“Till the only word your mouth remembers” by Julia at her parents’ table

Sunday December 23, 2018
11:52am
5 minutes
Milk and Honey
Rupi Kaur

my mouth knows how to repeat the same thing over and over until it loses meaning
until it turns into dust

my mouth knows how to curse the ones I love the most because their mouths say what my mouth could

my mouth eats itself more than it doesn’t
twisting the almost rebellion into quiet
cheek sores, taking up space

my mouth hums the tune of the earth that keeps me grounded when the noise is trying to lift me out of my skin

my mouth coos the sweet-lipped words of admiration and gratitude with ease and with abundance

my mouth remembers being shut violently and told that this is not violence but love and history and justified

my mouth knows a lie like a pang in the gums, a bell dinging endlessly under the tongue

“a multitude of mouths” by Julia on the Blue Line

Friday September 14, 2018
8:52pm
5 minutes
SWITCH/CHASE
Ben Rawluk

Got me dripping drooling thinking about the next mouth of yours I’ll kiss
Morning mouth afternoon mouth or after that. The one that tastes the most like you
I could sip it lick the flavour trick myself into saving it won’t forget it when I’ve savoured it and morning afternoon goodnight goodnight goodnight.
Got me craving itch-mouthed waiting for the mouth you make me want you with
The one that sucks the cold from my lips the one that steals the beat from the mix make the room fall silent
Make the flies on the wall get violent
Give me the mouth you need mine for
Give me the mouth you swish my name in.

“the sum total of the courage and the integrity” by Julia at the studio

Tuesday, June 19, 2018
5 minutes
10:37am
A quote by Eleanor Roosevelt

We can walk into the mouth of our lover with gratitude
and compassion or wake up on the wrong side of the bed
with a vengeance that travels in heat, and ready.
I remember this when I am late to the day after a long
night of bad decisions and I am too ashamed to greet you
in your half way done morning, specific goals set, etc.
I come out with a new tail tucked between my legs and you
stop your structure and stretch out your arms to me,
welcoming, grateful. You say how lucky you are and you
say it with skin and smile before words leave your lips.
I remember this when you are late to the day and I am
awake before you and running and weaving and juicing
and you come to me with the same openness but my first
instinct is to keep running, make you catch up, make
you feel bad. We can walk into the mouth of our lover
with gratitude and patience if we remember how important
time spent gazing at each other really is. We can choose
this in the morning, at night, and in the afternoon. You
do this and you teach me. I thank whoever is in charge
that you do not dole out grades to match the student.

“How could I predict” by Sasha at her desk

Sunday April 29, 2018
6:15pm
5 minutes
The Address Book
Louis Phillips

How could I predict the
shade of grey your hair
would turn
and mine too
every day a new
one near my temples
I don’t pull them out
like I used to
I say a prayer
for them
little warriors
little fuckers
little beauties
they are the milage
and the turning season

Every time I see you
I see the shimmer of
myself in you
around the eyes
the mouth the shape
of the face
the shade of grey
vessels to the time
before leading us
back there leading us
to now

We laugh like lions
staring down the barrel
of the gun
we nod and recognize
and know and surrender

“starting in the same spot” by Julia at Arbutus Coffee


Wednesday,January 20, 2016 at Arbutus Coffee
2:52pm
5 minutes
overheard at Arbutus Coffee

I can’t write about someone else doing something interesting or brave or great or even good. I physically can’t. Mentally can’t. My body refuses to listen to what someone else is doing, how they’re feeling, who they’re talking to. I have tried, I have erased. I have wondered, I have stopped. I don’t know why other than the fact that I have no choice but to write about myself. I suppose that is a strong enough reason for a writer going through things of her own. Can’t pour from an empty cup or however the saying goes. Put oxygen mask on self before assisting others. Something like that. All these ideas wrapped up in a journal or diary or confession or voice memo. They don’t belong in someone else’s mouth, or phrased in someone else’s diction. I can only put myself on paper, hope it doesn’t bleed through every single page and tarnish the book I’m writing of me. Unclear but honest, I am city girl noise and small town heart, bursting.

“saying she is lost” by Sasha at Kafka’s Coffee


Monday, April 27, 2015 at Kafka’s Coffee
6:09pm
5 minutes
from Hopelessly Hoping
Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young


Her mouth says she’s lost but her eyes say something else, something in a language where tongues and lips aren’t involved, where it’s goosebumps and eyelashes.

It’s been ten years since she spoke to her sister.

The margarine was left out and now it’s a tub of yellow paint. She wonders about rubbing it on the dry skin on the soles of her feet. She wonders about putting it on the wall in the bathroom – could use a fresh coat of paint.

She cancels her subscription to People magazine because she’s tired of the buzz and the dresses and the pictures of strangers babies.

