“silence that voice.” By Julia at her desk

Wednesday October 3, 2018
9:41pm
5 minutes
Sitting in the Fire
Pema Chodron

She doesn’t whisper anymore
she begs
she wants me to be loud
that’s my goddamn mantra anyway
Yell Woman, Yell As Loud As The Moon
But the pull of this river is telling me something different
That I should quiet the voice quaking
that I should walk in silence and observe the wind moving
I am being tested every second and there are so many seconds
which mountains I’ve made and which I’ve climbed
I am fairly certain there have been no molehills worth dying on
I know that is what the pull is saying
the one that doesn’t whisper anymore
The one that doesn’t say anything at all
Wisdom is knowing you are right and not beating a love
over the skull with how right you are
and how wrong they have been
It is about knowing deep within and underneath bone
that sometimes saying less is saying more
and saying nothing is saying nothing

But what about the Yell Woman.
The Women of Yell that I have built all my bridges on
They rumble sometimes
and still
I must sit

“And we’re looking for a few more faces” by Sasha at her kitchen table

Thursday December 14, 2017
7:12am
5 minutes
From an e-mail

She knows that he thinks he’s better than her.
But that’s only now. Three years, seven months, and two weeks later.
When he invited her to collaborate, she thought that it was because he respected her work. She thought that perhaps he even thought that she had things to teach him.
But now she knows the truth.
Ego is a word that’s haunted her since middle school.
“You’ve sure got a big ego,” Mr. Spence said when she shared with the class that she had been cast as Young Jane in Jane Eyre at the Rep, the biggest theatre in town.
She’d blushed and made sure never to speak with such exuberance in front of peers again. (Also, fuck you, Mr. Spence.)
“You need more of an ego,” Brenda, her painting instructor had said in her second year of college. “Defend your work! Defend your life!”
(Shit.)
And now, Julian.
“People keep saying that our styles aren’t compatible anymore… I’ve surpassed you in some regards, I guess.”
Who are these people?
Your fuck-buddy Lena?
Your mother?
Your best friend from childhood who wishes that he could be you?
“Sure, okay, sure.” She says.

“It’s a little big now” by Julia on the 84


Thursday May 19, 2016
8:14pm
5 minutes
overheard at Kafka’s

he was cooking dinner on the island
he liked to call it his ‘cutting station’
where he did most of his cutting
not me
i liked to use the counters by the fridge
i don’t really like the feeling
of floating in the middle of something
just dangling out there
alone
he asked me what my favourite thing to eat was
when i told him i said but it has to be the way
my dad used to make it
he said not to worry
he said he would take care of me
when i looked at his ‘cutting station’
i couldn’t see one ingredient that matched
the items i told him
all the things necessary to make
my favourite thing to eat
i tried not to be bothered by it
or to worry
he said he would take care of me and
i had to
trust him
but i could smell the veggies cooking
and i could tell that he wasn’t
getting
it
right
and so i was bothered by it
and i did worry
and i missed my dad
in that moment more than ever
nothing is the same after your favourite loves die
not life
not dinner

“Last night I was like fuck it” by Julia at Bicerin Espresso Bar


Friday, June 5, 2015 at Bicerin
3:26pm
5 minutes
from a text

Oh you want me to start with you? Tell you all the things you could be “working on?” How bout you just fucking man up and look around you for once in your life. Maybe just take two seconds to acknowledge that there are other people in the room, that I’m in the room. did you think to ask how I was doing? Did you think to maybe put aside your own needs for somebody else? Don’t answer those…They’re what we call “rhetorical questions”. They don’t need answers because I KNOW THE ANSWERS. You keep disappointing me. Do you know that that’s what you’re doing? Don’t answer that either.
I told you I didn’t want to start because I knew I would get petty and start naming off all the shit I think you’ve fucked up. I don’t think I’ve even asked you for that much and you still make it feel like I’m begging for the moon. I don’t want the fucking moon, okay, all I want is a little common courtesy. Or..I don’t know, not common. Special courtesy for once would actually be very nice, seeing as though you subscribe to the notion that the other kind is too common to even give to me.

