Monday August 14, 2017
from a greeting card
It’s hard to hold each other because we tend to be busy figuring out where to put our hands on our own skin. Where does this limb go? Tucked into the corner of self and hope? Where do we put this paper cut? I don’t know how to give you all of me if my wrists cry out in the night to be touched. Some things aren’t meant to be shared. I have stashed cookies all over this place. In containers above the sink, in baggies nestled in the secret pouches of the living room, in plain sight, behind the placemats. Some things aren’t meant for other people. Once I figure out just how much sneaking I need to do to feel like I haven’t given all of myself away, I move my spots. I stop for a while. I become satisfied with the memory of stealing opportunities that no one needs to know about. I get obsessed with wondering where to hide this hand; this ingrown hair.
Wednesday, January 6, 2016
Overheard at Platform Seven
Marta was busy teaching herself Spanish on her new audio learning app. She had her headphones in at all hours of the day and out of nowhere she’d blurt out a “Donde esta el banio?” or a “buenas noches!” even if she was in the middle of a conversation or an activity that did not require Spanish. Marta’s little sister, Leah, had asked her to help her make cookies for her bake sale and Marta told her “me gustaria help you”. Marta pictured herself making cookies for Ambrosio, the ridiculously hot life guard at the community pool who was the reason for her Spanish lessons in the first place.
Thursday December 10, 2015 at BATW
Thursday, December 10, 2015
It’s Christmas Eve and Iris is going over to Reid’s house to give him the cookies she baked from scratch, burnt once, remade, and packaged in her mother’s favourite tin, tied with a red bow.
Reid is shaving his stray mustache hairs that have only disappointed him this entire year. He doesn’t want to look like a Berenstain Bear. He doesn’t want Iris to think he’s trying to be something he’s not.
Reid is thinking about the gift he bought for Iris but is second-guessing whether she will like it or not. He didn’t do any research but his older sister said that all girls like stuffed animals so it was a safe bet. Reid is 99% sure that Iris is not like all girls…
Iris doesn’t want to show up early or late, so she walks around the block three times before knocking on Reid’s door.
Monday, August 24, 2015
Sunday morning quiet while Nanny sleeps
Baking cookies with rainbow sprinkles and peanut butter bits
Bit a oatmeal
Oatmeal is a health food, yeah?
Molly’s got that look on her face, all
Steals a handful of sprinkles and before you know it she’s all green lips and yellow tongue and she’s all sugar sugar high
Molly’s keeled over and says
“I need to go to the hospital! My appendix is bursting!”
It isn’t true but whatever
Put her in her snowsuit and walk to the bus stop and then she’s fine
And then she’s a-okay
And then she wants to go back home and finish those cookies
Nanny woke up and is already into the brandy
“What are you girls up to?”
Slurred words like slug juice
Monday, April 13, 2015
The Blue Bottle Bag
Please remove the idea you have of me in your head. I’m asking you this because I’m desperately trying to fix myself. I don’t know how else to do it but to make sure there’s a clean slate first. I’m aware that I’m asking a lot. Maybe too much. But I wouldn’t be asking at all if I didn’t think it was worth the effort. I’ve just always had this plan for myself. This vision of who I was supposed to be. And I’ve got to admit, I haven’t been so great at upholding that vision. Completing anything that I imagined for myself, that I had set out to do. In fact, I had gotten good, great even, at being the person who doesn’t do anything at all with the intentions for being the person I am supposed to be. So. Maybe it’s more for me than for you, but, in the end it’s for you. In the end it’s for everyone. I know that sounds self-indulgent. I guess cause I have indulged so little in the things that would actually make me better, and so much in the things that don’t matter from one day to the next. I’m trying to sell my cookies here. I’m trying to lay out all my ingredients and convince you that they’re good enough to make you want to try them, buy them, and recommend them to your friends. I’m not selling them for a lot of money either. Not yet, anyway.
Sunday March 29, 2015
A TIFF kids TTC ad
Join me on the moon
and we’ll shoot spit balls down below
trying to hit the people in love
the ones who tongue kiss at the bus stop
we’ll laugh and we’ll touch our skin together
we’ll weave a human bracelet out of our heart strings
we’ll tie them together so when one of us moves
the other gets tugged along
back and forth
we seesaw with our metaphors, two points of equilibrium
I’ll bake cookies for the occasion
buttery ones with some kind of special chip
not chocolate though cause what’s the point?
