open letter.

Freight trains move fast. Like people, and time, and days, and changes. My friend Travis wrote a song… One of the lines is “Days fly by like trees along the rails.” The banjo is picky and mounrful in that song. It picks up and falls back like a heartbeat. Like a train. We love trains, us crazy people. We love travel. We have a love/hate relationship with change. We all think we’re going to stay the same forever, or the same with just subtle differences.
We don’t.
It’s ok.
We just don’t.

These days it is cold, and I wear three sweaters and a thick scarf when I walk from my apartment to work to the bar to my apartment. I kick garbage and leaves out of my way when I am in a bad mood and stomp in puddles when I am in a good one. If I run into someone I know, I get a hug and a high five. My days in and of themselves don’t change much. My life however, is so different, yet not all that surprising. I have a retail job at the mall. I dumpster dive. I champion causes. I sleep outside in the summer because I can. I stay up all night at house shows. I make street art. I want to start skateboarding again because it’s better than biking. It takes me place to place and makes me think of other times when I lived in my parents house and my belly was always full, I never had my own bills and my clothes were newish and cleanish always.

I get hungry sometimes now. Sometimes I’m cold, but I am always happy. It’s weird what we own and learn to own up to. I have a cat who sleeps in my lap every night when I come home and kisses my face when I wake up. I have a string of ex-boyfriends who still talk to me, I have a group just strong enough and just mobile enough that when I leave them, I won’t leave that. That something, that whatever.
I’m restless.
I’m changing. I need to change. I guess it’s just in me, you know? That motion. it sits in my heart, and moves around my chest and pushes and pulls me forward. I’m restless as hell, but I think it’s in the best way possible. Does your new city do that to you? or do you love it there? I hope you love it there for now, but I hope you get restless later. Restlessness is good. It keeps you young and and powerful and just scared enough. Some days are terrifying for me and I sort of love it.

I saw a tall kid the other day, waiting for the bus. There was a shorter girl beside him. He had a skateboard and was making dumb voices at her. She covered her face and laughed. I thought of you and me and being dumb and sixteen. I miss that sometimes.

This all seems very vague in retrospect, so let me just spill my guts.
I am good. I am great. I am hyper and lonely and filled up as hell and waiting for the time to pass. My mother thought I lost my mind for awhile and so did I, but then I realized I am just the happiest I have ever been and half drunk on possibility. She is better with things now. We both are.
We’ve changed.

when you were a boy.

i try to remember the details so i will always have them. half of my heart, pulled out of my chest and sat in front of me, stretched out to a thin quiet man with a buzz cut and old black sweater that smells like clean dirt and cheap beer. neatly patched shorts and worn out skate shoes and rolling a lighter in between his thumbs. his voice is lower than i remember or maybe he’s just hoarse. it’s late and he was always quiet and i always ran on high, angry, alive, sedentary, hurt and vicious. it is all i can do not to point my fingers and screech, shattering the silence and rousing the crack heads from their near by alleys.

you! i made sure your homework got done! i sewed your pants! i fed you! i held you! i fought off your detractors when none of that was enough and endured your pinches, slaps and jeers when something had to come out, and when you would pray all night to God and nothing ever changed! you and i never changed! we just strained outwards and held on! even when you sank i held on until one day the body was gone, and then i planted your memory in my brain’s garden and waited for it to sprout! well has it?! has it?! what have you done?! where have you gone?! what will become of me?!

he asked if this was ok.

all these years.
i gave them to you.
stuffed in the pockets of your jeans
and your sweaters.
folded and tucked behind the tongues of your shoes.

little victories.

These sore legs are bruised from bending and cut from scratching. This hair is pulled out and these eyes are tired.

it was dark and i have all these memories that crawl into my head at the worst times, trying to keep me still while we move together, jarring our rhythm. a knock at the door, smells of black licorice, the back of a familliar sweater.

…

…

i will follow you into the dark.
into every abandoned cabin with a mildewed mattress resting against moldy wall paper on a crumbling floor.
under ever rusted fence,
over every obstacle
and all those ugly places we swore we would never return from.

if you haven’t seen american hardcore yet…

here is like a visual list of reasons you should. as if henry rollins was not enough.

just lay on the roof and drink beer, and try and count up all the ways we let ourselves waste away…

It is a funny, funny thing, looking back on our former selves, isn’t it?

castle adventure.

Do you remember your first PC? In my family, it was when I was in third or fourth grade. An IBM 486. DOS-tastic. I had already been using computers in school for awhile, and had just learned about the internet when my parents brought this home. I loved using ms paint, and printing out pictures on our awful, screeching printer, but I also loved the games that came with the computer.

DOS games used to rock. None of this solitaire and mine sweeper bullshit. When we got our computer it had a space rpg game that was really difficult and obnoxious, a game where you were a gorilla trying to throw exploding bananas at another gorilla that was reminiscent of today’s ‘Tank Wars’, and my favourite, a game straight out of 1984 and into my heart, Castle Adventure.

