“Unmasked” by Sasha at Nadeem’s desk


Thursday October 27, 2016
7:56pm
5 minutes
A Manitoba concert hall sign

There is nothing about you that I don’t want to consume there is nothing about you. Your mistakes are the most delectable because they convince me that you are in fact human. Flesh, shit, bones, brains, heart, sinew. I learned about human when I started gorging on junk. Sugar, shit, bones, brains, salt, salt, sinew, guts. I learned about human when the world fell apart when my Dad left. I tempted human when I fucked anyone that made good eye contact. I chased human when I moved far far away.

“Important passages” by Sasha at her desk


Monday October 24, 2016
8:40am
5 minutes
Judaism
Jacob Neusner


there’s a bridge atop a tree atop a cliff
it creates a passage from one side to the other
only the brave and broken know where to find it
have hands and feet that know the knots to grip and
branches to swing up from
momentum will be a friend but not a guide
only the brave and broken know the intricacies of a
delicate and powerful tree climb
at the top of the cliff and up the tree
when you make it
you’ll gaze out over the pregnant horizon
you’ll see buildings and highways
gulls and sailboats
ant-sized people
before you cross the bridge
atop the tree
atop the cliff
before you cross from one side to the other
you take a breath
inhale
all the times you’ve kissed a face you love goodbye
all the groggy mornings
before water
all the moments
like this one
that you’ve dared to resist the urge to jump

I’m ecstatic to announce” by Sasha on her couch


Friday September 30, 2016
11:24am
5 minutes
A Facebook post

Holds her tongue when she wants to speak when she wants to yell
REBEL! REBEL! REBEL!
Holds her hands tight
lips
tight fingers around the truth
She was raised to be
QUIET
Speaking when spoken
Taking when token
She was raised to be
SMALL
Sink and shrink and skimp and
chew with your mouth closed
Don’t
talk with your mouth open
OPEN
CLOSED
OPEN
open
open up and let him in
Holds her tongue when she
is
FEAR
near
tear
bear
bare
here

“in a less than forgiving city” by Sasha at the table on Monkland


Wednesday September 28, 2016
10:12pm
5 minutes
vancouveractorsguide.com

In a less than forgiving city
where wind catcalls
and frost bites
we pull hoods around ears
so we can’t hear the whining
We trudge passed post apocalyptic nativities
We motor across bridges rife with dead fish
A salamander tries to get your attention
en route to capitalism
en route to mortgages
A salamander calls to you and asks for your heart

“Glottal stop” by Sasha at Culprit Coffee


Friday, January 29th 2016 at Culprit
3:55pm
5 minutes
From an email

“Write what you know”
she says
Like it’s as easy as peeling a banana
“Carry a notebook”
she says
Like it’s something everyone does
Like it’s vitamins in the morning
“Write down everything you think is funny”
she says
And I wonder about those private jokes that shouldn’t see
the light of the sinking sun
“Write down the things that make you sad”
she says
And I consider the damp pages of my notebook
the smudged ink

“She hasn’t been back since” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Thursday November 27, 2014
9:12pm
5 minutes
Summer Dress
July Talk


When the crows call I think about the sun
Going down early now
Hardly been up for eight hours
Kind of like me
Listening to piano music
Drinking black tea
Hoping that the muse will return
Fingers crossed for sunshine
Fingers crossed for tender footed steps
Fingers crossed for a cougar sighting

“Who wrote those poems?” by Sasha at Kafka’s


Friday October 17,2014
12:18pm at Kafka’s Coffee
5 minutes
Advanced Italian Grammar
Marcel Danesi


Who even wrote these stupid poems? These asshole poems in my notebook in my fucking handwriting? Who wrote this one about losing their sanity, and their youth, and their feeble attempts at fitness? WHO WROTE THESE IDIOT POEMS!? I’m gonna just go ahead and rip out these pages because this is BULLSHIT. I’ve been impersonated. Someone has pretty much pretended to be me, gone into my private notebook (where I write private things like, my grocery list, and notes for, like, school and occasional rants about a certain messy desk in my apartment that does not belong to me) and written shitty poems? What, is this a joke? Not funny. No one is laughing. Oh… You’re laughing? Well, you have a sick-ass sense of humour. Screw you. STOP LAUGHING. Who wrote these nasty poems?!

“Writing is so difficult” by Julia on her bed


Monday October 13,2014
9:33pm
5 minutes
A quote by Jessamyn West

It’s like opening every vein in your body but not at the entry points that doctors use to administer needles. You have to dig around in all the uncomfortable spots where the vein isn’t prominent, and then open it up from the inside and let the blood pour out. It needs to gush and splatter inside first before you’re allowed to open your skin–unfold every layer, peel it back, the old and the new, and let it fill whatever canvas is closest. And you have to do it vein by vein, one by one. And you have to do it by yourself because no on else knows where these soft spots live like you do, and you have to do it every time you want to express something real, communicate your feelings, and go to bed feeling like a positive change has taken place. It’s not easy. It is so difficult. But the more you do it, the more you know you must keep doing it. You must.

