“concern also has been expressed” by Julia at the bus stop

Friday March 29, 2019
6:25pm
5 minutes
Gentle Birth, Gentle Mothering
Sarah J. Buckley

I made a scene at dinner. Call me premenstrual, or incapable of having a nice night out, or insensitive to the needs of the room. Merel has said that about me before. She has said “read the room” and I think she means like a book. So does that mean let the book tell me what I’m experiencing? Am I not supposed to draw conclusions?

Someone asked a specific question and my face turned hot and my eyes filled up and my voice got loud. I don’t know that I was entirely inappropriate, all of us casually at the Cactus Club for happy hour. I am not happy! But the rest of them turned very small. I didn’t want small I wanted bigness. I wanted a fight or a debate or a hug or something.

I am most hurt by silence. By the fear I’ll go off the handle. One person agreed with me. And one person probably now thinks I’m the devil.

Merel says I shouldn’t make assumptions about the intentions of others. But I read the room and I still have to decide if I like it or not, don’t I? Merel would tell me to breathe before thinking anything at all.

“law of human psychology” by Julia at the bus stop

Thursday January 24, 2019
4:08pm
5 minutes
A quote by William Pickens

Lynn was excited to drop her psych classes and start taking theatre. She knew she belonged on stage, or with actors, or in a daydream maybe. She had never done anything for herself in her short life. Both her parents were doctors, one therapist, one orthopaedic surgeon. She was supposed to be a doctor too, and they said the field of medicine is up to her. That was all that was up to her. She started seeing the theatre kids around the halls, wearing black, singing in unison. Lynn didn’t remember the last time she let herself sing outside of the shower. It looked incredibly freeing! Maybe even spiritual. All this time she wished she could tell stories to audiences willing to hear them. She pictured herself being blinded by he stage lights and glowing from the inside out. If she left psych she would have to pay for everything else on her own. Lynn couldn’t wait to start working as a relief receptionist at the ESL centre to finally be in control of her own destiny.

“Intelligent, quirky, passionate” by Julia at her desk

Tuesday May 15, 2018
11:44pm
5 minutes
from Quill and Quire

Let them see all the good colours
the ones that the sky knows in the morning
and when the sun decides to sleep
Let them see them in me
Let me

I am too tired to write a lie
Everything is coming out neon green
If I had more time I would spin a web of almost truth
And you might get caught because it wil be beautiful
It will blow your friggen mind out of your skull

let them choose brains over braun
quirk over perk
passion over rations
Let them pick the harder one to be
Let them learn how
Let me

I wish the bed didn’t sink in the middle
I wish Chicago wasn’t trying to recruit me so persistently
I wish the edges of this soft made you cry for once instead of me
I wish I didn’t need to do everything in the same line format

BREAK THE FOURTH WALL AND DO NOT OFFER TO PAY FOR DAMAGES
DIP SUGAR INTO A SALTY THING AND BOW DEEPLY
VOLUNTEER TO GO FIRST
T
R
U
S
T
YOUR EMOTIONAL LIFE WHEN IT IS HOOKED UP ALL THE WAY DOWN YOUR SPINE

“American singer-songwriter” by Julia on her couch


Friday April 15, 2016
8:55pm
5 minutes
from a Lenny Kravitz Google search

Performing in the bar, local bar, playing to crowds who love it, come back each week, bring their friends, become family. That’s what I really want. I don’t need stadium. I just want to entertain and share my music. I don’t care if I’m not rich. I’ll have artistic needs being met. I’ll get to share an experience, make people happy, help the bar make a bit more cash that night, drink for free. That’s it. I’m far from it. I’m not a flake or anything; I know that I’ve got a long road ahead of me before I can be that ready. I’m not delusional. It’s the dream though. I don’t necessarily envision it with a band or just me and my guitar. I don’t play the guitar yet. Doesn’t mean I can’t learn. Never too old to learn something new.

