Monday, September 29, 2008

excercise no. 3

it's fast work in there. there is a line up of too many people that are all in separate important rushes, clutching drinks that sweat ice water over their knuckles, or, depending on what time of day it was, leak scalding sugary drops over their thumbs while they count their cash. the walls are lined with fridges now, cold on the inside but humming electricity and heat into the store. the heat, the coloured lights and the music blaring are caffeinated enough for me. standing on a pivot, turning from customer to cash register, blurting thank-yous and have-a-nice-days without thinking and trying to get through the line in the ten minute rush that occurs every hour, i always get dizzy from moving too fast and forgetting to look at people's faces. today i made seven sixty three in tip money.

Saturday, September 6, 2008

re-gifting

horizontal with someone whose smell is still new, her legs tangled and stretched out on flannel bedding. mindlessness, the absence of any residual anger and her mind blissfully blank. except for the ever clenching and unclenching gears that are asking: how long should it take to get over this? six weeks, four months, maybe eight? it should take forever, though. some of those things she said, saying them meant this should take forever to get over.
do people get over it? she thinks that people just need to pretend to get over it before they actually can. once they fall into the pattern of pretending that their eyes are focused and they had a full night’s sleep and that sixteen cookies constitutes a well-balanced meal and not a symptom of depression, everything settles into a rhythm of normal. she would assume. maybe her actions were that of someone who is ‘moving on,’ but nothing felt normal.
the possibility still seems ludicrous. less ludicrous now that someone was above her, putting pressure on her stomach, the buttons on his wool sweater pushing into her abdomen.

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

the appropriate stages of grief - introduction to a short story

Claire was standing at the kitchen sink. Her silvery white hair hanging loose down her back, her posture the picture of frailty. Her creased hands were gripping the edges of the counter, fingers flat against the sink. The kitchen is dark. The glass windows are open; it’s the season for screens and Claire can hear the crickets and frogs in the night, the occasional crunch of gravel from a car. The scene in the backyard was through silhouettes; trees, the porch swing, the hammock, Noel’s rusted bicycle leaning against a tree, with vines woven through the spokes.

The air that filtered through the screen was cool on her legs beneath the floating fabric of her grey skirt. The hair on the back of her arms stood up, but she did not move to close the window. Claire was thinking about boxes. She was constantly craving cardboard, sturdy corrugated structures, stacked flattened in the backs of grocery and retail stores. She was always approaching sales people inquiring about boxes. Her house was a mess. She needed to keep sifting through the items. She had thrown the majority of Noel and her belongings in boxes that she hadn’t known what to mark. “Garbage?” “Garage sale?” “Kids?” “Amity?” Claire knew what she didn’t want to keep, but past that – after leaping from the third cement step all the way down to the sidewalk, ankles curving to steady the foot, she had landed, brittle bones intact – she didn’t know what to do. Either way, they were things that she didn’t want, so she marked the boxes “unwanted.” Her daughters thought it was harsh, maybe she would agree except that it was true, and she wanted to focus on the truth. Peel back the skin; expose tiny bones, watery blood leaking over flimsy sides.

Thursday, June 5, 2008

a shitty play called "instant messaging"

ROZ and SETH are friends in grade eleven. Their conversation takes place through online instant messaging.

On the left side of the stage there is a teenage girl’s bedroom with a power point screen above it which shows her computer desktop. On the right side of the stage there is a teenage boy’s bedroom with the same screen. It should be clear that these bedrooms are not in the same house. As the actors type dialogue to each other, the audience can see each character’s computer screen and can read the instant messaging conversation. The audience can also see the other windows that are open on each of SETH and Roz’s computer screens.

(Roz is listening to music and writing a reading response for English class, Seth is working on an essay for an Ancient History class.)

IM SETH: hey
IM ROZ: hi
IM SETH: what's up
IM ROZ: nothing. you?
IM SETH: just writing my essay for ancient history.
IM ROZ: cool. how'd things go with heather?
IM SETH: alright, i guess. she wants me to go to a movie with her and her friends tomorrow.
IM ROZ: that's nice. i'm glad things are working out.
IM SETH: yeah.

(Roz's brother comes in with a basket of laundry for her, which she thanks him for and dumps on her bed. She begins to fold the clothes but stops when Seth instant messages her.)

