Thursday March 3, 2016
James Vance Marshall
She’s not sure if she has anything left to write. All the stories are the same the same the same the same the same. She burps beer and swallows it down. His eyes look heavy across from her. “Go to bed,” she thinks. “Want another?” She says. They both have notebooks open, filling the space between them. At least something is. She wonders whether the sex will ever get good again. She wonders whether his twin has a nicer jaw. She goes to the bar and gets another pitcher. She refills their glasses. His head is resting on his arm. Is he sleeping?
Friday October 17,2014
12:18pm at Kafka’s Coffee
Advanced Italian Grammar
Who even wrote these stupid poems? These asshole poems in my notebook in my fucking handwriting? Who wrote this one about losing their sanity, and their youth, and their feeble attempts at fitness? WHO WROTE THESE IDIOT POEMS!? I’m gonna just go ahead and rip out these pages because this is BULLSHIT. I’ve been impersonated. Someone has pretty much pretended to be me, gone into my private notebook (where I write private things like, my grocery list, and notes for, like, school and occasional rants about a certain messy desk in my apartment that does not belong to me) and written shitty poems? What, is this a joke? Not funny. No one is laughing. Oh… You’re laughing? Well, you have a sick-ass sense of humour. Screw you. STOP LAUGHING. Who wrote these nasty poems?!
Friday, March 15, 2013 at Saving Gigi
Course you want to fly away and visit your ancestors. Trust me babe, I get it. Everyone needs to get away sometime. They all say…ahem…we all say we need to leave this city and just go find ourselves. Why would we say that if we didn’t need it, truly. You know? But you leaving for a whole year, backpack or no backpack…is it the best idea? Will you actually be visiting your ancestors? Or will you just fly to the neighbouring country with a bunch of young hostel-stayers from Australia and take photos of you all wearing head wraps and smoking from a hookah pipe? None of which would be bad, by the way, but if we could all just be honest about what we expect out of these trips…or what the purpose is, you know, then it might just be a bit better. I mean, here, I wouldn’t say I’m going to France to visit the art. That would be maybe like, I don’t know, 2 percent of my entire trip. The rest would be shopping, and touring, and have I fully connected with myself?
Babe, no, I’m on your side. I’m not saying you can’t also find yourself while shopping, but just, hey, let’s be a bit real. And like, if we’re being real, then maybe we can assess if we really need to be gone for a whole freaking year. By we I mean you. Yes.I know this has nothing to do with me. This trip. It doesn’t.
Friday, March 15, 2013 at The Good Neighbour
You carry a small hardcover notebook in your back pocket. Your jeans are faded around the outline of it. Most people think that it’s a wallet, or a cellphone. I am the only one that knows the truth. You keep your pencil in the inside pocket of your jacket, navy green plaid. It’s mechanical, the anti-thesis of you, but it’s efficiency is a constant inspiration. Sometimes you smell like last night’s whiskey, and sometimes you smell like bathwater with epsom salts, and usually you smell like shaving cream and Orange Pekoe tea. I want nothing more than to steal your small hardcover notebook out of your pocket, and take your dreams, your ink, your lines and your sketches. I’ll build something with them, I promise you that. I’ll build something you couldn’t even think of. It will be strange and towering and most likely held together with fishing wire.