Tuesday May 16, 2017
from an interview wth Ingrid Michaelson
Her favourite thing to do on her days off (Monday and Tuesday) is
to go to the vintage stretch along Elderwood St.
Right when the stores open. She thumbs through
silk and taffeta, satin and spandex.
She doesn’t try anything on.
That’s her rule,
at least until she’s out of debt. But she touches
the clothes, like lovers, like a darling
kitten, like the world she wishes she lived in more.
This morning she buys a scarf for three dollars
blue with small yellow daisies.
Standing on the sidewalk,
the sun on her face,
she ties it around her neck and continues on.
Sunday May 7, 2017
From a tweet by Mara Wilson
The sweet sluttery of fingering through your sister’s closet, touching the dewy tank tops in maroon, purple and grey, the high-waisted jeans, the eyelet dress that you know for a fact she got for thirty-two dollars at the thrift store in Kingston. It’s a drug you can’t quit – touching her stuff – and you wonder about the morality of it, the fairness of it, the injustice of it. You know that every time you do it, you cross a boundary. You know that. But you keep doing it.
Sunday May 7, 2017
from a tweet by Mara Wilson
Jess helps me get ready to go out and meet my co-star, the director, and the show runners. She lets me borrow her black pumps and the sheer olive top that looks great with my faux-leather pants. She lends me jewelry. She boosts me up.
I arrive, nervous, to the cocktail bar. I am tipsy after the one drink I let him order for me. I almost leave my bag.
At the restaurant I am drunk again. I order a dish but I have no idea what I’m getting. The drunk laughs. The drunk tries to hide her shame that she ended up just getting a pasta. The drunk spills pasta in cream sauce on Jess’s sheer olive shirt. She stains it. She almost leaves her bag.
Wednesday, April 6, 2016
From a text
There’s a pile of laundry on the table and no one’s sure why
No one moves it because no one’s sure if it’s safe to touch
Toast crumbs and pizza crust bits and a smear of ranch dressing
The pile of laundry is an unintentional cotton centrepiece
Yellow and green and white and black
At least twenty one days
It almost looks beautiful
A few drops of candle wax
A stain of wine and tea and balsamic vinegar
“Whose stuff is that?” You finally ask
After being out late and eating too much ramen and spicy chocolate
“No idea…” I say, drinking down a mouthful of too hot tea
“Why haven’t you moved it?” You say laying down on the blue concrete of the kitchen floor
“Why haven’t you?”
Then it’s a different story
A digging of the heels into mushy ground
Then it’s a commitment
A too-tight ring around a too-fleshy finger
Seven years later
The pile of clothes covered in dust
You’ve been gone since last Winter
And everytime time I see it I hate you and I love you
At the same time
Thursday September 10, 2015
from Sasha’s transcriptions
My mother didn’t know how to sew so I’d spend hours at my Aunt Winnie’s house watching her hem skirts, and braid old mops to use as hair for the dolls she’d give out at Christmas. Aunt Winnie liked to talk to herself while she worked, mumbling “Okay Win, this time, straight lines, straight straight lines.” Or, “One thread, two thread, three thread, four.” I would watch Aunt Winnie get herself over any hump, or out from any rock she found herself under. And if clothes got ruined she could fix them! The most self-sustaining thing I ever knew to be in my family was having the ability to sew. She would show me on her sewing machine, sit me on her lap so I could watch up close how to install the bobbin.
Wednesday, July 22, 2015
from the Standardized Patient website
I’m really upset because I shrunk my favourite yellow shorts in the dryer even though I was following the care instructions to a t. I read everything over, I made sure the temperatures we correct. And now when I wear them they don’t look like they did before. They look like the shorts you try to wear when you’re not sure of how to actually dress: you know they’re sort of right but they’re not working at all for your body type. They shouldn’t be this mangled now and I no longer have a bright pair of shorts to wear to Deanna’s birthday. She specifically requested bright bottoms and black tops and now I have to figure this out. I am always the one with the bright bottoms and black tops but tonight I’m gonna be the only idiot who doesn’t know how to do laundry! It’s so embarrassing. Deanna always look stylish and put together. I can’t show up to her themed birthday party with bottoms that don’t fit! They fit the colour criteria but the style is way off! So I am asking you, ambassadors for Forever 21, if you could do something about this ASAP. I read the instructions and followed them. Is this a manufacturers’ failure???
Sunday, June 7, 2015
From a sign on Queen’s Quay
“I’m glad you’re here,” you said.
“I’m sorry for grabbing your arm that hard,” you said.
“Let’s go to the airport and buy tickets to wherever the next flight’s going,” you said.
Me, in my mother’s old lavender sundress, braless, six days of stubble laughing in my armpits. You, a denim shirt and black cut-offs, On The Road in your back pocket, the pages a promise of your wanderlust.
“Let’s have cake for dinner,” you said.
“Can you make me salad with exactly 15 green peas in it?” you said.
