“you need to do better, Kev.” By Julia in her bed

Monday July 1, 2019
12:10pm
5 minutes
From an instagram story

I am laying here a bit weak and helpless from the bleeding. It’s the first of the month and my period has arrived. Happy Canada Day. Red and white for me too. Wonderful.
The rumbling was loud and I thought by now I’d be staring up into the clear blue sky, but it would be too loud for everyone.
Meaning it would feel too loud to be around anyone.
A faint whisper of “you need to do better than this.”

The hot water bottle on my pelvis and sometimes on my upper right quadrant (a rib is starting to speak up now too, wants its turn) is also red. Look at the patriotism.

But I am grateful I didn’t feel this way yesterday while we were in a car for the last leg of our trip, wincing through every sparkling river, every endless mountain. My body is quiet until it is not. Now it is loud, as I mentioned, and I am here listening as it repeats the same story on a low hum.

“Disturbing a primordial silence” by Julia at Amanda’s table

Saturday May 4, 2019
5:14pm
5 minutes
The Secret Language of Symbols
David Fontana

Note: It was earlier than the first day, a lingering at the base of my spine.
There was little before, and then there was this.

I sit with nothing on, the wind blowing my tits to the side,
and somewhere beneath the noise lives the rumble.
There is proof of existing here. It feels berry ripe,
rasp or straw. The inclusion of blue feels appropriate.
Sky, ocean, baby.
With this skin, I thee wed. And the moment of quiet erupted.
It burst with red and tiny seeds, it turned the inside of
the dream a shade of fallen pink, leftover from the spill.
I sit with nothing on so nothing gets in the way of my heart beat.
This metronome paces itself against the under currant.
It joins me in the swell of chaos like a passion united.

“make a cool can” by Sasha on her couch


Tuesday, September 8, 2015
10:12pm
5 minutes
from a LinkedIn profile

We got matching red hats from the Sally Ann and we wore them all through the fall and winter and even in April’s aloof blush. Yours was more slouchy and mine was tighter, what with my gargantuan head. This made less people recognize that we were indeed wearing matching hats, which isn’t what we were going for, but was a nice perk. You worked out Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings at six thirty, before going to work at the Lavalife call center. I would have breakfast waiting on the table, a couple of scrambled eggs and rye toast with caraway seeds.

“are you from here?” By Sasha in her bathroom


Saturday, June 6, 2015
10:51pm
5 minutes
Overheard at R&D

You thought I was someone I wasn’t, that’s for sure. How could you have thought that I was just me and that that was enough? I was wearing a red short, tight in the right place, loose in the others, aka “just right”. I’d ordered vodka sodas from you all night, smiling, eye contact, touching your fingers a little bit longer, aka “just right”. Before I left you called me over to the bar and said, “I want to see you again…” It was gentle, slow, it was corn roasted on the barbecue, perfectly blackened. I wrote my number on the inside of your wrist, where lots of women have etched in black forever ink “DESTINY” or “breathe”. You liked the placement, you had an accent but I wasn’t sure from where.

We met at a bar a few blocks from my apartment. I noticed blue nail-polish on your pinky. “What’s that?” I asked, a sip of cider fresh on my lips like a coy “Hello”. “My daughter,” you said, and I leaned back, swallowing.

“32 million tonnes” by Sasha in the Kiva


Saturday December 20, 2014
10:18pm
5 minutes
from a pamphlet about the pipeline

There are 32 million tonnes of ideas in her head
She weaves them together when she’s sleeping
Or
Rather
In those moments between waking and sleep
Sleep and waking
In those times when things are watercolour and soft
She finds one about empathy and she attaches it to another about betrayal
She uses red wool
Spun in a time before time
Spun by fingers that know things minds cannot
She finds an idea about her family
And she casts it out into the water
She sits
Beach bound
Digging her toes into the sand
Waiting for it to come back to her
She’s ready now

“The Psychology of Colour” by Sasha at her desk


Monday December 30, 2013
10:06pm
5 minutes
www.stumbleupon.com

Red wants me to bake him a chocolate cake for his birthday but I’m trying to cut down. On chocolate. Not on cake. “Let them (me) eat cake!” I say. “What about lemon? Citrus is so fresh…” I try to entice him. He rolls his eyes. “Citrus is so nice this time of year!” Red stands up and makes for the fridge. This guy can eat an entire frozen lasagne. He can eat a whole crate of those clementines. “I want a chocolate cake, okay?!” “Fine!” I say, “I just won’t be able to have any!” “Oh Jesus, Ramona,” he says, “it’s a special occasion every Thursday night when the girls come over but you won’t celebrate with me on my damn birthday?” I think he’s upset because he’s turning twenty. He isn’t ready to have the responsibility of no longer being a teenager. “I’ll make you a chocolate cake,” I say. “I’ll make it, I’ll eat it, and then I will be very upset. And you know who is going to have to deal with me like that?! YOU.” After standing there, door open, gazing in like he might find the secret to life, Red takes a jar of pickles from the fridge and goes upstairs to his room.