Thursday June 29, 2017
from a text
Maggie’s always making friends with photographers. Her dream is that one of them will consider her their muse and either always snap candids of her looking warm and stunning or always want to take her portrait for free. She tried one year to befriend painters after she saw her ex boyfriend captured so perfectly. She made a couple jokes at first, dropping her interest like a fallen pen. The artist wasn’t taking requests so she had to try and convince him without seeming desperate. Sorry, he said, Curly hair is too hard to draw.
Friday, July 10, 2015
On Writing Zion
listening at the door to see if Alistair is still crying into his pillow
making sure he knows he can talk to me if he needs to
hoping that if he needs to he doesn’t bring up Deb
knowing that if he’s going to, he’s going to bring up Deb
preparing to talk about Deb
hand-washing the kimono Rufus stole for me at the charity drive
listening to Marco Beltrami to help focus my intentions
Consoling Alistair again about Deb
Using kind words with him like Easy Does It, There There Sweet One, I’m Not Going Anywhere
Wearing the kimono in front of the mirror to test it out
Deciding to wear the kimono loosely tied when dealing with Alistair
Figuring out ways to move my body naturally so as not to arouse suspicion when dealing with Alistair
practicing the look of genuine understanding and concern mixed with attraction
Friday May 22, 2015
After I wash my face at night, I don’t really want to see other humans until morning. It’s not that I don’t want them to see my face unmasked, without colours and expressions painted on, it’s more than that. It’s about time and space and holding that for me in a sacred way which for some odd reason at any other point in the day doesn’t feel as possible. Maybe I’m greedy. Maybe I want my born like this, woke up like this, go to bed like this face for me and only me. Maybe it makes me feel closer to the earth and to my mother and to my truth. It’s strange because this ritual has turned me into a monster. One knock at my door and I’m hissing like a cat with her claws out ready to pounce. I can’t say “Nobody’s home” or “Nobody that you will recognize is here”. Though I am good at it, I don’t want to lie. So I answer with my secret night time alone time me time face, and there’s a scowl where my lightness just was, a cold stare where my openness used to be.
Monday March 23, 2015 at Holy Oak Cafe
Overheard at Higher Grounds
Oh I can’t be seen with you. I can’t be seen with you. I told you not to wear that damn New Years shirt. I must have said it a thousand billion times. And now the only explanation for you wearing it tonight when it matters more than you’ll ever fully grasp, is that God is testing me. But do you know what the downside is? I don’t give a flying fuck if I fail God’s stupid little test because I don’t need his rewards. That’s right. I don’t need anything from someone who is going to dangle opportunities for success right in my face and then snatch them away with one touch of the world’s most hideous shirt. And he puts it on my boyfriend. To test and torture. I swear to you it would be better if you wore zero shirts to this fucking wedding than the God-awful, God-testing one you’re wearing right now. Please stand the fuck away from me. Just go over to the other side of the room where the haunting and painful pattern of your God-damn stupid fucking shirt can’t be seen or heard.
Sunday October 12,2014
from a gelato advertisement
Her skin is breaking out and she’s blaming it on the Chinese take-out. “What the fuck, Evan! We need to start eating vegetables!” “There are vegetables in Chow Mein!” Evan doesn’t know what to say. He’s doing his best. She resents his hat, his asshole hat. She resents his bad breath, and his hair loss, and his teeth, and his Facebook habit. “I’m going to get some spinach. We’ll eat spinach every meal of the day, honey…” She gazes at a zit the size of Olympus (to her, to you or I, it’s the size of an ant body). She looks herself in the eyes. Back to the zit. Back to her eyes. It’s a strange thing, gazing in your own eyes. It’s a strange thing, gazing into the eyes of a man you think you know, named Evan, who secretly pulls out his eyelashes and eats them.
Monday, November 4, 2013
Kinfolk, Volume Nine
Michelle came in today. Hand’t seen her in over a month now, but I haven’t been counting so I guess I don’t really know for sure. She was alone as she had been the last few times I’d seen her. Wearing her long hair down to cover up the parts of her body she didn’t seem to like very much. I asked her how she’d been doing. She smiled sort of, but mostly with her neck if that’s even possible, and told me, “Oh, you know, trying to lose weight but mainly by trying to eat right and nothing else.” I was a bit stunned, in fact. The last time Michelle came in she had said something similar and I tried to mention all the ‘at-home remedies’ I knew to help her but she really wasn’t one for listening so this time I didn’t say much. I nodded my head and told her, “Great idea, it’s all about the nutrients isn’t it?” I couldn’t help myself at one point, tried to put my two cents in where it doesn’t belong, where it wasn’t needed. I said, “You know, have you ever tried those smoothies? You can put any thing in those!” And what I meant was those green things, the goopy messy ones. The ones with loads of veggies and fruits, and proper nuts and seeds and things. She smiled again, this time from her chin, and said, “I think those smoothies are what made me gain all that weight in the first place. It’s all that yogurt, eh?”
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
from a business card
Always liked my arms. Never had a problem with them. Never felt like they were disproportionate. Thought about getting liposuction once (Who doesn’t), and then realized that I just don’t care enough about that stuff. Never had a problem with my hands until a stupid boy named Brendan with bleach-blonde surfer hair told me they were too big for my body. I was 14 (fuck you Brendan). Thought my feet were okay. Not too big, not too small. Just right. one of my toes is ridiculously too tiny but do people care about toes these days? Thought if people were playing the game where they deconstruct themselves, then build the ideal human with all the best parts from them and their friends, at least two or three of my features would make the cut. Not my hair. Too scraggly in the wintertime. (Not my lips either.) Some friends would make it on for everything. They had better shaped eyes or noses or something. But if we were playing the game where we deconstruct all our skills and build the ideal human with those? I’d be up there for sure. Nobody can video blog like me. I even put it on my resume and business cards.