“She shook her head helplessly.” by Julia on Amanda’s couch

Thursday December 20, 2018
10:42pm
5 minutes
Solaris
Stanislaw Lem

I don’t know why I can’t just leave him. I love him. Maybe I don’t. I have to love him don’t I? 30 years I’ve lived in that house, am I supposed to suddenly pick up and move? I don’t know why he doesn’t help me. All of our financial problems are because he won’t. I’ve asked him. I’ve tried to ask him but it’s not that easy, Sweetie. Nothing is ever easy for me. You know, I had this dream where I was climbing this huge staircase. These massive spiraled stairs and I was climbing them, climbing them, but I couldn’t go anywhere. And I could see at the top there was this beautiful castle. It was all the way at the top and I was climbing, sweatting, aching, and no matter what I did I couldn’t make it. All I wanted was to reach it and I was stuck right there.

“Response rate: 100%” by Julia at her desk

Thursday April 26, 2018
6:54am
5 minutes
poparide.com

If you call me and I can’t pick up but I CALL YOU RIGHT BACK
as in I do not let you finish your voicemail
as in your phone should still be open on my number
can I just ask one little question?
WHERE THE EFF ARE YOU?
Seconds have past
Has the urgency left?
Are you passed out, dead, on the phone with someone else?
Is your ringer on?
Would you like to join the conversation?
Here’s my two cents
People who call you and then have their phone on silent
shouldn’t be allowed to own a phone
They have classes for driving a car
And if you don’t pass, you don’t drive
You should have to take a test for the use of your dinky cell phone
“Oh I don’t know how that happened, that’s weird, it was in my pocket”
I don’t want to have to wait to talk to you
if I call you I am CALLING YOU
but if you don’t pick up I will be on the phone with someone else
because you forfeit the right to speak with me and I have shit to discuss
I hope you’re not dead

“a dozen individuals aged” by Julia at her dining table


Tuesday May 24, 2016
9:51pm
5 minutes
Harbor
John Ajvide Lindqvist


Across the street I spied a man who had been resting on a bench. He was sweating from his brow and was hunched over, defeated. He didn’t have a cane, or a walker, but looked like he could have used one. He was convincing himself he didn’t, surely. I quietly watched him from my bus stop. He didn’t know anyone was paying any attention to him. He tried to get up a few times without the help of the bench. He couldn’t seem to do it. The struggle in his face was clear even all the way over to where I sat pretending to read my novel. It looked like his body had been slowly betraying him for a while but that he had only just now started to deny it. I remember working with a man who told me once that when you get old, your body stops matching up with your mind and you can’t control yourself the way you used to. He told me that it may be frustrating for those of us who can still easily get to our destinations to have to always wait behind the ones who aren’t as mobile, but it wasn’t to be disregarded that it was far more frustrating for them.

“novels, poems, journals, and letters” by Julia on her other couch


Sunday November 3, 2013
12:21am
5 minutes
The Birth Of Frankenstein program
Litmus Theatre


Oh I was trying to tell everyone while they were FUCKING UP MY VIBE that I was going to make it happen. It was vague, and yes I know this, but I was delivering it in such a way that would have CHANGED THEIR LIVES. And nobody was listening to me. They were busy looking up different time zones and seeing how many hours behind Alberta was. Who the fuck cares? Can I say that? Cares? Can I say that or will everyone automatically just stop, drop and die like a bomb went off. Nobody fucking cares. About Alberta. About me. And I was making it into something beautiful, I’m telling you. Make it happen. Like the tattoo on my soul sister’s wrist. She told the world in a quieter way. It’s intelligent, it gets your attention. But I don’t know any better. I wanted to use my words. I wanted to THROW OUT COLLOQUIALISMS and be a human with a mission statement, stamped, signed, sealed, and delivered. GODDAMMIT. It sounds so stupid now! I might as well just write it down in every novel, poem, journal, and letter, but these useless fucking creatures would probably skip over it because with my luck, something about pickles would spark their fucking interest instead.