Tuesday August 1, 2017
From a GOLDEN artist colours box
I collect plastic bags from the library and when no one’s looking I practise the breathing exercises that Jovi taught us. Did you know that the library gives away free plastic bags? None of that five cent baloney that everywhere else seems to have adopted. Jovi said to use a paper bag but those are hard to find with a mushroom phobia. All the plastic bags are all over the living room when Marnie comes over to pick up my contribution towards the stupid gift basket for Curtis – he has never said any one word to me and now I’m supposed to give a homemade item for his retirement gift basket, I mean COME ON.
“What happened here?” Marie asks in her nasal voice. Blow your nose, Marnie, I think. I hand her the chilli oil and scowl.
Thursday August 4, 2016
the Mariott wifi
I want to make a Clue reference here but I don’t know enough about it to give it the credit it deserves. Solid movie. I mean board game. See what I mean? The reason was because if anything is “in the library” I want to say “with the candlestick!” But that might be the end of it. I probably didn’t need to explain it. I’m bad at explaining things. I wish you weren’t here. It’s weird having another human see me this much and you seem to be amused or something or sweet or caring. Maybe all of those things. Thank you for that. There is a list of things I am thankful for. Remind me to send that to you tomorrow. Anyway you were saying something about the library? The business library? Will you be doing your business there? Sorry, I mean, will you be conducting business there? You can say no. You don’t have to laugh either. I don’t want pity laughs! I guess I never learned to take a compliment! Or a clue! I mean get a clue. Except then it doesn’t really sound that good. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe it doesn’t have to sound good.
Thursday May 29, 2014
She is desperately sad about the recent experiment.
The most recent experiment:
Procedure: Line the entrance way with thirty six votive candles.
Hypothesis: Perhaps Henry will want to have sex?
Conclusion: After waiting for an hour and a half and drinking the champagne alone, she falls asleep, panties up her butt and drool bubbling down her cheek.
Henry came home smelling of books. As usual. The library was his most torrid affair. During exams it was open all night and that was when she lost him. She’d rarely found him lately, actually, and she mourned this every day as she ate soy ice cream from the carton, the freezer door open, the gust of cool reminding her of winter. Winter was better. In winter Henry came home at more reasonable hours and they cuddled to stay warm.
Sunday March 9, 2014
overheard on the 72 pape bus
Those dark corners of our relationships where we’d rather not look? Where we’re happy to let dust settle and rarely vacuum? I learned that that’s not such a good idea in the long run. Sam is surfing Buzzfeed like a real animal these days. Right now. He’s on it. I know it’s bad that I look in the window reflection to see what’s on his screen. He doesn’t need to know the “10 Best Study Snacks”! He’s not studying for anything! “Read a book!” I shout. He laughs. So. Here’s the latest. I think Sam’s addicted to the Internet. Not in a funny/cute way, in a ‘Are you okay?” way. The other day, I get home from work, arms full of groceries and library books. He’s on the floor, sitting with his back against the couch and he’s reading a blog about an Axe throwing league. “Whatchu doin’?” I ask. Nonchalant. Totally cool girlfriend. “Looking into an exercise program so I can lose my gut,” he says, eyes glued to the screen.
Saturday, November 16, 2013 at Balluchon
Edge Studio DG Tour Script Selection
I bled through two pads, one stuck to the other. I stand up to get a book from a shelf in a row close to where we’re working and James says, “Uh, Rachel, uh, you’re, uh…” I know what’s happening. I know what he can’t say. I hadn’t even told him I was pregnant. He thought my breasts were going through a miraculous growth spurt. I mutter, “Oh shit,” and run/walk to the bathroom, tying his track jacket around my waist. The library is suddenly more quiet than it’s ever been. There’s a line. It’s the handicapped stall. I wait for a woman with purple cornrows to go before me. I smile at her and she looks at me like I’m the Devil. As soon as I get in, I lock the door and take a big breath. I pull down my pants and put my asshole make-shift diaper into the trash. I unwind a whole roll of toilet paper and stick it in my underwear, that are already ruined. I want to lie down on the floor and let it swallow me, one blue and white tile at a time. I don’t. I splash water on my face, flush the toilet, for good measure, and leave. I walk back to James. “Uh, what, uh… happened?” When he gets nervous his cheeks look like two giant cinnamon hearts. “I had a miscarriage.” I say, hollow and heavy. James’ cinnamon cheeks fall down his body and his face is white.
