

That was a time
when I was riding
without a helmet

That was a time
when I was kissing
a lot of people

August 2018
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