Wednesday September 13, 2017
Overheard at Bump n’ Grind
Last night I thought I’d woo you with a sage butter walnut sauce
in my dreams the slick pasta would make you hard instantly
then you’d fuck me on the counter top
taking breaks to slurp back another slippery noodle
Last night I made a sage butter walnut sauce
I should have grinded the nuts more
I should have put fewer in
You ate three bowls and we didn’t fuck once
You asked why I wasn’t talking
I said these walnuts are killing me
it really wasn’t funny
I told you sometimes I’m not sure how deep this
You interrupted me then, the first real thing I’d said
to tell me how much you liked the sage
I guess dreams really do come true
Monday June 19, 2017
overheard on West Broadway
Some days add up to zero
the hole of the afternoon
the cave of mid morning
post-its have been scribbled on
and posted but the glue is wrong
and everything flutters to
the ground eventually
Tomorrow’s list has been started
wake up is the hard thing
every other item can be done
if there is enough time
Some days add up to something o’clock
and not enough sleep
too many hours spent wondering how
to believe in scotch tape
and purple marker
instead of the looming possibility
of avoiding it all
Friday April 7, 2017
From the Quo eye palette
One foot. The other foot. One foot. The other foot. Step. Step. You can do it. You can do it. Just to the bathroom. Just to the toilet. Head heavy. Feet heavy. Eyelids heavy. One foot. The other foot. Step. You can do it. You want to be out of bed today when Sue gets home. You want to be better. You want to have dinner on the table, even if it’s something easy like a grilled cheese sandwich. One foot. The other foot. Press your palm against the wall. Deep breaths.
Sunday October 16, 2016
from A Pinterest board
If it’s not the third time you’ve come to collect my mushing bones from the living room and scoop me back to bed with you, it’s the second, and I’ve already said no once in a way I was sure you got it. See this mushing thing that I’ve been doing/allowing is sort of on purpose sort of something that I don’t want to change. You’re in the bed, I’m out here, it is quiet. It is easy. You in the bed means sleep comes next means tomorrow comes after means tomorrow night follows. Means I don’t want to wake up. Because I wanted to love today better. But didn’t. Because I don’t want to get out of bed. Because I wanted to love myself better today but I didn’t. Because I don’t want to face myself in some form or another, some battle of self expression or survival- I don’t know which way I’ll be asked to listen to myself tomorrow. So if I ignore you, make it seem like your fault, it’s because sleep will ruin me and you and everything it touches, and I am doing my best to shield you from that.
Friday September 16, 2016
The Globe And Mail
September 16, 2016
Now that she had a name for her pain it was easier to feel it. Started in the tip of her nose and found roots in her stomach. She had been carrying around the seeds of it. Of the pain. Of the pretending. It had been harder before when things sprouted up because the leaves were all so similar looking. No one was identifying the loss of her inside of her. She had first to grow it into something people could recognize. That’s when the naming started. No growing thing can be complete without a name. An identity. The power of believing it to be. Then things got worse. She tried to avoid it but this swaying thing with long branches was always moving around inside her begging to be remembered. She tried to put other things in her stomach to keep the thing company so it wouldn’t make her pay all of her attention to it when she needed to be smiling and get things done.
Saturday, March 26, 2016
It’s taking all of Sylvia’s strength not to snip her eyelid skin just to see…
Just to know what it’s like to have a hole to look through when her eyes are closed.
She traces the smoothest part of her face and gathers a fold in the middle with her thumb and forefinger.
She is overcome with an urge so big it starts talking to her..
Nobody cares about the girl with two normal eyelids… ….. …..
Nobody talks about the girl who doesn’t take any risks..
Nobody wonders why the girl without scars has no scars… ……………………………
Sylvia is convinced after the third or fifth hour of debating-daydreaming-conjuring up responses, that it probably wouldn’t hurt much anyway..
She envisions the incision healing quickly.
Assuming it must be pretty resilient skin if it has never been ripped in all her years alive and reckless on this planet….
Monday February 29, 2016
In the shadow of chaos she emerges from her pain, long enough to sit up straight and shake off her darkest parts. Sinking in grungy bathwater, reeking of self hate and self punishment, she lets out a wail, a song of her finned underwater comrades. She is touching ocean floor and stratosphere. She is marking both sides of this earth so she can find her place in between them again.
Her mouth is opened and sound falls out like one last hope-one last plea. She is begging herself to save herself: No muskets, no smoke, no hugs, no rope.
Saturday November 28, 2015
From an email
Alana has stopped dreaming in colour and can’t figure out why
Maybe ever since she started seeing Rich things have been different
Maybe ever since she started filling her prescriptions and taking her pills
Maybe ever since she stopped eating cheese
Nothing makes Alana more upset then to think of her head as a black and white pod of pain
She feels like Dorothy before the tornado
She feels like somebody who isn’t her
She feels like her imagination is being replaced with something sad
Rich wakes up each morning with obnoxiously detailed dreams
Rich dreams in colour
Rich tells Alana how crazy it all was every single day
Alana used to dream the way Rich does
She used to remember every bit of them and sometimes use them to write her music
She used to look forward to going to sleep
Thursday October 1, 2015 at Elysian
from the Rabbit River Farms egg carton
Ryan makes eggs every morning.
“Don’t you think that’s too much cholesterol?”
“They actually studied that and it’s totally fine to eat eggs every day.”
“What about the cholesterol?”
“Look at me!”
He’s a beanpole, he’s got that runner’s body.
When we first met, Ryan had long hair.
“What are you going to do today, sweetheart?” He asks, cracking an egg into a bowl and whipping it vigorously.