IM SETH: so how are things with your dad?
IM ROZ: shitty. there was major drama today about christmas.
IM SETH: oh yeah?
IM ROZ: basically he changed his plans two days before christmas and he expects us to just go along with it and change our own plans to fit his. now instead of jake & maggie going there for christmas dinner he wants them there for christmas morning and christmas eve.
IM SETH: well, then you get to be with them for christmas dinner, that's good right?
IM ROZ: except it's dec 23, we don't have a turkey because me and mom were just going to go to the neighbours for dinner.
IM SETH: oh.
IM ROZ: and it's just the principle of the thing, you can't expect everyone else to rearrange plans for you at the last minute. it's important to me to spend christmas morning with jake & maggie, they're only going to be kids for so long, i'm 16, how many more christmas mornings are going to be the same?
IM SETH: yeah, my dad used to change stuff at the last minute all the time to get me to do what he wanted.
IM ROZ: yeah, and you being a little kid, you'd think that what he wanted would come second.
IM SETH: it never does
IM SETH: it still doesn't.

(Pause. Seth turns on his music, goes to grab a snack from another room and brings it back to eat at his computer. He continues to work on his essay. Simultaneously Roz checks her email and her mom comes in.)

MOM: So your dad refuses to let the kids come here. Apparently it's his turn to have the kids for Christmas morning he says, "it's in the agreement" he just repeats that over and over.
ROZ: Ugh.
MOM: And the thing is, is that he's wrong, in the agreement every other year we switch, then last year you guys were with him for Christmas morning anyway, so it is my turn.
ROZ: But even when you told him that it was important to me to be with the kids for Christmas morning?
MOM: He said that it's important to him too. (Pause.) He also said that you are more than welcome to come to their Christmas morning.
ROZ: Pfft. He is such a moron.
MOM: He just makes me sick, he keeps quoting the agreement, and he gets it wrong, and…he has no thought or concern for my plans or how I feel, let alone your feelings...I mean…why wouldn't a forty-eight year old sacrifice his feelings for his sixteen year old…why doesn't he think of himself as the adult and of you as the child…In reality you are an adult and he behaves like a child, so maybe he is right...ugh...he just - he just makes me sick.

(Silence.)

ROZ: Ugh.
MOM: (Forcibly brightening) But don't worry, we'll sleep in and wake up when Jake + Maggie get here later.
ROZ: Yeah...
MOM: And we'll have a big breakfast like usual, it will just be an hour or two late.

(Pause.) Okay, I need to go find a turkey somewhere! We might be having grilled cheese for Christmas!

(ROZ whimpers.)

Mom: Just kidding! I will buy whatever turkey they have left! We will have turkey for Christmas!

(Mom leaves. Roz stares into space until she gets an IM from Seth.)

IM SETH: i don't even know if i will see my dad this christmas.
IM ROZ: really? why?
IM SETH: he called yesterday and talked to my mom for a bit, then she gave me the phone and he asked me to come to windsor for christmas dinner.
IM ROZ: but that's like, 3 days beforehand!
IM SETH: i know, and my mom is having her side of the family over for christmas dinner at our house, so she needs my help.
IM ROZ: but even if you weren't helping her, you'd still be with her for christmas dinner anyway, right?
IM SETH: yeah. so i told him that i had plans and he got so pissed and told me how important it was for me to come, that it might be my grandma's last christmas. but i told him that i already was going to mom's dinner and i had to help her, and he started crying
IM ROZ: ugh
IM SETH: and i told him again no and he hung up on me
IM ROZ: that is so rude!
IM ROZ: and immature!
IM SETH: yeah, i was not impressed.
IM ROZ: nor would it make you more inclined to make the effort to see him anyway

(Pause. Roz continues to work on her report for English, Seth answers the phone in his room.)

SETH: Hello?...Oh hey, Heather…Good. How are you?...Right now?...Oh, um...well it's getting really late…Oh yeah, well I think 7:30 is pretty late! It's a school night...and I have to, uh…work on this history essay…That's okay, maybe another night…Oh that's good, you worked hard on that project.

IM ROZ: it's kind of cool that we both have loser dads, it's nice to be able to talk to someone who understands.

SETH: (on phone still) Uh-huh…Well, yeah.

IM ROZ: i don't know anyone but you who really gets what it's like, everyone else has a nice dad

SETH: (on the phone still) Of course…Listen Heather, I can't really talk right now, I think my mom needs to use the phone…Oh no, it's okay…I'll see you at school tomorrow…Bye.

IM SETH: yeah i know what you mean. those stupid kids with their awesome dads.
IM ROZ: haha.
IM SETH: well you can talk to me about it anytime.
IM ROZ: I think i'm going to go, i need to finish this response for tomorrow!
IM SETH: oh.
IM SETH: yeah, me too, this essay is killing me.
IM ROZ: i'll see you tomorrow in geography?
IM SETH: yeah, see you.
IM ROZ: bye!
IM SETH: have a good night.