I have rediscovered Castle Adventure and it is ruining my life.

I guess it is not entirely Castle Adventure’s fault. I am going through my senior slump in a big way (Barely attending and doing the bare minimum of work, anyone?) and Castle Adventure is an excellent distraction. It seems everything except cleaning my room is a welcome distraction in fact. However, my obsession with Castle Adventure has almost become a deep seated shame for me. Ever since I downloaded the program and installed dos box to play it, I have spoken very little of my obsession with the game for fear of intervention by my friends. But since getting up at 8am this morning to do work, and then spending 3 hours playing Castle Adventure I can acknowledge that my need for this game is bigger than the both of us. They say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, and guys, I am screaming my problem from the internet rooftops.

I tried to uninstall it at the end of March, I really did. I told myself I had put enough time into this ’silly game’ and it was time to get down to business. But late one night when I couldn’t sleep, I found myself on my laptop in the living room, doing a quick search for Castle Adventure, just to play until I got tired and could fall asleep, I told myself. Then I loaded the platform on DOS box, and well, after all that work, it would be a shame to just delete it, wouldn’t it? So I kept on, playing into the early hours of the morning. I went to do ’school work’ at the library the next day, and within a matter of hours, delved deep into the world of Castle Adventure, fighting ogres, demons, vampires and fairies with my imagination and my impressive wealth of treasure which I had accumulated.

I sleep restlessly each night, dreaming in black and white, imaging the smiling faces of the demons I have slain, while midi music echoes in my brain.

Just yesterday morning they let me know you were gone
Susanne the plans they made put an end to you
I walked out this morning and I wrote down this song
I just can’t remember who to send it to

I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain
I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I’d see you again

Won’t you look down upon me, Jesus
You’ve got to help me make a stand
You’ve just got to see me through another day
My body’s aching and my time is at hand
And I won’t make it any other way

Oh, I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain
I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I’d see you again

Been walking my mind to an easy time my back turned towards the sun
Lord knows when the cold wind blows it’ll turn your head around
Well, there’s hours of time on the telephone line to talk about things
to come
Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground

Oh, I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain
I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I’d see you, baby, one more time again, now

Thought I’d see you one more time again
There’s just a few things coming my way this time around, now
Thought I’d see you, thought I’d see you fire and rain, now

-James Taylor

halifax in ten parts. (new and improved!)

When we were young and I was stupid and working in the Industrial Park.

That was the summer we made up our minds and suntanned in gray against the bright blue,
Not a tree in sight.
And you laughed that pretty smirk off the little Northender’s face.
Told her you didn’t care about the rape,
You weren’t ever concerned;
All those fingers like reaching daggers couldn’t even touch you.
You cared about proximity.
You cared about Life over her familiar shoes and her bad haircut,
And her boyfriend that made a living of being likeable and pretentious for lack of a job.
You were taller anyway,
While I was obsessed with the artistic works of others
Cranked behind a camera on a crooked tripod,
Two red headed girls striking voyeuristic poses and trying not to smile.
You were so proud of us then,
So brash,
So utterly disdainful of weakness.
So wonderfully shocking.

How I lived in the South Street YMCA

This is where we laid down
Took root like leeches,
Tightening our lynch pins and growing,
Growing old and fat
And we will creak like rigging when the wood contracts in the cool evening
After a long hot day under a terrible sun.
This late night lover will be the concrete beneath my shoulders.

It was this time last year I found you,
Under a bench, stuck to the bottom of my shoe,
Ah, but I was a different sort of beast then,
And you were a liar,
Drinking cheap wine, cheap everything out of old bottles,
Forties of Nova Scotian Golden Glow
Chased with Moosehead Dry Ice,
Snorting cut drugs in dirty bathrooms of dirtier bars, grinded in between sandwich plates.
Mouths in love with chewing gum,
Driving ourselves away.

When Your Sister Dated that Cape Breton Coke Head and You Swore You’d Kill Him.

“To learn the speech of a place, I-“
The vinyl seat sticks against her thighs and she is enthusiastic.
“By God, girls-“
He’s perfect and terrible, and she is beyond pregnant,
And we are listening to this glorious train wreck on the most crowded bus stuck in Barrington street traffic.
(bell)
A girl who used to be one thing but is quite something else now.
Her face looks picky and happy at the same time and her toes are nervous,
Advancing and retreating with each stop in her cheap sandals.

Meth face always reminds me of the fire down the street that stank of chemicals,
Ashes loaded into plastic buckets,
And a scalded cat, dead by the low brick building that belongs to Nova Scotia Power.
She was burning up
(She was burning up.)
She was falling to bits and scattering away before me,
Sticky bony fingers resting on her swollen belly,
Rings resting around that peeling, flaking skin.
“Married? Did you know?
“..I didn’t know.”
“And her with twins on the way…”
I can see what they pretend to ignore
In her eyes, her cheeks, her teeth, poking out under her flesh.
“Oh my God, girls-“
bell.
Oh my god.
Oh indeed.
(Your hands. Your face. Your eyes. Your skin. Oh my god.)

