“a pair of black overalls and some scrunchies” by Sasha at UBC


Monday November 16, 2015
2:11pm
5 minutes
Julia’s diary
Age 10


Dear Diary,
We finally got a TIGGER! My Tigger came from the Round. You know the Round? Do you know things like that, Diary? I don’t know. This is my first one so I’m not exactly sure what you know and what you don’t know or if you’re just, like, me, or if you’re something else entirely! Okay. So, back to the point. Sheesh. We got my Tigger at the Round. It’s where other Tigger’s go when they lose their Mamas or their houses. We went there on Sunday, on the Sunday-before-my-birthday-party-Sunday, and we walked around and all the Tigger’s were crying! It was so sad I actually cried too. My Mama said, “Don’t cry Nelly! We’re gonna save one of these lil’ guys!” That cheered me up so I stopped. When we saw our Tigger I absolutely knew that it was ours because it looked at me like it knew me. She looked at me like she knew me. (She’s a girl Tigger.)

“My flight was $10, 200″ by Sasha on the 99 going West


Friday September 18, 2015
2:50pm
5 minutes
overheard at Parallel 49

My flight to Osaka was like ten thousand dollars. Not even kidding. I didn’t pay for it, so whatever, but when someone told me that, a receptionist at the agency, I couldn’t believe it. People LIVE on that for a year, like, I’m sure some people do. It’s kinda fucked. My apartment was in this neighbourhood in the north of the city. The agency arranged everything. There was even this, like, apartment cat. It was weird. It was docile. I’d go on castings in the morning and then come home and make flowering tea and rub this cat’s belly. No one ever told me it’s name so I just kinda… called it “cat”.

“Be aware.” by Julia at Souzan’s apartment


Monday, September 7, 2015
7:56pm
5 minutes
from a residential security poster

There’s a little cat that visits my apartment every night. Late. When everyone else in the world has gone to sleep except him and me. We’re up doing god knows what: prowling the streets, wishing there were more cheese puffs (respectively). He’s black and white and has on tiny speckle of grey right on his nose. He’s cute, but he’s confusing. Why does he visit me so late and isn’t there something he’d rather be doing? I sit out on my porch smoking Belmonts and making up video game style music. Usually I just hum it and it passes the time. But then sometimes this cat comes and I pet him, or I bring him out some tuna, or whatever I have. Some nights he brings me things too. Like last night, he came by around 4, usual time, and in his mouth he was carrying an ambiguous and bloody carcass. He dropped it at my feet. It’s still there now.

“coconut oil and coconut sugar” by Sasha on her couch


Sunday May 31, 2015
10:24pm
5 minutes
http://www.simplyquinoa.com/vegan-coconut-oil-chocolate-chip-cookies

down below the tell all tell tale there lives a man who wears a brown hat. it’s a bit too big for him. it sometimes slips down over his eyes (depending on his haircut). when he laughs you might catch a glimpse of the fact that he doesn’t have any eye teeth. it’s okay! he can still eat strawberry shortcake! down below the tell all tell tale, below the man in the brown hat, sits a calico cat, lean through the jowls and plump through the belly and hind legs. she licks herself clean (especially after dinner) and sings sad, edith piaf style songs until she falls asleep again. this is the cylce.

“Summer road trip” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Thursday April 30, 2015
8:24pm
5 minutes
from a magazine article

Nikki won Miss Bellingtown when she was eight years old and it was all downhill from there. “Shit,” she says, whenever she thinks about that. Wearing her crown, her ribbon and a blue terry cloth robe, she puts wet food down for Hushie. She recently turned twenty seven. She’s never drank a real gin and tonic, she’s never gone on a camping trip and the most intimate conversations she has are with Hushie. She calls her mother on the rotary phone, as she does every Sunday. “Mom, it’s Nik. Call me – ” And Tasha picks up the phone, out of breath, the answering machine clicking on, recording their conversation. “Nikki! The chive flowers are blooming! You’ve gotta come down here and see ’em. They’re your favourite colour of purple!” Tasha’s boyfriend, Camerson, recently moved in with her. Ever since, when they speak, Tasha half shouts. “Why are you yelling, Mom?” Nikki asks, knowing the answer. Her mother finally found love, after seventeen and a half years of looking. “Camerson says HI!” Tasha wishes her daughter would get dressed. “Why don’t you go out for a coffee with a galpal?!” “What are you talking about…” “Put some clothes on, goddamnit, and take off that stupid crown!” “I’m not wearing a crown!” “Don’t lie to me Nicole.”

“laugh-out-loud funny.” By Sasha in the bath


Wednesday January 14, 2015
10:51pm
5 minutes
From the i heart huckabees DVD case

I’m writing secrets on leaves again. It’s less poetic then it sounds. I want them to dissolve into the mud in the backyard. Chuck is buried there, maybe the secrets will sink into him. That’s what makes it hard. To sell the house. That’s what makes it the hardest. Chuck and the secrets – all of them just back there and knowing that someone else might find the bones and the veins and the letter “S” or “X”. I’ve got this one down pat – the packing and the taping. But the leaving? The leaving is tough.

“it has a song.” by Sasha on her couch


Sunday December 15, 2013
10:03pm
5 minutes
A quote by Maya Angelou

You live in a solarium
The walls and ceiling are glass
You polish them when the sun sets
Using an old T-shirt and some white vinegar
You climb up the ladder that belonged to your father
Reaching for the top
Reaching for the small circle
The mark
On a pane facing west
You have twelve cacti
You warn the cat
Repeatedly
To watch himself
The solarium has a song
You hear it humming
Mostly in the morning
Lubricated by the dew
Sometimes at night
When the moon shines silver and gold

“how desolate the landscape can be” by Sasha at her desk


Saturday May 11, 2013
7:13pm
5 minutes
Kindness
Naomi Shihab Nye


I’ve got flea bites all over my back, localized around my spine, as if the little buggers paddled down that bone-river, pillaging as they went. I run out of my room, glancing each way, hoping no one decides to escape the peace of their bedrooms, or to go for a glass of grapefruit juice, at this very moment. I look at my naked back-body in the long mirror in the hall. Quick. There are probably over thirty bites, each one a tiny monument of reddish-pink sadness. What a metaphor. What a reality. I had decided to liberate Bijou and allow her to be an Outdoor Cat. It took lots of leashed visits to the park and to the Variety Store for sour candy or cinnamon gum. She’d gone out on her own for the first time last Tuesday. I watched her with my binoculars, usually reserved for moon-gazing, as she ventured into the neighbours yard and then into a bush, out of my sight. I spent the rest of the afternoon praying and teary. She came in at dinnertime, when I called her, strutting like she was a saucy lady of the night. Bijou had never had fleas before. She was one of those poised and prissy felines, I’d even trained her to use the toilet with one of those kits you can buy online.