{my professor questioned the sense of purpose. i know it's not that great, but it's my first play...}

hospital walks

i’m not here to be fixed up by a doctor or nurse,
i just need to look at some sick broken patients,
death, dying, disease and conditions diverse,
last wishes and surgeries with complications

i just need to look at some sick broken patients
so i can learn to control my breathing and reactions
to last wishes and surgeries with complications,
to bloody wounds, gaping gashes and hairline fractures.

i need to learn to control my breathing and reactions:
like a shaking heart, clammy hands, instant sweating
when i see bloody wounds, gaping gashes, hairline fractures
or bones stuck out at strange angles that need setting.

my shaking heart, clammy hands, instant sweating;
i go on hospitals walks to battle my anxiety
about bones stuck out at strange angles that need setting
and unforgiving blood conditions of every variety.

i go on hospitals walks to battle my anxiety
over death, dying, disease, conditions diverse
and unforgiving blood conditions of every variety.
but i’m not here to be fixed up by a doctor or nurse.

social triumph

dancing on hardwood with drinks in hand,
over cheekbones a flush has crept,
arms flung over another so you can stand;
a social decorum in which all are adept.
when nagging doubt pokes at my eyes
another booze-infused communion
gives doubt no chance to survive:
instead a confidence and charisma union.
no clique distinctions or social clarity
just shared infectious enthusiasm,
heads thrown back in amplified hilarity
the laughter arriving in shared spasms.

come here often? a quick fix, relax, release?
doesn't last, but an effective escape - however brief.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

wifebeater

if you permit it
you promote it
if you don’t condemn it
you condone it
so if you say it
you should mean it.

if the girls laugh
it’s okay
jokes are dumb, they’re
not serious anyway
and when you laugh
at hate and violence
it’s not making it okay.

bitch – lighten up, don’t
take offense
it’s not like women are
really victims of violence
we can laugh about it
and it doesn’t mean shit
because jokes are stupid
and no one means it.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

triumph

anxiety fluctuates
with the occurance of special occasions
with the reoccuring frustrations
that come with affection
she felt it was a lost cause
she felt it was a curse
until she walked into a room
and beneath her elasticine waistband
there was direction
someone showed her
someone told her
what to do
someone who knew
and by slowly stretching her limits
by slowly expanding within it
she's laughing and she is thinking
this is more like it
and roses unfold in her hands,
suddenly she understands
why everybody's doing it
when roses unfold in her hands

Monday, March 17, 2008

green pool at night

she is standing on the edge of the pool, her skin illuminated ivory from the lights on the back of the house. shadows trace dark shapes behind her neck and knees and elbows. from the house the water looks still and calm. there is no wind, no waves, no natural movement tonight. but to her the water is hovering and shifting below her, a transparent green moving mass. it would make her visible, draw attention to her uncertain decisions, send out splashing soundwaves to the world. poised over it, she remains unseen, she can walk away bone dry invisible. there are so many reasons not to get wet; her hair will stick together tomorrow, her bandaid will slip off her skin and get stuck in the filter, her eyes will sting and form tiny white light halos around the lights when she gets out. she stands outside for too long and the lights on the house disappear. it's windy now so she goes inside.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

forget it

you're sticky sticky always in the same place
grow up just grow up just sever those roots
run away just run away or jump up and down

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

the daring book for girls

My father worked shifts and my mother refused to get her license so most of the time when us kids would have soccer or swimming lessons, scouts or girl guides or play dates or emergencies my Uncle Drew would drive us. Uncle Drew was some kind of policeman, a crime hating, robber fighting good kind of guy, my dad used to say about his brother-in-law. I don’t know what Uncle Drew did exactly but he had a radio in his special undercover car that he freighted us to and from in. It was secret, he wasn’t supposed be carrying children around while he was on the job chasing down the bad guys.

“What kind of bad guy are you chasing Uncle Drew?” My brother would ask from between the duffel bags of equipment in the back seat of the van. “The kind that wear all black or the kind that wear a disguise?”

“Today,” Uncle Drew would say to us, speeding the way only a cop can speed; knowing that he is the rules, the law and the enforcement and therefore he is invincible. “Today my job is still a secret Michael, and I still won’t tell you.”

Michael would sigh and then quickly revert to not paying attention to such notions of secrecy and exclusivity that he could not participate in. “Can I see your gun Uncle Drew? I know you have one, all cops have a gun. Cops probably have six guns each.”