God Save the Queen

Mrs. Coxon comes in every Tuesday
And photocopies loyalist propaganda, which we never charge her for,
And then gives it to me
To give to my friends.
I stick it in my pockets,
Fill my purse up with pink and white and blue and yellow photocopies,
Then paste them in even lines around my room.
The Queen’s eyes accuse me as I sleep,
Sneak my hands around you,
But from behind these perfect rows of colour,
Are the old stains that they cover.
Old stains,
Meant for cover.

You Don’t Go to Gus’ for the Cover Bands.

I only noticed you because you were double fisting the undersized two dollar pints
Oh, and you had great sneakers.
The soapy tasting foam of Canadian coated your upper lip and it took everything in you to swallow it down,
All while standing too close to me,
You had to be the quick fix I was looking for
While I flavored my breath with gin.
The hipster trash too good to imagine.

When you breathe tonight, with long straight strokes,
Will you think of me?
(bump, slosh)
Unbroken, unexplored
(“Hey sorry, I didn’t mean to spill on you.”)
Unconcerned and un-conceived of .
(“Oh, it’s ok. It’s an old shirt. Ha.”)
Your rough palms on my back.
(“Of course.”)
Your bearded face buried in the crevice of my neck,
(“Do you like the band?”)
My breasts…
(“I know the keyboard player.”)
The cold.
(“oh.”)
The dark.
(“Yeah..”)
The tattooed, empty place,
Like Gottigen street windows.
But of course,
This is all imagined, our shoes piled together by my bed on the floor.
Our regrets disappearing like cigarettes in a full bar.
(“Do you like them?”
”Naw.”
“Me, neither.”)

How to Make Anarchist Friends Without Even Trying.

“I don’t wash but I get laid.”
And for what?
For all the products you can steal at the Superstore on Quinpool?
Your possessions are no more than your body’s dirt.
The smell on your skin of your free love girlfriend,
Unwashed hair,
Pot,
A sale bin rum and vodka combination,
Constantly warn denim and organic shoes
Toasted with a vegan diet and lightly curried,
Pinched from a bin downtown behind the Satisfaction Feast,
Yellowing teeth and spray paint,
And active inaction.
I am active inaction.
I am lumpy and smell faintly of dove soap.
I have only been wearing my jeans for two weeks straight.
I have dirty fingernails but no intention of sleeping with you.
(Cheese eater.
Animal hater.
Leather wearer.
Soap user.
Complacent-er.
Just you, me, and Lenin.)

Liturgy

so we let loose and let it be
like all you silences,
flying out into the night
arms flapping
mouths spitting and cursing and crying
grinning and snarling,
rejoicing at your passing.
we are all eyes
sailing through the air when you finally fade.

(shit.
fuck.
beautiful.
bless you.)

Hedonism and Healing

We always went to all the same places
And because of that
I suspect that falling in love with you was inevitable.
Practice makes perfect after all
And we all get used to things.
Like your legs around mine in the morning
Under the yellow light
By the drafty window, the heater cranking out a rhythm.
(god had made him so small compared to you, so small to send him away,
away, away.)

What We Did When We Discovered We Could Never Go Back.

We crawled out of the harbour,
Hardly recovered,
Knocking back and forth on our shaking zombie legs,
Clutching our chests to keep intact our biohazard hearts,
Slipping skin on slack faces,
Groaning gums,
Sucking our life from the dying.

We are the city.
Unreal city.
City apart and divided,
With no fog off the Thames to cover us,
Only the white ocean clouds
From an unending rain.
“No chance to dry out with all this damn rain.”
No chance to empty out our boots,
Wring out our socks,
No chance to live forever as we were before.
In these moments before we knew we were going to die,
And moments before we were determined to stay this way.
(All those North end apartments.
All those empty beer glasses.
All those vintage t-shirts.
All those moments lost to the flood.)

Halifax Explosion

“I was so stupid then.
So unimportant to the scene,
So BORING!”

Large laughs echo through the kitchen stuffed, and our speaker continues drinking out of her forty, exposing just enough of her tattoo.
You were so lovely,
So innocent,
So naïve,
So tiny and normal and perfect in your averageness
But you’ve left that all behind now for your early twenties, a pair of straight leg jeans and flat shoes.

So I left my coat and walked out onto North Street,
Past the school,
Onto Robie and towards the commons,
Passed the the broken bottles,
Away from the toxic harbour and the barren industrial park.
Along a neglected bus route I’d never taken,
By the leaning shack you used to squat in before it burned.
And I was
Gone.