excerpt

I felt like I was at an eighth grade dance. Alisha Keizer was leading Ryan Houghton out of the bathroom by the hand, after putting makeup on him. We were all jealous of her then, with her hair dusting back from her face, her small, pale fingers gripped around that brown hand as they walked in to some 90’s tune. But it was winter this time, and cold and dark, and I was being lead, following O’Connor’s back patch to the bar the west ha kept him away from for a year, while he was shuffling around with new found ambition before returning home and laying around like the rest of us, sullen. He was eager before he left. There are pictures of us from when my hair is still pink. He is wearing my hat, and giving a thumbs up, and I am laughing. Our teeth look white, and we look young, healthy and happy, tattooed and alive.

I was never satisfied, that was my problem. What the hell is your excuse?

a new name for everything.

We wanted for nothing, so autumn caught us off guard. We always knew it was coming, it was the natural progression of things, but it was so hot for so long that our anticipation was dulled. Surely summer would last forever, we thought, so we were shocked when fall showed up on time on the appropriate calendar date, clicking into place like a bike gear. A whole new part of me aged and went away, and the hole was filled up with something else. My shoes got soaked when the rain started and I was delighted, walking after dark, the rain dripping off my nose.

So that year you went. Of all things that is the one I will never forget. In my collection of trivial, poorly articulated thoughts mimed out by my dumb tongue, in my pictures and familiar smells and tastes, there is that. In my list of people who took extremely dramatic exits in the middle of the emotional excess of summer and the silent desperation of winter, there is you. You who began the quiet process of dying with the fall, shriveling up in your favourite chair and gray like the weather. In your living room we stood around you awkwardly, talking about you, talking at you, but never talking to you. We ate up all our stories about you like a cheap buffet. You smiled and nodded while we devoured your life and did not flinch. You did not eat. You waited.

I wore my black rubber boots, new and clean back and forth every afternoon. Wool socks bunched and stiffened around my toes. And I walk home late at night with all my hopes for you tucked away in my pocket.
That you exhale. And that might be the end of everything..

character study

“I hate the people,” he grunts, for he grunts like a bear when he speaks and walks as if there is a 2 by 4 stacked under each arm pit, he is that large, that unmovable.
“I hate the people that you sort of hate for no reason, or like a dumb one, like they talk funny, or they have a terrible sense of humour, and they always insist on talking to you, and you want to ignore them,”
He coughs and braces his arm as I skid on the ice in my sneakers,
“You want to ignore them,” he continues, assured I have my balance, “But they won’t stop trying to converse with you. And you give them one word answers, like yes, and no, and nothing works.” He notices a police van and spits. “Keep moving.” He’s technically not supposed to be drinking or near the place for another 3 days, but it is a new year, and he’s avoided trouble so far, at least in public. “You want to be a jerk to them,” he tells me, charging ahead in the cold, “But you got no good reason, you know? Except for this feeling,” I swig my shitty mixed drink from a water bottle and nod. He pauses, “This feeling that they’re no good.”

forty ounces of social skills.

i’m feeling really frustrated artistically this week, really useless and not quite good enough. nothing i shoot says what i want to say, and everything i want to say leaves me with an uncomfortable feeling in my throat, like a pebble lodged there, keeping the words in my brain from coasting out on my tongue, like admitting love and wanting to be loved is weakness. like loneliness and being lost in the city i want to give myself over to completely is not something to scream about. like i’m maudlin and weak and need to just keep my head down, dodge my friends and make it through this month in silent exile.

sometimes i miss drinking more.
sometimes i miss you, and everything, even though we both know we were bad news, coasting from town to town with no set direction and lots of pills.
sometimes i want to look cover my face, punch my soft stomach, rip the skin off my arms and sell everything i own, and most days i want to be braver.
i want to show you.
i want you to see.
i want you to recognize that maybe i’m ok. maybe i’m special too.

citywide girlfriend

i walked with my arms open
zombie draggin goose step
hugging each block of the neighbourhood close to my chest
with the slide of my slip ons
the clutch of my fingers
the wind pulling my sweater open
collar bones exposed to my lovers
my parnters
oh my friends
oh my brothers
my booze soaked
bliss filled slow dancing cigarette memories
intimate and naked
brown, dirty and slick with sweat
all over the sidewalk and taking me home.

stealing people’s mail.

