“everything seems to happen to music.” By Sasha in her bed

Monday October 21, 2019
1:49pm
5 minutes
From a quote by Tennessee Williams

The good stuff always happens to music, right? The first kisses. The quiet goodbyes. The waking up on your birthday. The Christmas dinners. Music is the thread that holds the beads of what life is. I truly believe that. I bought us a record player at a garage sale a few years ago and we’ve been slowly adding records to our collection. We aren’t doing it to be analogue or ironic or anything. We’re doing it because the act of placing the needle, of blowing dust off the surface, of flipping a record over… it’s sacred. It really is. Lying on the floor at the end of a shit day is made okay as soon as the volume gets turned up. I feel my body sink into the carpet and the music fills me, it fills me up.

“people are still listing reasons” by Sasha at JJ Bean on Cambie

Saturday September 15, 2018
4:55pm
5 minutes
Collaboration: Visual/Written Poetry
Sarah Leavitt & Jen Currin

Keith Jarret on the record player. The Masquerade Is Over. You stir risotto over the stove, your glasses fogging up. You add white wine, and then swig from the bottle. Here we are. The temperature is dropping outside and people we thought we loved are turning out to be those who we never imagined. Or did we? And people we definitely loved are sick, and we are gathering around them with baskets of fresh veggies from the market and tear-stained cheeks. There aren’t words. There’s Keith Jarret. There’s a table settling for two.

“Hearing John Malkovitch” by Sasha at her desk


Saturday, June 1, 2013
11:53am
5 minutes
From the ARTS Section of the Globe and Mail
Saturday May 25th edition


I didn’t mean to write a manifesto but when I sat down I felt a flood like the one on the news coming through my fingertips, the one where people have to hold onto trees or else they will be swept away. You called, “What the heck is going on in there?” from the garage. You could hear me pounding on the computer keyboard, the flood getting deeper and heavier and more alive. “MANIFESTO!” I called back, and my voice broke, like I probably would cry but I didn’t want to alarm you and have you come back into the house, so then I called, “I’m totally okay!” You were carving sculptures of African animals out of soapstone. You worked from four in the morning until noon, from which point you listened to records and radio shows, and canned seasonal fruits and vegetables. I had never loved you more. This manifesto, however, only concerned me. It had nothing to do with you at all. It was completely and utterly my own. When you love someone deeply and unconditionally, it’s easy to feel that every that has to do with you has to do with them, too. That is not the case. This manifesto was as private as biting your own toenails, or popping an ingrown hair/pimple on your bikini line, or eating a half pint of salted caramel gelato in the nude while watching re-runs of 90210.