Wednesday April 16, 2014
4:55pm at Bodhi Coffee
from a Sheraton Hotel Voucher
There was a sign that she couldn’t help but stare at. It looked like a child had drawn the font, cut out each letter one by one, and pasted them akk to it without adult supervision. She was captivated by the colours, the shapes, the unique feeling it made her connect with. It read “Do The Right Thing. Do It ‘Till You Die.” It seemed like US Army propaganda from the 40s, but it looked like it was made only yesterday, or this morning, even, not giving the glue enough time to dry properly. The rest of the font was too small to see from where she was sitting. She didn’t want to move just to go up to it, feeling a little self-conscious that the sign, the poster from yesterday or today, had worked its magic on her. So she stayed where she was and glanced over at it hanging in the window only every other minute, and only after first looking all around it to make sure it seemed like she just had a curious and inquisitive eye. Nobody was looking at it. She wondered if the person responsible for making it or posting it up was sitting in the cafe with her, watching her watch the damn thing.
Saturday February 1, 2014 at The Holy Oak
The True Secret of Writing
I had just spent the day talking to Olivia about her juice cleanse and how she felt invigorated by life and her own body and the new colour of her urine. I was half listening to her go on about it and half just imagining her peeing every seven minutes as if the juice was speaking to her through her urethra. That’s literally where my mind went, so when she asked me how mine was going I just said, “so great!” She was like, “where is yours?” And she meant my juice. She said it as she was drinking back a goopey red thing that looked more like period blood than anything, and I waited before I answered to see if she’d get those “strawberry wings” on her mouth…
“I drank my morning one at home!” I told her. I lied. I always lied to Olivia. Truth is, I had eaten an egg and mushroom tuna melt on marble rye and I was so damn pleased with myself that I didn’t even feel bad for bailing on our “joint cleanse”. She looked at me from the corner of her eye and paused. A little red period burp escaped her wet lips. “Oops! Excuse me!” I suppose her juice was speaking through her again…
Friday October 18, 2013 at Cafe Pamenar
The PACT Conference 2007 Keynote Speech
According to Zara’s research, and by research I mean her general observations of random people in her German class, she had concluded that most people with problems concentrating were not merely under-stimulated, but boring individuals. Zara’s mother used to say, There is no such thing as boredom! Look around you. Don’t you see a world of opportunity? Then she would pass out and drop her half-full wine glass onto the rug and stain a new section of the living room, creating a beautiful array of disappointment and tactless parenting. Of course, people who drink in excess, were never bored, Zara speculated. How could one with so much fear of living in reality ever be bored? She meant it as sarcastic judgement at first and then re-evaluated. Maybe drinkers weren’t truly bored… but scared. Maybe the two didn’t go hand in hand after all. Zara watched her mother drape herself across the lounge chair she made her father buy her three summers ago when it got “too hot to stand”.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013 at the CSI Coffee Pub
From Kat’s warm-up at the these five minutes: resident writing group
Aching, a little sore today. probably not going to make it to the gym, but fuck me, what else is new. Started at 6am this morning. fucking Dee couldn’t get her shit together to call me before 5 on a night where I wasn’t in an almost comas as i’d expect anyone else but Dee to be in because she’s the only one I know who works the morning zombie apocalypse shift. Rog called med to double check that I was coming in. I didn’t answer him, I just said fuck you by pressing the pound key until he hung up. Didn’t know what the world looked like on that end: the sun rising, and me rising with it as opposed to running alongside it with my leather jacket flapping open, trying to race it to see who could get to the end first. I usually win.
Fucking Dee. Probably dead somewhere. She never misses her mornings.
I brought myself a slow burning tab of Ecstasy to keep me going through the morning rush. On days like these, I put on a big t-shirt, and throw my messy hair under a hat and just fucking yawn it out.