Stealing People’s Mail

It can be a little tempting to hate people who don’t change their addresses. You wake up in the morning, peek in your mailbox and it’s just filled with exciting envelopes. And they’re all for someone else.

We’ve all done it. Our twenties are a time of constantly shifting addresses. I’m no exception, as I am hugely unorganized and procrastinate constantly, so I’ve cut a vicious return to sender swath across the neighborhoods of my city. I’ve since set up all my bills through email, which saves paper, and everyone’s time tremendously. So we don’t hate you , habitual address hogs, we honestly don’t. In fact, we come out ahead. What sucks for you, is that we’re nosy, bored and poor, which means we’re going through the mail you never bothered to get rerouted.

Illegal? Technically. Immoral? Probably, but has that ever stopped me before? Maybe it would have, had I not discovered Allison M. and the Harelquin Reader Service

I never understood reading trashy romance novels. I spent one summer working at a small town library and museum, and based on the synopses on every steamy back cover, each story is more or less the same. There are always quivering bodies, aching thighs, and swelling appendages, along with icy blue eyes and large firm hands. The entire industry is based on one idea of romance that apparently every woman over, and thanks to that atrocious series, ‘Twilight’ now under 45 subscribes to, or is told she ought to subscribe to, and it’s total bullshit. My feelings on this matter naturally made the undelivered Harlequin Reader Service, featuring first chapters of four new books, a reader survey and the promise of free gifts too tempting not to pick up. Allison M., I am getting in on your swag. Watch out.

Actually Allison, on second thought, as tempted as I am to see this mail gag through to its completion, I really am not into playing with fire. Since I cannot leave a book unread, and also love to read and watch things that really, really piss me off, receiving two free books, plus two other free gifts for completing the survey could really start a landslide of terror that I want no part of. My friends would find me behind a wall of terrible cowboy romance novels, screaming and scratching at my face.
So rest assured, Allison, your gifts are safe with the Harlequin Romance Company, and should you wish to receive them, your form is in good hands.

Enclosed in the garish red, white and blue envelope is a booklet that contains four first chapters. I will be reading from the following literary masterpieces:

Untouched Mistress, by Margaret McPhee. Nice name, Margaret. I was told just today by a friend that alliteration is one of the finest literary devices and I do tend to agree. Anyways, the cover image of this work bears a young man with dark hair in a woolen cloak and riding breeches, also an open white shirt. Naturally. He is carrying a red headed woman in a purple dress out of the mist. They’re also on the beach, and he is in riding boots. All is right with the world.

I will also be reading from The Murder’s Club, by P.D. Martin. The tag line for this is ‘They watch. They wait. They kill.’ The cover is a little disappointing. It has a delete key with a smudged red thumb print. I presume this is blood. Not your best, P.D. And your initals make me think ‘Private Detective’, which is a frustratingly obvious choice. I don’t think P.D. and I would get along too well.

Next up will be Cowboy for keeps by Brenda Marr. This is a super romance. According to the back of my little booklet, the super romances feature realistic characters in realistic settings. I am pretty sure realistic cowboys are a lot dirtier and smellier then they guy in this cover illustration. Actually, I think it’s the same male model from the Untouched Mistress cover.

Last but not least, I will be reading the first chapter from Second Chance Pass, by Robyn Carr. I’m a little disappointed in Robyn’s cover. It’s a yellow ranch house with some mountains and some horses, but according to the booklet this is supposed to warm my heart, so I guess flowing hair and riding breeches and open shirts was not appropriate.

My roommate is taking this time to tell me I am crazy. He’s probably right, but I will do it for you, the readers, even though it’s going to suck.

