Sunday February 2, 2014 at The Fringe Creation Lab
these five minutes: writer’s workout
TJ’s got her hands in her pockets like she’s some kinda cool kid, like she forget to lock the door. TJ blows bubbles with her gum and lets them bubbles pop on her own face and then she peels it off, bit by bit, and drops the gum balls on the carpet. When TJ makes a peanut butter sandwich she eats a spoonful of straight peanut butter, straight heart attack. She uses the same spoon for the sandwich. Who makes a sandwich with a spoon, anyway?!
Sam says nothing. He watches her and sometimes makes a small grunting sound. TJ has chosen to forget which sound means “good” and which sound means “bad”. TJ has disentangled herself from those words altogether. It’s all grey to her – the sky, the sidewalk, Sam’s hair, the snow.
Saturday February 1, 2014 at The Holy Oak
The True Secret of Writing
Walked up to the counter and thought, “this is the first day of the rest of my life.” The guy in the orange toque said, “What would you like?” “A reformation?” He didn’t get my joke, or whatever it was. I ordered a half sandwich (tuna), sat down and waited. When the guy came with the sandwich I said, “sorry for being weird. I’m having a rough week…” He smiled. He started to walk away. “I’m just… I got evicted. I’m pretty much homeless as of next month. And my family’s not from here so it’s pretty…” he turned around. “Sorry to hear that,” he said. I felt like an asshole. I felt like a walking “over-share”. I ate my sandwich. A minute later the guy came back. “Here’s the other half,” he smiled. “I think you need it more than I do. Tuna is the best.” I started to cry. “Shitshitshit,” I said, blubbering mayo and bits of fish and celery. “It’s okay…” He gave me some napkins. He looked sorry for me. He looked gentle and sweet and like he probably has really soft flannel sheets. When it was time for me to go, I left a twenty on the table. Even though it wasn’t the kinda place where you tip.
Friday January 31, 2014
The Actor’s Survival Guide
Jon S. Robbins
When I tell you that I have a bladder infection I don’t want you to say, “Gross”. I want you to go to the market and buy cranberries and press juice using your palms. They’ll be dyed red for days but that’s just a sign of your devotion. When I come home after losing my bus pass I don’t want you to laugh. I want you to trudge with me, holding my hand, through the sludge, picking up every chocolate bar wrapper and soggy newspaper, wondering if it’s it. When I tell you that I’m having doubts, I want you to tell me the truth, that you are too, that it’s impossible not to, that we’re signing up for something big and serious. When I say, “Goodnight”, you say “Goodnight”, and in that moment, all is well, in that moment it’s you and me and our stormy future and I’m calm and I love you.