“it’s been my pleasure” by Julia at her desk


Wednesday, August 12, 2015
1:22pm
5 miutes
From an email

My pleasure your pain
My sorrow your gain
We meet in the middle
Dance on the line
Decide to move in
Then we both explode
Can’t get close to you
You’re a fiery mess
Can’t get close to me
I’m a ticking time bomb
My sorrow my sorrow
My pain my pain
Your sorrow your sorrow
Your pain your pain
Made of the stuff I can’t touch
Too hot
Too dangerous
Get me into trouble
Too wild
Too cancerous
Keep me far from loving

“twists the whip” by Julia at her desk


Friday April 3, 2015
8:17pm
5 minutes
The Zurau Aphorisms
Franz Kafka


Twists the whip
Gets it ready
Practices in the mirror
One, two, Go on three
Takes one for the team.
His own team
He’s the captain and the coach
Ready
Ready
Ready
Today’s the day
The song sings in his head
Right now is the only thing that matters
Manic energy
Checking his watch
Tick
Tick
Boom
He’s off
And running
Twists the whip
Cracks it in the air
No more practice shots
It’s real now
It’s real life
Dangerous
Destructive
But he has his weapons
He has his tools
Don’t forget to breathe
He hears his mother’s voice in his ears
Don’t forget to feel
The magic urgency fuels him
It’s exactly as he imagined
Only nothing like he hoped
Twists the whip
Gets it ready
Now he’s ready

“A woman staggered into” by Julia at her desk


Thursday April 2, 2015
1:12am
5 minutes
Focus
Daniel Goleman


A woman staggered into a room filled with people locked in their cages. She was reluctant at first but when she arrived, she decided to follow through with herself.
She glanced around at all the bars, and ropes. Sad. Sad. Helpless. Sad.
She went about her business, gliding from one side of the room to the next, opening jars of jam and tasting her fruit-dipped fingers. She made eye contact with every single one of them. What are they doing here, what do they need? Why. Why. Helpless. Why.
Her freedom made them angry. And their hurt hearts thudded loud for all to hear.
Her self-awareness and self-love made them wish they could turn off their 80% brain.
You Are Not Good Enough. You Must Let Others Win. You Are Not As Important. Don’t Bother Trying To Achieve What You Desire. Forget Your Passions. Kill Your Dreams.
The smell of her lightness was pungent to the lot of them.

“A passionate hot blooded woman” by Julia at her kitchen table


Monday May 26, 2014
12:29am
5 minutes
from the ‘Julia’ candle

Then he looked at me and said, damn woman, that was the hottest kiss. I’ve never been kissed that passionately before. And I was like, well I was drunk so what do you want me to say? And he said, say you meant it, say you needed it. I was about to punch him in his face when he came up to mine and kissed me again. I didn’t even pull away. When we were done, he said, are you drunk now? And I said, no, and he said, so there we go. And I said, there we go? And he said, yeah, see? That was sober passion. I said, that shit doesn’t exist, and he said, yeah it does; I just proved it to you. You like me.
Then the world went dark and my eyes got fuzzy and I said, no these are all lies you tell yourself but now you’ve included me in the conversation too. He said, you’re seriously disputing that we just made passion out of thin air just a second ago? And I said, well yeah, passion comes from the soul, not from the lips. And then the world got light again and I could breathe and I could breathe enough that I started to walk away. He said, where are you going? And I said, I have something to do. And he said, more than being here right now with me in the middle of this moment? And then I couldn’t say anything at all that would encompass my disdain for him in “this moment” so I just scoffed and rolled my eyes all the way back into my head. He said, seriously? And I said, What? It’s a kiss. It’s how I kiss. I’m a good kisser, what more can I tell you, Christ.