Untouched Mistress begins on a beach in Scotland in 1815, with a viscount named Guy Tregallas. Basically he spends the first two pages deep in an internal dialogue bitching and moaning about how much he hates Scotland because it rains all the time, as opposed to London, where he is from. Yeah, sunny London. I am just going to assume this guy means London, Ontario, because last I checked, it rained a lot all through the British Isles. As much as it is easy to hate on the Scottish, they didn’t invent shit weather. Although he says he is pretty hung over, and he’s out in the cold rain, which I guess he thought would cure his hang over, which proves you don’t have to be a genius to be a viscount. Maybe that is where he got confused about the whole weather thing. A night of hard drinking can really mess with you. Regardless, he is out tramping around and kicking sand in the faces of nerds when he stumbles across a body.

Naturally it is the body of a beautiful young woman, who has been tossed from the sea onto the rocky shore. Did I mention it’s November in Scotland where this is all taking place? It’s cold, wet, raining, in November, he is walking by the sea, stumbles upon a body with no shoes or coat, and just gawks at it. He stares at the body, taking in every single one of her perfect features instead of checking her pulse. He gets all rhapsodic about how he has seen too many dead bodies- Was I just slapped across the face? Oh no, sorry. That was just plot exposition- and then when she opens her eyes, he thinks, oh shit, I should help her. He slaps her face, and shakes her, which is a great idea considering she might have a HEAD INJURY, and then as she croaks out her name so he will stop beating her up, he scoops her up into his arms and whisks her away.
Her name is Helena.

The brilliantly stupid Viscount carts Helena back to his friend’s place where he is staying for reasons they never really explain, but to be fair, this is just the first chapter, and she remains unconscious for three days. The doctor says there is nothing wrong with her, just bruises and exhaustion. I guess those Scottish lasses are heartier than us Irish Canadian ones, because I am pretty sure bobbing around the Atlantic ocean in November is a sweet way to get hypothermia, but who knows? In this world it only rains in Scotland, so it’s anyone’s guess what else they do and do not have.

They do have guestrooms however. Poor brain dead Helena wakes up in one and tries to get out of the house before ‘Stephen’, whoever the hell he is, finds her. He is presumably the reason she was out on the ocean. Look at that plot device! Meanwhile Viscount and his friend are talking about whiskey and guns for about a page and a half. As they saunter casually back to the house talking about how pretty the unconscious girl is in addition to the previous conversation about whiskey and guns, Viscount sees her trying to escape, catches her and spends a pretty needless amount of time holding on to her. She is probably scared he’ll smack her in the head some more, so she is coaxed inside.

I think I just puked in my mouth a little.

Well onwards and upwards, next we have Murder Club. At first glance, this is evidently written for people who hate their career choices, and are afraid to set an alarm clock. The technical babble is so fucking ridiculous I almost threw all of my electronic devices out of a window. Furthermore, if serial killers like this actually existed, we’d all be fucked. None of you would be reading this because you’d be dead right now.

Basically the first few pages of the chapter are set up like chat room dialogue. It seems a bunch of killers have set up a secret internet club with special laptops and software so they can organize murders online.
Seriously.
They have all this crazy voodoo software to trick the FBI, and they all have terrible chat handles. The only woman in the group is named ‘Black Widow’. There is also a ‘Dial M’, an ‘American Pyscho’, who is their internet ring leader, and a ‘Never Been Caught’. Jesus, guys, build an identity out of something other than your work, why don’t you? I thought the internet was a safe place to explore your sense of self. Besides, you’re supposed to be trying to keep all this shit under wraps. What happened to handles like “CooLDuDe69” and ‘seXXygurl101’?

Anyways we hang out with the super human super hacker crack super secret serial killer a/v club for awhile and then we head over to FBI headquarters where an agent named Sophie is getting worked over by a bureau shrink. Sophie shoots the shit about the FBI for awhile, mostly talking about crap that any self respecting kid who has watched a Harrison Ford movie or seen Silence of the Lambs with their parents would know about. At that point, good ol’ P.D. Martin beats some plot exposition around your head like one of the killers would beat you about the face with a brick. Sophie is afraid because of a past case! She is haunted by the killer that got away!

THEN THAT IS THE END OF THE FIRST CHAPTER OH SHIT.

This next chapter is probably my favourite. I hated it so badly, I actually had to walk away for awhile. I was going to save it for last, but the last one is pretty fucking terrible too, so it really makes no difference. We have arrived at the Super Romance, Cowboy for Keeps. Remember the one that is supposed to be about realistic characters in realistic situations? Yeah, that one.

