“calls forth one’s muse.” By Julia on the pullout couch

Friday May 3, 2019
6:19am
5 minutes
deepstorydesign.com

hello I am calling you!
from the depths of my soul
from the heart of my experience
from the flesh of my centre
where did you sleep last night?
in my wrist
in my mouth
in my womb?
I felt a pulsing in my dream
and all of my living
did you need more rest last night?
did you have an idea you wanted to share?
if you are waiting for me I am sorry I am late
I haven’t been myself
I’ve been lingering in the kitchen next to tired bodies
aching and i’ve been wearing them around
you may not recognize me with all this heavy in my bones

“Let’s do choices” by Julia at 1st and Columbia


Tuesday July 25, 2017
5:51pm
5 minutes
The Home Depot ad

Mom chooses her body over every body else’s, she knows now what hers wants and what it sings for. I watch Mom turn into a butterfly after working so hard for so many years. I watch Mom leave the upstairs bathroom unfinished and the downstairs windows taped with green table cloth instead of curtains. Mom doesn’t wish for nicer things anymore. Mom doesn’t choose cheese over cheer. She doesn’t choose them over her. Mom tastes freedom these days with every “Fuck” and “Shit”. She doesn’t like when we laugh but we are not laughing at her. Mom didn’t know she was funny until five minutes ago. Mom makes the choice to keep learning. To keep educating all of us. To keep trying when she’s told she can’t. To keep growing out of her skin when she feels like it. To keep pushing out, rising up.

“I have a friend who loves your photography” by Julia on the dock lounger


Thursday June 29, 2017
4:05pm
5 minutes
from a text

Maggie’s always making friends with photographers. Her dream is that one of them will consider her their muse and either always snap candids of her looking warm and stunning or always want to take her portrait for free. She tried one year to befriend painters after she saw her ex boyfriend captured so perfectly. She made a couple jokes at first, dropping her interest like a fallen pen. The artist wasn’t taking requests so she had to try and convince him without seeming desperate. Sorry, he said, Curly hair is too hard to draw.

“entirely free of the curse” by Julia at Kafka’s


Tuesday, September 29, 2015 at Kafka’s
12:49pm
5 minutes
a Wikipedia page

It’s a nightmare when I’m alone with her. She torments me and she tugs at all my soft spots. She pulls until she rips, and then claws away at the raw flesh. I don’t know why she is never sated. Why she comes back for more when I have nothing left to give her. And she throws herself at me, through me, in me. She’s everywhere and nowhere and she creeps in like a ghost that is convinced her only purpose is to haunt me. She haunts me. When I’m laughing, those moments in the day where I am happy or believe that I am. She gives me no peace, sinking her teeth into me, sucking my bones dry, killing me slowly. Until I give over. Until I’m just an empty vessel for her to inhabit. Then she’ll be complete. She’ll destroy every good thing I have, plow over the life I’ve so carefully built, rip up the early seedlings of joy I’ve planted, and scorch the earth of me. To ruin me. To feed off of me. Because I am weak. Because I let her. Because I deny that she exists even when she bulldozes all the love I’ve ever known. Some people give up. Some people give in.

“We say our work” by Julia at her desk


Thursday May 28, 2015
12:18am
5 minutes
Overheard at Lansdowne Station

Our work is good when it’s good
And when it’s not
Because our work
is whatever we need to keep going
even when it feels pained and full of punishment
It’s still ours
It’s still ours
Out hands and our hearts
Our hands and our burning bleeding hearts
When we wake from a bad dream
We shake imagination from our backs
Do we listen to what the muse is telling us?
Or do we toss her recklessly to the floor
Where she can’t bother us anymore?
It’s there
Our work
even though it feels secondary
It’s still ours
It’s still ours
Our hands and our hearts
Our hands and our thumping drumming hearts
Say hello to her
pick her off the earth
And tell her that she’s welcome here
Tell her that she’s beautiful

“She hasn’t been back since” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Thursday November 27, 2014
9:12pm
5 minutes
Summer Dress
July Talk


When the crows call I think about the sun
Going down early now
Hardly been up for eight hours
Kind of like me
Listening to piano music
Drinking black tea
Hoping that the muse will return
Fingers crossed for sunshine
Fingers crossed for tender footed steps
Fingers crossed for a cougar sighting

“you fit the part” by Julia on her couch


Sunday , August 11, 2013
11:30pm
5 minutes
from a thank you card from a friend

I want to be your muse, paint me up, make me up, I’ll be on your canvas bright.
You can opt for brushes, or use your feelings to make it work,
work me up, work all night, just to get you through.

I’ve heard it’s hard to paint ringlets, and if so, get researching. I have a head of hair that could combat the storm, and it needs to be perfect, perfect.
you have the fine lines of an artist, the deep set brow lines that let me know you’ve been examining again. The off colour in your cheeks when you prefer painting in your garage and not with natural light. The lonely things you say sometimes that remind me you spend most of your days by yourself.

I want to be your muse, paint me up, make me up, I’ll be on your canvas bright.
You can opt for brushes, or use your feelings to make it work,
work me up, work all night, just to get you through.

Let me help you out. I’ll come in, read books to you, massage your shoulders, and prance around in tiny pyjama bottoms that show of my legs so you can be inspired. Or I’ll bring you your deep dish pizza from Dominos and we can start a fire with all the scribblings you’ve done that don’t quite capture my smile or my spirit.