“I got you I won’t let go” by Julia at Bicerin Espresso Bar


Monday, June 1, 2015
3:13pm
5 minutes
I got You Babe
Sonny and Cher


I held my hand out for you to hold
You said you’d Get Back To Me
That was not the answer I wanted
That was not the thing I expected

I held out my hand for you to grab
You said No Thanks, Baby, I’m Good Right Now
That was not the response I should have gotten
That was not the moment I wanted

But maybe your hand is not ready
And maybe you need to be alone
And maybe you’re lying to me
And maybe you’re lying to yourself

I dreamed up the perfect day
You said Honey I Don’t Have Time
That was not my ideal holiday
That was not the gentlest way

I dreamed up the best idea
You said Don’t Wait Up For Me
That made me feel insecure
That made me feel unsure

But maybe it wasn’t personal
And maybe you were just being blunt
And maybe your heart is still healing
And maybe you don’t know what you want

“I don’t understand why I sleep all day” by Julia in the park


Saturday June 28 2014
5:27pm
5 minutes
No Rain
Blind Melon


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.

Why do I write? by Julia at the t5m: writer’s workout at the Fringe Creation Lab


Sunday May 18, 2014
1:16pm
5 minutes
from a writing prompt by Natalie Goldberg

1.I write because if I didn’t I would burst.
2.I write because the dream doesn’t sound real when it’s not on paper.
3.I write because my pores need release and I’m never getting enough of that.
4.I write because I like the way my mind looks in ink.
5.I write because I’m dying to be heard.
6.I write because I’m dying to be understood.
7.I write because I tell myself I must.
8.I write because I enjoy painting with words.
9.I write because I hope someone will rescue me.
10.I write because I hope someone will find my thoughts and fall in love with them.
11.I write because I love telling stories.
12.I write because I hate being interrupted.
13.I write because I can’t lie to myself with a pen in my hand.
14.I write because life is fast and I’m trying to remember the best version of myself.
15.I write because in a world filled with stimuli, my only refuge is my word.
16.I write because I want to be quoted.
17.I write because if I didn’t I’d watch too much TV.
18.I write because I think my personality is better on paper.

“the origins, the history, culture” by Julia at Charleston Tea Company


Friday April 24, 2014 at
11:45am
5 minutes
An e-mail about grappa

Well I’m in a place in my life right now where all I want to do is tell other people how I got here. You know, there’s a history and origin story within each of us, and I’m just at that hippy dippy stage where I want to share it. I also have more urges to pet strangers’ dogs, which is very unlike me so I know I’m going through some sort of transformation. If you asked me anything, I’d probably find a way to bring up the summer I spent in Berlin, or the Pilates class I took while I was in Amsterdam, or the amazing little girl in Africa I filmed wearing her brother’s prized soccer jersey. I’d also tell you that I brought her brother that jersey, and that I made their lives better just by being in it. It would be inflated and I would be doing it purely for my ego, but that’s just the life check point I’m at, you know? It’s so weird, I spent all this time trying to be who I was for others, and now I’m being who I am for me. And I take a lot of selfies because, hey, I’m worth it. And I post them on the internet just because I think people should see the process of life, right? That some days are better than others, but that doesn’t mean the bad ones are any less worth documenting. Those are the days I inscribe onto my heart and put a tacky frame around it when company is over just to prove that I am, in fact, as lame as the mural in my front foyer that says “Live, Love, Laugh.”

“All it takes is time.” by Sasha on her couch


Friday April 11, 2014
9:27pm
5 minutes
A quote by Kurt Vonnegut

You’re comforted by the past – “I was the captain of the Basketball team!” You say. “I was Prom King,” you smile, “and I got early acceptance to all six universities I applied to…” You relish in those “good ol’ days”. “I beat the record time for the hundred metre dash,” you tell me. “I used to be able to slam dunk, did you know that?” I did, but I shake my head.

You were born in an age where these things mattered. You were born in a place where when you were there, everyone felt good, felt glad, felt warm, felt lucky. It’s no surprise that I’m the only one that you haven’t alienated, my mother (your daughter) can hardly stand to think about me coming over every Sunday and taking you grocery shopping. “Grandpa, tell me the story of how you met Grams?” I ask, trying to get you out of your narcissistic spiral. “Oh, that’s a good story. That’s a very good story…” You smile and sigh. You rub the bridge of your nose. “I met Rosemary in the doctors office at the University of Toronto. She had the brightest red hair I’d ever seen. Her cheeks were flushed. I sat beside her, frozen peas on my sprained ankle, and I asked her what was wrong. She was taken aback! She was a shy girl from the country, you know. And I was there on full scholarship, starting point guard, top of my class?”