Firstly, I have to wonder what is it with these people and cowboys? I could give two shits about cowboys at all. Why are stupid macho stereotypes considered sexy? Actually, you know what? It doesn’t even matter. It doesn’t matter because the protagonist’s name is Reno Blackwell, and she is riding through a lightning storm to save the wild mustangs on her ranch from evil poachers just like her full blooded apache grandfather would have wanted her to do, with the assistance of a man named Cade Lantana. What makes Cade Lantana so special other than his weird name? He stole he heart. And killed her father.

Sorry. Every time I read that back I start laughing again. I actually had to call Rosie and tell her about it since this whole thing was her idea anyways. Then I poured a glass of ginger ale and tried to think about sensible things, like comic books, and bubble gum.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t know many people named after small cities packed to the gills with casinos and strip clubs who live on ranches in Colorado inherited from their apache grandfathers and spend their nights protecting the wild mustangs from poachers. I think the closest I can come to that is a story Kyle told me about how he threatened some asshole who cut him off with his U Lock. There was a high speed chase, and the guy who cut Kyle off got away, as he was in a car, and Kyle was on a bike so I don’t even know who the poachers and who the mustangs would be in that one but…. ok let me try again. Cory always tells this story about this guy in Montreal who had a knife and asked them if they could feel the violence… no that doesn’t really work either. I guess this scenario is just too realistic to apply to my life. Silly me. It must be because I don’t have a Lakota Sioux House keeper named Wynonna who waits up for me and provides me with wise and motherly advice. I also don’t have a dream catcher over my bed like Reno Blackwell. My name is also not Reno fucking Blackwell. And I don’t get the super romance thing. Is it because the guy killed her dad? I think my brain is too fuzzy with horrible stereotypes and racism to process the subtleties of this one. Sorry, Brenda Marr.

Second Chance Pass was the last one I had to read to make up for the horrors I must have committed in a past life.

I guess maybe my ideas of romance are skewed. I don’t currently have a partner, and when I do, we tend to go on candle lit dumpster diving dates, or for romantic strolls in front of the biohazardous wasteland my mayor insists is a harbour. So I guess, like I said, I don’t have an appreciation of such things, but I am sorry. Opening a book with a former flight attendant talking to her recently dead husband who is buried on their property and asking him to send her a new husband is fucking creepy. It just is. And of course, the husband was a soldier in Iraq. And of course, she was pregnant, and had her baby after he died. Seems to me that that is just depressing, not romantic. I guess I fail. Sorry, world.

This chapter, beyond trying to pass crippling sadness off as heartwarming spends most of its time talking about typical small town crap, proving this book is written for people who have either never lived in a small town, or people who have never left their small town and are trying to convince themselves it doesn’t suck. Robyn ‘Necro’ Carr then sends poor ‘Please Dead Husband Bring Me a Man’ lady, whose name is Vanessa, to see her doctor where she talks about birth control and how she wants a new man. IUDS and condoms get an extensive push here, which I actually find quite admirable, as there is a disturbing lack of condom use amongst baby boomers and seniors. (Seriously. There are a lot of articles on it. Look it up. Educate your family.) Because of that, it’s nice to see protection addressed. Plus safe sex is more romantic than dead husbands and babies.

Anyways, with the help of plot exposition, we discover Vanessa wants her new man to be her dead husband’s best friend, Paul. Paul was there with her all through her grief and now she wants to be with him, but can’t tell if he is longing for her. She actually says that in the book.
That ends the chapter, and my penance.

After this I feel like I could read one hundred true crime novels and watch thirty-six hours of A&E’s intervention, and it would be like reading classic literature or watching thought provoking documentaries on relevant topics.
It was hell and I am never going back. Ever. You can’t make me.

Rosie, I love you, but I also hate you a little bit.

Until the next decent bit of mail you have abandoned comes my way, I’ll be lurking.

you can tell them i’m coming and hell’s coming with me.

It’s been a weird week. I found a new roommate and I am saying goodbye to the old one. I’ve spent a lot of time not thinking about how this is almost a divorce, and now it’s hitting me. I looked into her almost empty room and felt sick, but I know it’s for the best. I don’t know what to think except it’s over.