I’ll save you a spot right beside me on the mountain
and we’ll send paper airplanes of our promises to each other
down below so somebody else may see
just what I mean to you
and just what you mean to me
on my list it’ll say To Hold Your Face In My Hands Once A Day
on yours you could put something along the lines of
To Smile From The Core Of Me Whenever Possible
And we’ll have designed the rules to our very own board game
Making sure that number one is We Both Win Always Always
Friday July 25, 2014
Next thing I know he’s baking me effing chocolate chip cookies! And he’s putting molasses in them. And brown butter. Like. Shut the front door, right? I know. I was losing my effing mind, Kel. Losing it. And these cookies? Better than your Mom’s. Better than those old Toll House kind. The best goddamn cookies I’m ever effing eaten. They are not the healthiest things… A whole cup of butter in there, a cup and a half of sugar. Holy shizama, but… Like, who even cares, you know? When something tastes that good? How am I supposed to leave this one? I practically proposed on the spot! I think he’s the one. Seriously. He has every Norah Jones album? Even her new one! I didn’t even know she had a new one!
Tuesday February 18, 2014
I was waiting outside your back gate with a cinnamon coffee for you and a batch of failed cookies. It was your favourite kind of day: the one with the light snow and the zero regrets policy. You did that for yourself once a year, you said, and this day just happened to be your birthday. The reject cookies I ultimately brought over were burnt on the bottoms and much too salty every second bite. I tried a couple rounds but there was a lot of pressure to get them right because they were supposed to be your favourite. Not that they were difficult or challenging due to their obscure nature. You never cared for fancy things. For things that looked like they were trying too hard. Chocolate chip. You liked the simplistic, classic, easy to make chocolate chip ones. The ones you can’t even really mess up. I brought them for you anyway hoping you secretly liked the underdog cookies: the ones that needed a bit more love and understanding.
Sunday February 9, 2014
Putting on my black lacy thing, I’m like Oh yeah this is all for you. Let the back ties stay a bit loose so he can see my skin and the birthmark that looks like a map of Africa. Spritz and spritz and spritz some more. Get that sweet vanilla frosting scent he likes so much and make sure it’s everywhere, on my neck, my hair, my inner thighs. He’ll go wild. I dream of it. He’ll come home and my intoxicating smell will arouse him from the door. He’ll be like Oh baby where is that mouth. I need to put my mouth on your mouth. And I will emerge from the kitchen with my black lacy thing underneath a red apron, wearing oven mitts and carrying a tray of heart shaped cookies with little inscriptions thoughtfully detailed on each one. Got some D’angelo playing. Oh yeah. He’ll take one look at me homemaking in my heels and he will accidentally yell Beyonce?? And I will giggle as I walk up him with that perfect little walk I do that drives him so perfectly crazy.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
from Haroon Rahim Bakhsh’s memorial card
When we get there, I’ll make sure Mona knows about the car seat. Okay? I promise you, Birdie, I won’t let anything happen. Mona has the kettle ready to go, she just said to call when we’re a minute or two out so she can put it on. She’s trying, Birdie. She wants to help you, and I suppose both of us. She really is. It’s not like a judging thing. She’s truly invested in this family, and I honestly couldn’t even tell you why. She might see something in me, but quite positive it’s you she worries about. She’s maybe not had to deal with some of the same things, but I can assure you, she’s a good listener. And she understands without having to go through it all. I think that’s rare, Birdie. I think it’s nice too. If you’re still feeling uncomfortable by, I don’t know, 3pm or 4, you just let me know and we don’t have to stay. We do have to go, though, that’s part of the plan. She’s expecting us, after all, and it wouldn’t be fair to keep her waiting forever and then never show up. If you want we can even tell her right when we get there that we’re probably not sticking around. She won’t begrudge us that, but we have to at least drop in for half and hour and say hi. She’s been busy baking all morning for us. It’d be a shame to let her famous ginger cookies to go to waste.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
You’ve been walking through the flea market since two thirty and you’re getting cranky. Sam just texted and said that he’s got the flu and won’t be able to make it to your gig tonight. You haven’t responded yet. You don’t want to be mean. But you want him to know you’re sad. You grab a pink bobble necklace from a whole basket of them. The man with the curly moustache says, “Seven dollars!” You throw it back and give him your best, “Are you out of your fucking mind?” look. You continue on, really looking for a sandwich or or hot dog or a chocolate chip cookie. One of the big ones. One of the ones that’s the size of your head. A pendant catches your eye, pinned to a blue velvet board, in a gold frame. It’s a small yellow horseshoe. It reminds you of the morning. “How much?” You ask. The woman with dreadlocks and a pierced eyebrow says, looking at your flushed cheeks, “Ten?”