“I would impregnate you right now if we had the money and the bananas in the fruit basket,” you said.
Thursday April 2, 2015
She felt a tiny bit bad about it but not bad enough to change.
Add an extra zero here.
Photocopy a signature.
Scratch this out and add that and BOOM!
She’s walking in those shoes she’s been eyeing since Christmas.
She’s picking up the tab at lunch and brunch and happy hour.
Martha wonders what’s changed.
“Where are you getting all these new clothes?”
She whispers because Mr. Boss doesn’t like when they talk about lady things.
Mr. Boss likes it when they keep quiet, keep pretty, keep working.
“Gifts,” she replies, licking an envelope.
It slices her tongue,
the kind of cut that won’t stop bleeding,
that makes her question her choices.
She wraps toilet paper around her tongue in the washroom,
looking at her hands,
wondering when it was that she got so pale.
Monday March 23, 2015 at Holy Oak Cafe
Overheard at Higher Grounds
Oh I can’t be seen with you. I can’t be seen with you. I told you not to wear that damn New Years shirt. I must have said it a thousand billion times. And now the only explanation for you wearing it tonight when it matters more than you’ll ever fully grasp, is that God is testing me. But do you know what the downside is? I don’t give a flying fuck if I fail God’s stupid little test because I don’t need his rewards. That’s right. I don’t need anything from someone who is going to dangle opportunities for success right in my face and then snatch them away with one touch of the world’s most hideous shirt. And he puts it on my boyfriend. To test and torture. I swear to you it would be better if you wore zero shirts to this fucking wedding than the God-awful, God-testing one you’re wearing right now. Please stand the fuck away from me. Just go over to the other side of the room where the haunting and painful pattern of your God-damn stupid fucking shirt can’t be seen or heard.
Monday March 23, 2015 at Higher Grounds
Overheard at Higher Grounds
I choose my sweaters carefully. I only have six of them and each has a very particular role. The forest green one, purchased for my Engagement Party that took place around four long picnic tables in a huge park, has now become worn and over-washed. I refuse to get rid of it, though, as I so love the memories associated and the high neckline, perfect over a collared shirt. Does one need to hand wash sweaters? The black v-neck, one of those crosses between a sweater and a shirt, is tight and sexy. When I wear it I feel like I am a real woman. Gold hoop earrings and boyfriend jeans are it’s perfect partners. It has a hole in the left armpit that I’ve stitched up several times. I’ve had it since my early twenties. I’ve gone a year without wearing it, but choosing to keep it in the Annual Spring Purge means that I know a time will return when I crave it’s clinginess and slightly washed-out colour.
Sunday January 25, 2015
It’s okay if you wanna talk about the rain and where to get the best push up bra in this rainy city. It’s okay if you wanna not eat sugar (even the kind that’s like a birthday present from Mother Nature… Maple syrup, anyone?) It’s okay if you wanna leave yourself every once and a while, vis a vis bourbon or weed or MDMA. It’s okay if you bail on me, for the third time in two weeks, via a sad face and a missed call (me to you). It’s okay if you wanna purge your closet, selling your clothes for a fraction of what you paid, only to spend more on new clothes and new clothes and new clothes. It’s okay if you forget about the anniversary of my brother’s death and then ask why I’m not coming out tonight and then get awkward when I say why. It’s okay if you just wanna come over and lie on the floor with me and suck your thumb like you used to and be in the big silence.
Tuesday June 3, 2014
This American Life podcast
They’re both wearing V-neck T-shirts (black and blue) and cardigans over top (grey and lighter blue). Haircuts like men, like the popular haircut for men right now, a bit combed over, part spread like margarine. Mancuts. They’re scholars. They’re studying feminism, all the waves of it, all the ups and the valleys of it. The taste of it. They’re wearing scholarly shoes (black and brown). Their shoes speak to their intellect. They write with HB pencils, practising impermanence, erasing away the “his” in herstory. When they fuck, it’s lighter than their bodies, it’s light like sparkles, carried by the air. When they sleep their dreams are mirrors of one another. “I’ve learned it’s better to make them like you and then tell them how what you do is a little bit weird,” one says to the other.
Thursday January 30, 2014
I was born in a big city
A big big city
Lots of doctors
Lots of people saying they’re gonna do great things
Lots of immigrants trying to prove they made the right decision in coming here
I was born where I now am
I left for a while, barely knew it was my first home until two decades later
Lots of people
Lots of people like my family but even more unlike them
The ones I didn’t realize also lived here
When you’re young you don’t know
You just don’t know what the composition of your city is
You think it’s smaller than it is
You think it’s bigger than it is
You grow up and you leave where you had no choice in living in the first place
You come back to your big big city
And you try to fit in like you never left
You try wearing the clothes of your city
Try smoking the grass of your city
And when you’re away from where you knew, that’s all of a sudden when you need to write about it
The mean kids
The narrow minded views
The cheese factories
The empty highways
Cause you write about what you know