“Turn your passion into” by Julia on the subway going south


Saturday, July 20, 2013
8:55pm
5 minutes
A sign for Bow Valley College at The Calgary Airport

turn your passion into french fries. greasy and burnt, or crispy, or undercooked. you can do it. trust me. it’s easy. you just plunge them in hot oil and then forget about them, or forget you had them in the first place. might be better. then serve them up with some spicy kind of aioli like a roasted red pepper thing, or maybe use dill, i don’t know. it’s up to you: they’re your dreams. or they were, i guess. i don’t know, i’m no expert. you could put them in a nice bowl so they still hold the illusion of being worth something, or just throw them on a piece of “fancy” wax paper so everyone knows how cheap you really are. how much you’ve settled. how many bad choices you’ve made and are now either dealing with slowly, but surely, or completely denying. maybe they’re reminding you of who you really are and you don’t know if you like what you see, or if you’re even wrong about this stuff anymore. You don’t need to stick around to see if anyone’s enjoying them, all squishy, or broken, or sopping wet. nobody cares, because nobody is going to have to eat them but you. or not eat them. just let them go cold sitting out on the counter all night and hope that an under the sink rat doesn’t become and on top of the sink rat and devour every single last one.

“Turn your passion into” by Sasha at The Calgary Airport


Saturday, July 20, 2013
4:20pm
5 minutes
A sign for Bow Valley College at The Calgary Airport

Turn your passion into wool
Soft like alpaca
Strong like sailing rope
Colourful like the sun catching the waves crest
Hungry like the grizzly coming our of his hibernation
Curious like the child looking up at the Milky Way

Turn your passion into breakfast
A ripe Hawaiian papaya
A juicy California peach
A crunchy Ontario apple
A sweet Florida orange
A fruit salad bowl that will nourish
Your heart

Turn your passion into a sculpture
Made of clay and sand and birch bark
Built on the pine needle floor

“X&Z” by Julia on the 94 going east


Thursday June 6, 2013
9:48pm
5 minutes
from a sign on Harbord

Could it be the alcohol? Is my face red? Am I laughing too much? You’ve got me punch drunk on good vibes, didn’t touch a drop, don’t need to when I’m with you. Got that dyslexic view going on, X&Z and Y Y Y, as long as it stands for Yes. Don’t need to read when I’m with you. Don’t need to see a dictionary and feel the desire to open it up and put sense to what you’re doing to me. Could have recited Flanders Fields in complete and udder gibberish and I would have fallen to my knees in a fit of heat for you. Could it be the alcohol? Is my face red? Am I laughing too much? You’ve got me singing the alphabet backwards cause you’re testing me. Next thing is a tight rope on an empty side street, one foot in front of the other and I could land in a splat of whatever for you and I would have to say that yeah, I passed that test. You can make me do your bidding. Got a shovel? Cause I’ll dig a hole and bury whoever you want with it.

“Your efforts” by Julia on the 506 going east


Saturday, March 23, 2013
2:43pm
5 minutes
A quote by Jody Hayes

Heard Liam and Hannah fighting again. I could hear it through the walls, the vents.
She threw something at him, you could tell it was expensive. I didn’t want to listen but I didn’t really have a choice. Saturday morning, sleeping in, or trying to. There it was, just right above me. Liam wasn’t saying much but then every now and then he’d grunt and yell and I got worried for Hannah in case he was getting violent with her. Hannah liked to swear very much. She rotated between throwing vases and nasty words around the apartment. I guess she enjoyed the way the anger looked, all plastered to her walls like a Pollock painting.
Liam wasn’t a very talkative person. I only ever heard him speak if I was home, trying to watch a late night movie, and he was up, trying to yell at his girlfriend because she didn’t respond to his texts quick enough. That’s when I heard him the most. I thought about getting ear plugs but then I realized, I might actually miss their sounds of sadness and anger, passion and desperation, if I ever did.