Saturday October 12, 2013
from the 2011 Toronto Star article ‘American Girl still walking tall’
When Tash and Rowan found the bird, it was barely breathing. Rowan picked it up from the rusty leaves and cradled it in her open palms. She could feel it’s heartbeat, rapid and quaking. “What should we do?” Tash whispered. She was usually the one with the plan, but knew she should refer to the reader of the Eye Witness books and the winner of the Zoology prize three years in a row. Rowan held a pointer finger to her pursed lips. Tash nodded. They had both worn their purple sweatshirts and rainboots from the Hardware Store. Rowan’s were bigger. Tash’s sweatshirt had a stain on the bottom cuff, from when she ate spaghetti with her fingers. Rowan cupped her hands around the bird so that it was fully enveloped, and walked as if there was a stack of books on her head, like she’d seen in a movie. When they got to the library Tash looked confused. “It’s Sunday. It’s closed!” She whispered. Rowan walked to the back of the old building. She knocked on the small door three times.
Friday, September 6, 2013
The Fireman And The Waitress
I catch myself laughing sometimes at the wind and all its misery.
So bleak, so dark, and yet, free, as if it doesn’t even know it’s sad.
I don’t mean to be rude.
But the sounds of violins remind me that I’m better off. That I have exactly what I asked for.
That I don’t need the breeze, even when it’s teasing me.
The universe and I go way back. She gives me what I need and I just put it into a want-cloud for her to brush up against.
I know the symptoms of a happy life.
I own one.
My new happy, shiny life.
I break the news to the insects and to the sunbeams in all their abundance.
I’m having a baby! I exclaim to them.
I’m having a perfect realization baby!
I catch myself laughing.
I know it’s not quite common, or appropriate.
But I asked the dusk to put in a good word for me at the star library.
I take whatever sparkles brightest and I return them whenever I feel I’m done with them.
No one thinks I’m just going to run off with them without payment.
I’ve made sure I held the honesty tight to my chest just in case someone asked me to spell my last name to prove who I was.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
6:25pm at Sambuca Grill
Randi used to bet all her savings at the track. Told her mother she was going to the “library” and that she’d be home by 6. Usually she’d carry a couple books with her in her back pack to prove herself if she were ever asked about it. Her mother never asked about it. Her mother didn’t care much for reading and learning anyway, but something told Randi she’d have a few words to say about her gambling. Might have been the fact that her father was a dirty better and used to take Randi with him to the track, calling her his “lucky horseshoe” because when she was with him he never lost a single race. Randi probably had some unresolved abandonment issues about her father and could easily explain to anyone why she went to the track and why she practically threw away her money each time, but she wasn’t really “dealing” with the pain yet and had no real intentions to. Randi was quiet for the most part, but when she was watching those horses you could swear she was a completely different person; yelling with reckless abandon at each horse, at her horses, at the man announcing the race. Some “professionals” might even say Randi was trying to get her aggression out at her father, yelling in random directions just hoping one man hears her.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Eddie and I were roommates in university. I was already moved in when Eddie arrived in a red Chevy pick-up, his Daddy-oh behind the wheel. Two years later I asked him about that. “Is your father’s name Oliver? Or, Oratio?” Eddie looked at me like I was the crazy one. “Nope…” He furrowed his brow and rolled his eyes at the same time, a skill he’d perfected growing up with three older sisters. “So, is Daddy-oh, just, like a pet name? It’s not referring to an actual “O”?” I pressed on. Eddie closed the book he was reading, something I can’t remember the name of, The Semantic of… something or other. “Daddy-oh was just… what we called him – “ “He’s not dead, Eddie! You still call him that! I heard you talking to him on the phone last night! Get your tenses straight!” I couldn’t believe that I’d had such an outburst. And about the English language, no less! Eddie narrowed his eyes. “What’s really going on here, Robert,” he said, taking that tone that only someone pursuing a Masters in Psychology and Social Work could. “Nothing!” I slammed my fist down on the library table, garnering wicked glares and a communal “Shhhh!” from the students the surrounded us. “Sorry,” I said, partially to them but mostly to Eddie, who was so patient with my temper and insolence.