Wednesday, July 3, 2013
I can hear them all the way from Vancouver talking about me under the covers and confessing they never really liked that thing I did with my wrist at parties because it was too rooted in shock value to actually be positive.
I can hear them all the way from Italy, 6 hours ahead, while they hand make the gnocchi for the grilliata tomorrow, discussing how if I could just learn to let go everything would be better for me. I’d look prettier. I’d be nicer to be around.
I can hear them all the way from Cape Breton, sitting outside on their bug-infested porch,talking about how first impressions are hard to undo. How long showers and long hairs left in the drain mean something more than someone who just likes to let the water run too long.
I can hear them all the way from Ottawa, as they watch the news, talking about how my act only works on an audience and they hope for my sake the crowd never stops coming to see me. That if I just stopped for a second to be real, the walls would come down instead of being built on top of each other.
I can hear them all the way from Lucan saying that I never came back to visit because I didn’t know how to find my way back home. They talk about the one and only time I came back but didn’t stay because I no longer fit in there.