“Writing is so difficult” by Sasha on her couch


Monday October 13,2014
10:43pm
5 minutes
A quote by Jessamyn West

Writing is so difficult
Writing smells like burnt toast
Writing is messy and ugly and breakable
Writing makes me scream
Writing hugs me
Writing disgusts me
Writing is my tide
My moon
My “other” man
Writing tastes like burnt coffee
(Burning seems to be a theme)
Writing is the fire in my belly
Writing is home
Writing is my architecture
My party
My drug
My (good) bad habit
Writing is terrible
Writing is lonely
Writing is freedom
Writing is sisterhood
Writing is the dog bone (over-chewed, on the floor of the kitchen)
Writing is my legacy
Writing is my birthday
Writing is my death
Writing is never and always
Writing is water
Water is flowing
Writing is flowing
Writing is a best friend
A sister
Writing is the chandelier crashing to the floor
The lone monk on the highest mountain

“We invite you to relax” by Sasha on her porch


Sunday, September 7, 2014
5:41pm
5 minutes
from some bullshit air transat “discount” lounge voucher

It’s hard for me to take myself seriously anymore. My writing is shit. I got a tattoo that is lame and predicable and offensive and awful. I’m eating bags of chocolate chips. I’m fatter than I’ve ever been. And yet… I have hope. You know why? Because there’s a man sleeping over there and I love this man and underneath all the chocolate and the fat is a baby that is his and mine. We made this little tadpole. We made it like a pizza, but with more sex and less (a bit less) mozzarella. Maybe I’ve been taking myself too seriously. Maybe that’s the joke.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAH

“get started” by Sasha on her porch


Sunday August 24, 2014
12:03am
5 minutes
Semperviva pamphlet

All you need to get started is willingness.
All you need to get started is an open heart.
All you need to get started is breath.
All you need to get started are angel wings.
All you need to get started is a bellybutton.
All you need to get started is a mother that sings to you.
All you need to get started is a charcoal pencil.
All you need to get started is a bottle of water.
All you need to get started is the sunrise.
All you need to get started is a lover who knows how to touch and how to let go.
All you need to get started is a beating heart.
All you need to get started is a sweater from Newfoundland.
All you need to get started is the desire to evolve.
All you need to get started is an invitation.



Here it is.
Here.
Here.
Here.

“master of my own” by Sasha on her couch


Friday May 23, 2014
1:12am
5 minutes
overheard on the streetcar

When I married Christina I didn’t think that our differing opinions on literature would really be a problem. When I married Christina I never could’ve imagined that the smell of her would make me turn away. When I married Christina I thought I was the luckiest man alive, I thought I was master of my own, I thought…

The fighting only got really bad when I was writing. I am sorry to be the one to say it, but marrying a writer is never going to be easy. “Why aren’t you coming up for supper?” She’d ask from the top of the stairs. “Goddamnit Christina! Because I’ve been sitting here staring at a white fucking screen all day long and I finally got on a roll and I need to stick with it!!!!” She wouldn’t say anything. I’d hear her walking across the kitchen and turning off the stove.

“the bomb” by Sasha on her bed


Thursday December 26, 2013
1:48am
5 minutes
from the cover of NOW

I’ve been thinking a lot about success. And failure. And where the two intersect, or don’t… Or what. See, when you’re creative, when you call yourself an “artist”, a name of privilege, a warrior path, I believe that doing your art

is enough.

I believe

if you’re living your passion

practising your craft

honing and sanding and steaming and basting

you are doing your job.

I APPLAUD YOU.

Standing high on a snowbank

I call out in a voice reserved for my tribe

“THANK YOU FOR WORKING SO HARD!”

I can’t wait to hear what you make, to sing along to what you glazed with love and sweat, I long to feel your story in my toes. You doing what you do is ENOUGH. I don’t give a fireball what anyone else says about it. I reject the Tweet-erings too shy to cry out in their tribe-voice. I say “no thank you” to critics and naysayers and people that long to build something with their hands and don’t and then crash and bash into those of us that are brave enough to do just that.

Bravery is a bomb I will drop.

Bravery is a rhyme I will turn over in my mouth until it melts.

“CREATIVE SOULS” by Sasha on her couch


Friday, August 23, 2013
10:48pm
5 minutes
From the Arts Market business card

I am feet under thigh
Bum on couch
Toes curled under
Breath
high
I am singing inside
The operatic aria of the ink stain
on my fingertip
I am Friday
Full and round
I am change
Like what you’re begging for
Day after yesterday
Day after tomorrow
I am this night
Stretching like a ginger cat
In the moonlight
On the windowsill
I am the paintbrush
Of the flowers
Of the bees making honey from each precious centre
The pollen
The sting
The pollen
The sting
I am the peach on the table
In the jar from a friend
Whose birthday I forgot