“and a quiet evening sipping whiskey” by Julia on the Brown Line

Wednesday September 12, 2018
7:16pm
5 minutes
Mr. Bright Eyes
John Barton

Who had the bright idea to go to Target and buy a 12 pack of Miller Lite? Must have been you since you’re the only one drinking Miller Lite these days. Me, I can’t swallow the stuff. Not just Miller Lite, but beer. The only thing they drink here. Not beer as in here take a sip, take a load off, take the edge off. Beer as in, here, here, here, and here, and more, and more, and more, and here. I can’t do it like that. I was told not to. My body has been trying to remind me that. You wouldn’t want me that way anyway. Those days when I used to drink beer and beer and here and here I wouldn’t know where here was or me, or my desires. I don’t recognize the person who used to drink in the shower, before the comedy show, before leaving the house. I could ask us to stay in one night, have a quiet evening sipping whiskey but, you are not the kind of person who sips anything. You like the feeling of being tipsy with me, but I can’t seem to get there anymore without losing myself. I don’t like the action of sipping things when I am simply not thirsty.
My guts have been full since I got here. You had a Miller Lite in the closet yesterday and I had one more reason to stop. The dreams come worse when I’ve been filling all the holes with the wrong kind of gold. The kind that costs four dollars at Target.

“and a quiet evening sipping whiskey” by Sasha on her couch

Wednesday September 12, 2018
7:02am
5 minutes
Mr. Bright Eyes
John Barton

He calls and tells me that he misses me. I want to hear it from the one who hasn’t been drinking whiskey, the one who wakes up and washes the dishes, the one who plays basketball with the lanky teenagers in the courts by the community centre. I always said that I’d wait for you. I always said that I’d be able to. Now, though, it feels as though time moves faster and people are dying, and being born, and how are we wasting time on things that aren’t true? He calls and tells me that he misses me and I pull the phone away from my ear so that he can’t hear the catch in my throat, the tiny “me too,” the deep breath, the tear rolling down towards my upper lip.

“this is the best place” by Julia on her bed


Wednesday February 4, 2015
10:29pm
5 minutes
castingworkbook.com

Shying away from the old heartache song
I don’t take too well to that kind of thing anymore
It hurts a bit in places that I didn’t know I had
So I let that tune play on elsewhere
I don’t tell it to stop cause I know it has to keep going
But I send it some peace so it knows It’s not personal
When I meet grace again, I’ll hum it softly
Maybe I’ll mouth the words
That’s when I’ll be able to have it quietly on repeat in the background
Underscoring my day to day
My dishes in the sink
My clothes on the line
My what ifs, if onlys
My midnight snack of whiskey and war

“GTA” by Julia at The Common on Bloor


Monday, June 24, 2013 at The Common on Bloor
3:49pm
5 minutes
The Toronto Star

She was leaving the GTA that afternoon, said to me, Darlin’I have to get out of this city. Tipped her wide-brimmed beach hat at me and left the bar after doing a shot of Amaretto. Said she wanted to feel the sweetness on her tongue all the way to the airport. I had never met anyone like Elsa in all the time I’ve been here. She made me question who I was for two short weeks when she forced herself into my life. I don’t know why I was so open to her, so accepting of her UFO believing ways, or her constant reliance on whiskey and pecan butter tarts. Elsa was a mover, a shaker, and somehow that woman knows more about me than I do and I’ve only known her for a brief excerpt of it. Didn’t tell me she would miss me, but she did say that I should check my mailbox before the month was up. Elsa wasn’t going to send me a letter, but a tiny sculpture with the bottom carved out, stuffed with weed, then corked back up again, laying flush against the opening. She didn’t tell me this, but I knew. I knew Elsa better than she knew herself too. Sometimes you meet those kind of people and you don’t need to really keep them with you until you see a bottle of Maker’s Mark on the shelf somewhere.