“I don’t know…”
“Why don’t you go for a massage or something?”
“I don’t like strangers touching me.”
“You could get out of the house with me, just go have a coffee someplace?”
“We have coffee here, Ryan – ”
“I think that it would be good for you to – ”
“You’re right. I’ll get out. We need yogurt.”
Monday December 8, 2014
from an interview with Annabel Soutar
I have been telling myself for one whole year that I am good and worthy and beautiful and enough. My life coach told me I should recite these things and try to remind myself that I actually believe them. I started trying to believe them one morning in April of last year because it was the spring or something and things seemed like they were being reborn. I wanted to be reborn. I didn’t want to hate myself anymore. I didn’t want to wish I was born of a different woman and therefore raised by one, believing I was just different and not the me I actually was. The process was a long one. I was not the me I actually was or wanted to be, but the me I had no choice in being. The dead me with crispy hair. The forgotten me with only 5 friends at my funeral. I had a lot of visions that I would never wake up. So I went to her and told her with my blood: HELP.
Thursday July 24, 2014 at MAKE
Ashtanga Yoga Primer
Baba Hari Das
Oh for coping? I guess I have some experience. I usually don’t talk about them with anyone though. I don’t like sharing that stuff in case anyone finds it disturbing or whatever. TMI, maybe? I usually just avoid people during the coping period all together.
But okay. I could list them out, if that’s what you need? If you think it’ll help?
Number one…I’m suddenly acutely aware of myself. And my sadness. Because I’m still struggling with these and I’m the one who originated them. Sorry. Number one: Scream. It sounds easy, but it’s different than just letting sound out at a high volume. It’s a deep one. It’s guttural, it’s blood curdling, it’s hopeless and hopeful at the same time. And it lasts for at least 90 seconds. I do this one first to let it all out. Or try to.
Number two: find a sore spot on your body – a knot, a bruise, a tight muscle, and dig into it. With anything you want, but usually I use my elbows. You want something very pointy. Number three: Finish an entire container of peanut butter. Don’t move from your spot until it’s completely gone, lid licked. I don’t know why this one helps but it does. Maybe because you need something to stick to your bones once you’ve released all the unwanted parts. Number four: put on a blindfold and walk around your house until you know it by touch. Number five: Paint your mirror around your face. Turn it into something like a face cut out character you’d see at a carnival. Number six: floss.
Saturday June 28 2014
Maybe because the rain doesn’t stop here or because waking up means having to plan something to eat. Maybe because the sounds of the wind coming in through the holes in the bedroom walls means that if it’s not okay in here, the one place where it’s supposed to be, then it most definitely is not okay out there.
Maybe because the ego is a sensitive and fragile organ and if it’s wounded, even mildly, it takes days and days to recuperate. Maybe because the skies are vast but filled with grey clouds and looking up at something so big and seeing it filled with something so sad is enough to keep anyone laying under the covers until the sun peeks out long enough to put on pants and go outside. Maybe because if I told you how I really felt you’d stay in the kitchen and I’d have no where else to hide if I wanted to stay behind a separating door. Maybe because I’m a bit broken and disappointed in myself after all the wrong choices I’ve made lately, or made ever, that having to face them in broad daylight feels too hard or too easy and I don’t know which one is worse. Maybe because I’m tired. It could be that simple. I sleep because I have to. Either that or I’m aware that being awake means having to try.
Friday January 31, 2014
The Actor’s Survival Guide
Jon S. Robbins
i guess my whole life has been ‘weather permitting’. like will i read a book today? yeah, maybe, ‘weather permitting.’ or, another example would be, will i get out of bed before noon today? yeah, maybe, ‘wether permitting.’ it makes sense because i’m a very sensitive person. i’m activated and deactivated by the temperature, by the sun, or the lack there of, by the rain, by the copious and dreadful amount of rain, by the mud, by the slush, by the snow, by the hail. like i’m not saying i’m the only one who is, cause, i know i’m not. i know i’m so not the only one. i don’t even have one of those lamps, like, to ease you into the day, to wake you up naturally like the sun does when it gets super depressing. like i don’t have one of those so i know i can’t be that bad, but the productivity that i base my success and failures on, well. yeah. that’s when i’d say it really effects me. almost so much so that i can’t even string more than three thoughts together to form a complete sentence or like, do the load of laundry that separates me from being a dirty hobo and a decent looking human being. you know when you just have one of those loads that has all your decent items in it cause you wore it all one week cause it was probably nicer out during that period? like all the coloured things or the shimmery stuff that you don’t feel like just busting out when you don’t get out of bed cause there’s like seriously no need, right?
Wednesday, March 27, 2013 at Starbucks
Last time I tried to write you a letter I fell asleep beside a candle and burned the entire left side of hair off. I woke up to the smell of it smoking and I was actually happy because I thought I was dying, or dead already, just waiting for my instructions in hell. Then when I realized I was fine, I was just half bald and burnt, I fell deeper. I suppose it’s clear that I’m not doing so well. I’ve felt a pit in my stomach for some time now, and I’m pretty sure it’s growing into a tree. Peach or pear, I’m not certain. It hurts though. It’s a very branchy tree, sort of poking into my side every time I move or sing. Sort of like the thing that only wants to exist as long as it’s the only thing I can feel. Sort of an only child, or youngest of 6 kind of tree. Anyway I’m writing you now because I wanted to tell you I won’t be writing again, or attempting to. I’ll just wait till you reply but I won’t be doing any more of the things like this where I have to access my inner…ouch. It’s that tree again…