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
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
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.
“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.
“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
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