“Everything is all right” by Julia on her couch


Sunday, March 17, 2013
2:34am
5 minutes
Dharma Bums
Jack Kerouac


She sits by the window reading her favourite book this week for the second time. It’s about mystery, and passion, and deceit. Her book, that is. It’s a good one because it makes her stop to think about what it is she actually wants. Relatively speaking, of course. She wants daisies to be brought in bunches. She wants an impromptu car ride to the hill, or to a swimming pool where illegal night swimming happens every Thursday. She gets caught up in it all. Yearning for Mr. Abbotsford to casually ask if she’d like her lawn…mowed Or her sidewalks…shoveled. Mr. Abbotsford is the closest thing she has to The Gardiner. The Contractor. The Mailman. All of these dream-boat men exist in her book, but in real life she has to take care of her own yard. Not so glamorous when the fantasy gets squandered by reality. She keeps her nose buried deep in the pages, afraid to look up. Afraid to get anything done.

“we’re all about” by Julia at Quality Suites Hotel in London


Wednesday March 6, 2013
8:31pm
5 minutes
The Globe T.O section of the Globe and Mail
The Globe and Mail
Saturday, February 16, 2013 edition


We’re all about starting fires and dreaming in technicolour. We like talking about ourselves in the third person and we only wear jeans if they’re cuffed and shoes if they’re scuffed. It’s nice. Not to worry about the rest. But it’s also just the way we were meant to be. Starting fires of passion and blood. Starting wars with our inner and outer selves. We know what it’s like. We’re from the same century as you are. We just do things differently. We’re all about loud music played softly. We want to eat crusts first off pizzas so we remember our roots. We’re all about spirituality not religion. We’re all about religion when it’s under the thin guise of spirituality. We’re about spending more money on art than on clothes, on technology than food, on alcohol than institutions. We like the idea of putting crumpled maps on our walls and calling it a destination. We tell stories as if the listener has never heard them even if they have. We don’t say sorry when we bump into someone on the street. We pick up their mitts and we hand them back to their owner with a smile. We know a sorry can only mean so much. We’re all about motels with big backyards for playing hide and seek or having adult sing-alongs. We love sharing space and time and moments. We’re all about that kind of stuff.

“ho-hum classic.” by Julia on the 510 going north


Wednesday, January 9, 2013
11:40pm
5 minutes
Wellman’s Chrestomathy of 22 Answers

In a series of letters my father wrote my mother (in German) before I even existed, I have seen the beauty of the world the way it was meant to be viewed. My father, utterly and almost desperately in love with my mother, was the one who began their romantic correspondence. He sent the first letter and pressed a daisy into the pages for her. It was incredible. Not that it would be so out of the ordinary for a man to write to a woman, but my father, a man of seemingly few words, even at the best of times, was so eloquent and impassioned in these letters. So poignant, so brave.
Each one made me cry and that’s saying something. Perhaps I wasn’t seeing the world and all its beauty, but the way the inner workings of a man’s heart are so intricate and inspiring and through that, the world is seen in a different light. He was never a poet in the life time in which I knew him. But these letters would shock anyone literate into clutching their heart out of the sheer emotion and catharsis that he achieved through his muse: my mother. Her letters never seemed to intrigue me in the same way as his; her penmanship almost too perfect to be considered poetry..

“regal and graceful” by Sasha in her bed


Wednesday, November 28, 2012
8:11pm
5 minutes
Shamanic Experience
Kenneth Meadows


She wears a ’67 Nikon around her neck
Her strand of pearls
More precious than the ring left by a generation
Gathering dust faeries on her dresser-top
She wears a ’67 Nikon around her neck
She is always ready
Pointer finger poised
F-stop set to “take me right and slow”
She knows light like you know Maxwell’s voice
Singing you through hormones and heartbreaks
She knows shutterspeeds like you know the highway
Coming home late
Coming home feeling full and tired
She walks your city because you don’t anymore
Regal and graceful
Alone and happy
Independent and searching
She never thought she’d find home
But she did
Here
Snapping chestnuts and fresh bread
Baby hands and dive bars