Tuesday November 10, 2015 at Brendee’s table
from a student’s short story
Met up with Cheyrl, the psychic, who was really just my friend’s older sister, Talia, wearing a kerchief and staring into lava lamps. She told me she was going to get my life on track, but first we must see the path it’s on right now. I don’t know, maybe Parker was just trying to help, but I didn’t think I needed a psychic to tell me that I was unhappy. Cheyrl laid out a deck of cards with angels on them. She told me to centre my heart’s vision on picking three cards that are spiritually calling to me. I asked her if it’s just a reaction, or do I actually hear something calling me, and if she could please tell it to me straight so I don’t have to get all up in it for nothing.
Sunday November 30, 2014
overheard at Bolpetta
“Wish I could, sweet-tart, you know that – ” Did she just call me sweet-tart? This wasn’t the kind of tarot card reader that would mix-up “tart” and “heart”. This was intentional, meditated, chosen carefully. “But, I’m flying back to Edmonton tomorrow and I’ve been trying to get in to see you and this is really what I just totally need in my life right now to make me feel like I can survive!” I plead with her, something I haven’t done since I was a child, and reserved only for my mother and oldest brother, the ones who held true power over me. She looks at her wrist but there’s no watch – there are seven small moons, of various cycles, waxing or waning, depending on the angle at which you’re looking. “I can give you twenty two minutes and not a second more.” I never knew that a mystic would be so down to the hair about time. “Okay-that’s-great-thank-you-so-so-SO-much,” I say, closing the door behind me. She collects tropical fish and has a big aquarium, almost the size of her whole living room wall. I could stand there for about quadruple the time we’re supposed to have together, watching the yellow, the blue, the magenta, watching the gills ripple and the mouths open and close. “We’ll chat in the kitchen,” she calls to me, “I need to chop beets for Borscht.”
Sunday March 30, 2014
Westjet In-flight magazine
I hear all the little voices, in all the little heads, the voices that say, “Fake it til you make it!” and “Don’t forget to look both ways before you cross the street!” I hear the voices of the women in their clicky-clacky shoes when outside they’re laughing and inside they’re screaming, “MOOOOOOORE!” They’re hungry. I hear the dog voices and the cat voices and the thirty six thousand children voices. “I want to win!” “Don’t be late!” “I’m scared!” “I hate you!” “Choose me?” It’s loud. Yes. So I go to the swimming pool at the community centre and I “dead man’s float”. My ears, under the water, my face just above. It’s quiet. It’s just my little voice. I am finally alone. I whistle and the lifeguard smiles and when I walk across the cold blue tile to the change rooms I can hear her little voice saying, “I wish I knew that song.”
Tuesday November 13, 2012
from the back of the Calypso record
I’m not sure where you’re going with this whole psychic thing but… I’m not interested. I’d rather let our lives happen without us being privy to what’s about to happen, you know? I respect your love of that stuff, I really do and I get how it’s helped you to know what’s coming… with that prostate cancer stuff with your Dad. I’m just… When I was a kid my Mom had all these dry erase calendars on the walls with our schedules. Every tiny thing was planned down to Wednesday Waffles and Soccer/Ballet on Sundays for my sister and I. It drove me crazy because… it was more about her needing to micro-manage everything than us living our lives and having a good time. Ever since I moved out I’ve wanted to just… be. You know? For a lot of people adulthood is about learning how to plan and prepare and be organized and stuff. For me it’s about just… doing it. Sans calendar. Sans knowing what’s just about to happen, because… we don’t… ever really know.