A photo of Jack and Daisy by Sasha at her desk


Sunday January 11, 2015
2:05pm
5 minutes

Jack and Daisy

When we walk out, you’re laughing
One of your hands is covering your mouth and the other is holding mine
My other hand is in my pocket
We are moving like clouds move
We are making yes shapes with our bodies
Leaning in
We are smiling not only with our mouths but with our chests
Our feet
The roots of our hair
You smell a bit of oregano
A bit of vanilla
A bit of something I cannot name
You trip over a crack in the sidewalk
And I catch you

“Let’s be honest.” by Julia in her hostel in Firenze


Tuesday September 23, 2014
8:12pm
5 minutes
Ecoholic
Adria Vasil


Let’s be honest? Yeah, let’s be honest. I’ve been hallucinating you, babe, on the backs of other women. Wanna get real honest? I STOLE THAT LINE FROM A REGINA SPEKTOR SONG BUT IT’S POIGNANT AND I LOVE IT. A little more honest. Yeah? More honesty. Yeah. YEAH. I haven’t been able to help myself when it comes to finishing full packs of sour gummy worms at least once a day. I haven’t been able to sleep because I miss feeling your skin. It makes me cry. I cry instead of sleep. I’m crying now. How honest do you want me? I’m thinking about sending you letters but it costs too much. I’m thinking about writing a novel based on the smell of your mouth. I don’t know why but it drags me to a place where I can only breathe in blues and browns.

“Courier Mail and Daily Telegraph” by Julia in her bed


Friday Aug 8, 2014
2:05am
5 minutes
http://www.taste.com

I had been waiting for Gina’s response for over three weeks. It was her idea to keep sending lovely hand-written letters to each other once a week but she was getting really bad at it. Her first letters were so open and raw and I could see her mouthing the words as I read them because they just felt so honest. Then they started getting shorter, she’d stop responding to my questions in a way that reminded me of unrequited love by means of questionless text messages. She started signing all her letters with a lipstick kiss, something I always hated having to return due to the inadequate, small, pursed shape my kiss marks made (not the luscious kind you think is the only kind that creates a desirable or kissable mouth when you’re young). By this point Gina was signing her letters with a modest “G” and that was it. Surely she was busy or distracted, or had found a new friend to spend all her time writing quirky opinions to. But what bothered me most was the waiting for her response. I was busy too, or so I liked to believe, and I was always able to write to her.

“the only kind there is.” by Julia at Sambuca Grill


Thursday April 25, 2013 at Sambuca Grill
2:40pm
5 minutes
from a quote by Carl Jung

One of a kind. And we’re having it with raspberry jam! Ha! I knew you’d come if I mentioned raspberry jam. You’re my little baby. You like everything that comes out of my mouth because you think you’re going to get the chance to taste it. I like it when I sing Janis Joplin to you and you roll around on the floor with your tongue out like it’s the dessert after all that yelling. You earned it. You love it when I tell you to cry, cry, baby. Here’s the thing, you asked for it before, remember? The one of a kind apology. It sounds like all the other sorrys but this one is so much better. You believe me because you believe everything that comes out of my mouth. You think you’re going to take some of those home for lunch tomorrow. WHY DO YOU WANT TO EAT SO MUCH? Consume me. Yeah. I’ll let you. Cry, cry, cry, cry, baby, baby, cry, baby, cry, baby. It has the seeds. The raspberry jam. Remember? I made you throw out the one without the seeds because then it’s just red and that is NOT why you buy raspberry jam. That is why you eat lollipops, or jello.
I’m spreading I’m sorry on your egg bread. On your challah. You told me I COULD! You TOLD ME. It’s the only kind there is. It’s the only lesson you need to learn. Just wait. Just WAIT. I’ll hold out my tongue for you and you can wait with your mouth open for the poison to drip on out and land right next to your teeth.

“containing all parts” by Julia on her bed in Baden


Sunday, March 31, 2013
12:41am
5 minutes
the Bonomelli box of Camomile tea

She had bit the inside of her lip. Hard. Felt the blood start to fill her mouth. Tasted the iron. Running her tongue across the chewed up flesh underneath her bottom lip. She sat there in the middle of her bedroom floor, dreaming of a better feeling than this…A worse one? Was there such a thing? Or was this anything and everything? She was making a vision board; an inspiration collage; a quick fix to her lack of discipline and drive…
She jabbed her pointer finger into her mouth and pulled it out quick. She stared at her finger, examining it, the red water colour slowly dripping down until it collected at the base of her palm in a puddle. She was lost in thought. Lost in a trance because of the rain outside her window. Because of the soft thumping of a distant headboard in a room nearby… but not close enough to decipher any of the words, or moans–only close enough to know they were good…
She grabbed a square of bright pink construction paper. She folded her bottom lip down and pressed the bite mark on to it. Little red flecks splattered out and across.