I guess Dayle leaving says a lot of things about her and myself and the way we relate now and will relate in the future. I guess. I suppose it does. I don’t know. Right now I half want to cry from work, and this and everything. This is the most frustrated, tired, and just plain worn out I’ve felt in awhile. But maybe that’s ok. I need something to keep my feet on the ground.

and all i ever wanted was to come in from the cold.

Freely I slaved away for something,
And I was bought and sold.
And all I ever wanted was to come in from the cold.

My memory is almost cruel to me. I remember pretty much everything. I remember the first time I met you. Go ahead, ask me. You probably won’t, but I will. I’ll remember what you wore and what I thought of you, and how that contrasts with now. I’ll remember the things you said or didn’t. I remember all those moments. They pile up in my brain like the letters and post cards my mother collects from me. She told me once she used to turn them over and touch them as if they were me in the room with her instead of who knows where, on the side of a road or in a tent. She traced every letter of my scrawl, my rushed x’s and o’s and sparse explanations. “Sky was so beautiful it hurt. Will be home in a month. xo” Those things I write down. The things she tells me that I can’t forget.

Mom never knew what to think of her wandering, willful, distant and dreadlocked daughter through mail, and face to face, I was a mystery. I would leave for weeks at a time, then come home, start school, go to work, come home, do my homework, and lay on my bed with headphones on and the door mostly shut. A cat would curl under my bent knees, and I would listen to a mix cd a boy I messed around with gave me. It was pretty average for the most part, lots of Rancid, my favourite band at the time, Stiff Little Fingers, awkward punk rock love anthems that people only sort of like because it’s novel a punk band is writing love anthems. But as if almost an afterthought, he tacked a Joni Mitchell song on the end of it. Come in From the Cold. The song is seven minutes and thirty seconds long, and it’s from the early 90’s. It was so strange it seemed hapless and calculated, so perfect for the weather and wrong for my age.

I listened to that song over and over through the winter. In my car to and from my crappy mall job, in my room, and in the shower. On my headphones between classes and in the library while doing my homework. That boy would run off that spring to go tree planting with a 15 year old traveler girl he met in Quebec city. I graduated and stayed put. Dour and silent as ever, drunk half the time.

These are the things I remember when I hear a stupid song on my iTunes I thought I deleted 3 years ago.

night hawks

I walked home with a staggered step and a hundred things on my mind as the world heaved around me. It was mild and I missed our late night walks for a second, before I worried that meant I might miss you. No one finds me at 11pm anymore, travel mug in hand, scaling our city for all it’s worth and I haven’t slept as soundly as I did then since. I lay awake, toss and turn, too many thoughts in a brain too stubborn to turn off.

So now I make lists of the things I want and the things I need. I fold them on tiny bits of paper and lose them in my pockets. I recite them like a mantra, holding onto them like love or kicks in the teeth. Skating in the winter at night in the park, learning more about trains, working on fledgling and lasting friendships, and finding all the best dumpsters. I want to be better, and more inquisitive, but mostly I want someone to walk with me, late, when the city winds down and forgets to disapprove, distracted by the drunks and the students crowded around pizza corner and pouring out of the palace.

We’ll be at the waterfront, laughing out loud.

and i wonder if she will stay my little run away.

i stayed still for too long and it’s come back to get me, grabbing at my heels in the early mornings, sitting on my chest like a night terror, luring me into a series of bad ideas and poorly planned adventures. my brain clicks and my fingers itch and i am always trying to figure out the nearest highway, my fists sore from clenching, a hundred possible destinations calculated in my head, weighed by financial means and ambitions. i will leave tonight, i will leave tomorrow. i will leave every afternoon this week, a woman with ten sweaters and a cardboard sign, begging desperately for direction.

but my knees creak, and my temples slowly go gray, and all the people i loved and love have either grown up or gone home, and i wonder if i am too old for this.

i walk along the sidewalk, skidding on the ice in my slip ons, walking on the curb like a balance beam, arms bent at the elbows, a child’s walk, and a soft sad face, scarred legs, beat up feet, a long story and a farmer’s tan. and i wonder what will become of me.