The radio would crackle and voices interrupted, calls to Uncle Drew and calls to other roaming police officers. “The boyfriends back,” the radio might hiss. I was always jealous that these anonymous people who lived between frequencies in some kind of fictional city had their lives broadcasted to the police. Their shards of glass lives digging into everyone’s palms. I thought that these radio people with their dangerous boyfriends and drive by shootings lived in a television world, with gunshots and accidents, sirens and smoke inhalation. I had people who cared about me, but they got to have extra people care about them, like my Uncle Drew. I knew when I grew up that I would be a character on the policeman radio show. I would move into the dirty gritty city and watch buildings fall and men in black ski masks hold up banks and try to grab old lady purses. Later my Uncle Drew changed departments and sat behind a desk all day and brother lost interest in guns and bad guys and we were old enough to take the bus. I thought that in order to get more people to care about me I should do dangerous things. Thus began my summer of wild.

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

confetti made from cheerios

“Count all the good things that happened in your day, not the bad ones,” he told me.

“But I had a bad day,” I told him. “Bad things happened all day. At breakfast I spilled my cereal on my lap and mom yelled at me because I was late for the bus –”

“But what good things happened today?” he pushed me. “Count the good things.”

I am having a bad day and I recall this conversation. Adding up every single thing that was bad in my day, the dirty looks and sharp turns and crappy news and shitty lunch and rolling eyes; I feel guilty. I should count the good things. The good things that peeked through the curtains and pushed at the corners of my mouth. It’s a bad fucking day though. What did he have to be so goddamn happy about? But then again, he was probably high. Ghost floating father, anchored to the couch and wandering in the forest blazing trails all over the place: through the trees and over his lungs and through our family. Count the good things, little girl. The bad things I did won’t count for shit.

Books I Will Read In the Summer of 2008 Or Eventually


Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting




Maureen Johnson - Suite Scarlett
Ashley Rhodes Courter - Three Little Words
Margaret Atwood – The Handmaiden’s Tale
Margaret Atwood – Oryx and Crake
John Green – Looking for Alaska
Ann-Marie McDonald – The Way the Crow Flies
Philip Pullman – The Golden Compass Trilogy
C. S. Lewis – The Chronicles of Narnia
J. K. Rowling – Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (repeat)
Miranda July – No One Belongs Here More than You
Mark Haddon - The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time

Any Suggestions?

Friday, February 22, 2008

no. 1

he was the rockstar and she was the groupie who was too afraid to say his name. she knew his family, drove by his house and knew all the lyrics to all the songs that his shitty band played at the YMCA on weekends. she'd heard that he was a jerk but she just didn't believe it, couldn't believe that such a good looking, nasal singing, long distance running kind of lead singer of a highschool boy could ever say those things, would ever think those things. she left him behind in highschool, that was the tragedy. it was over, she could follow his footsteps online but what use was it with him in another province? no drive by sightings or gossip filtered from friend to friend. it was embarrassing to admit. it sounded worse than it was, like she was some kind of stalker groupie girl, some kind of crazy. it could stay behind her in middlebrook, no one at elliott would ever need to know.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

titles are too hard

laguna beach
what a treat
no offense but
theres no suspense
in what you like
and dislike:
celebrity news and
surface insights
thats why all we do
is reminisce and
shoot the shit and
make no new
memories.
nothing in common
except highscool
i can fuel the night
by rolling my eyes
inhaling my sighs and
holding my tongue
holding air in my lungs but
i still like you just
not like i used to.

Monday, February 18, 2008

flannel sheets

she woke up between warm sheets in her empty frozen room. she never wanted leave the comforters, her fortress of pillows. she was a trapeze artist: one person was holding her ankles and another swung towards her, with arms outstretched. choose a direction! it’s not that she couldn’t face the world today, nothing quite so melodramatic or interesting. she could easily rise and dress, stuff her warm limbs into icy foreign fabrics, splash water on her face and move through the day. she couldn’t choose: apple or orange, toast or cereal, the next year of her life. couldn’t she just lie in limbo, make angels in the sheets, lie with her bare stomach pressed to the mattress and her head at the wrong end of the bed? indecision turns to apathy perched on her shoulder.
instead let’s think about everything that is irrelevant, because the summer’s too late to decide you know. pack a suitcase with some things, find a map, read a book. and most importantly: find a willing friend, someone who can listen to you talk about stupid stuff for hours, list your anxieties alphabetically with fluctuating pitch and urgency. it’s not running away, it’s just running laps; you’ll come back eventually. out of one hundred decisions you can make this one –
she thinks about this from under the striped flannel. indecision twists into motivation; a place, a plan, a project. as long as she keeps moving she’s accomplished something. as long as she keeps planning you couldn’t call her static.