“It begins from the heart.” By Julia on her couch

Sunday October 13, 2019
6:26pm
5 minutes
From a quote by Shahla Khan

say your sorry
go on say the piece that is yours, that belongs to you
that you are holding back
as punishment
as deep sigh
as victim complex
say it out so it stops haunting you
so it stops sucking out the room

once upon a time this room had horns and it wasn’t a bad room but it did what it pleased
today you have gripped them tightly, and the horns feel a bit trapped
so if you are honest with
the room, with me, with yourself, you will abandon the punch left dangling
at the bottom of your hurt

I can tell you egos never want to be wrong but we both know yours is and if you say it, if you apologize
if you bring out the word that keeps you sick by hiding…

“It is a highly awkward effort” by Julia on the Brown Line

Sunday September 16, 2018
5:55pm
5 minutes
How to Unthink (In Two Movements)
Jill Boettger

The bedsheets wake up bloody and somebody’s name gets cursed for choosing white. Not my name, I’ll tell you that. The first tears are muted into the pillow at 6AM. The second at seven. The stomach starts talking to me around ten after eight and starts yelling at nine. So far universe: 5, me: 0.

When the deep weakness punches back from the reflection in the mirror I know I am on an up-cliff climb without a rope. The first person to get hit in a street fight is usually the one who loses.

Somehow the angel card that gets flipped up from the pile by no one with fingerprints is
Acceptance.

It wasn’t me, I’ll tell you that. You said it wasn’t you.

Acceptance.

“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.

“considered to be” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Sunday December 8, 2013
8:49pm
5 minutes
The back of the Himalayan Sea Salt

She is considered to be civil. And thoughtful. Smiley. Warm. Honest. Kind. But then she punched the one in the white coat, the one with the painted eyes, and all those things flew like geese, north.

“Let’s go outside…” She said. “Okay,” said the one in the white coat. Trepidatious. Excited. On the sidewalk, dotted with cigarette butts and old pieces of gum now black and completely flat, like coins, she smiles. She takes a deep breath. She winds up. She punches the one in the white coat right there, in that soft baby spot, the space between the cheek and jaw bone. Slip. Connect. Spit. Teeth. A mouthful of rose petal.

She walked to the park and puked. She wondered if she might get arrested.

“impetus to write the play” by Sasha at The Common on Bloor


Monday, May 21, 2013 at The Common on Bloor
1:07pm
5 minutes
the Toronto Arts Council Playwright Grant guidelines

It was threatening to rain. I’ll blame it on that. You know that I get moody when it feels heavy like that, when the clouds are practically touching the ground. I hadn’t been in a physical fight since, since, since… Since my brother and I used to wrestle over who got to ride in the front seat on the way to school. The woman looks like the type that goes to Wasaga every weekend and smears on tanning oil. She probably drinks Coors Lite. She definitely eats veal and lamb and probably other baby animals. She definitely read the Sun. Now you get the picture. I see her shouting at her kid. They’re on the other side of the street. It catches my attention, it catches everyone’s attention. He’s little, you know, maybe four, but probably more like three… three and a half. Next thing I know she’s hitting him. Hard. I don’t even think before I run across the street. Cars are honking, people are shouting. I grab her arm and say, “Hey!” That’s it. Just, “Hey!” What is there to say… I’m not one to judge, but, like, that’s not okay, you know? Then she turns on me and, and, and… I just punch her. Right in the cheek. Hard. Oh my gosh it was…