2.26.2004
The book you set on my lap, when I was slumped on your floor between the lamp and the woodpile, is written by a man who choose solitude. You have told me solitude is a good choice. That peace is found while solitary. To be alone is wholesome.
But I know I bring you peace because it has settled between us like a fog, in the room you have made, that barely sniffs of living. The room with no trinkets and an old Bible with the cover broken off. Together, we are lucid, but we move with flair.
Do you want to leave a trace? Light the candles I’ve left in the snow?
I can only ask questions and yesterday I decided your eyes are grey.
4:14 PM
I thought maybe I could hide behind obscurity. I do it well. The call centres in New Waterford make no sense to me. I can love the old ugly but hate the new ugly.
I can pour coffee on an Irishman’s lap. Creating structure out of a fringe feels like a big let down. I’m the kind of person who can sit in a café and watch umbrellas bash one another for hours.
Yes, it’s true. I am a ping pong. But I’m so good at sitting still. I can write poems about Chekov and the sun leaving my home.
I can watch the passion seep out of me. And not even move to catch it. I can write about descending fog.
I can have nightmares about my dead boyfriend and our Frankenstein house and our Frankenstein jobs. I can wake up crying because outsiders have poked at my illusions. I can do all of this, but I cannot move closer.
4:14 PM
2.17.2004
I should stop showering and wear the same tank top I wore to bed two nights in a row two days in a row more often, and who needs to brush their hair when it sticks up all over the place.
Sitting outside Alteregos Café, some guy with no front tooth asked me for a cigarette, and then practically tripped over himself watching me as he kept walking down the sidewalk. “You look good today,” he said. Today? Do I know you? Stacey just looks at me and raises her eyebrows. “We are on display,” she says.
Then, after I became addicted to scratch cards, I was walking home from downtown and this guy with his baseball hat on sideways says, “We don’t have beautiful women like that where I’m from.” And then he starts doing this weird thing with his legs where he walks slightly crouched over, with his knees pointing outwards, behind me. His friend says, “Really, where are YOU from?”
“I’m from Cape Breton. We don’t get them like that over there.”
I turned around and said, “I’m half Cape Breton. FUCKwad.” And then I put my cigarette out on his wagging, doggy, little tongue.
3:33 PM
They’re fighting again. My neighbours. He’s on the front steps, the kids are screaming. “What you’re doing is wrong, wrong, wrong!” She shoves him inside. I can hear them upstairs. Muffled but hurtful.
I’m so glad that’s not my life and it will never be my life.
9:02 AM
2.16.2004
Quite possibly the Best Thing that has Happened to Me ALL WEEK
Thirty of us were waiting outside of ‘The Arts Guild’, after the show, talking in groups. From across the street we heard a guy yell “The Center for the Arts SUCKS!”
Everyone got quiet and heads turned to look at him. He was short, with black hair and a huge moustache that covered his top lip. I’m pretty sure there was food stuck in it. 40ish. Green jacket.
He keeps walking and we’re all staring at him. Then he yells “GROSSSSSSSSSS!”
Keeps walking.
“YOU’RE ALLLLLLLLLL GROSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!”
And then he said something about fags and art, screams gross a few more times. And one of those art fags runs after him and tries to give him the vibrating porta-muff as a gift.
6:04 PM
2.10.2004
It wasn’t even in context but I said it out loud.
“The hardest thing about art is making the image in your head a reality, or actually the hardest thing about art is overcoming the fear that what’s in your head will never be a true reality. Personal art is an illusion that no one else can see.”
Heads nodded.
“Guilt and regret are the same thing,” someone said.
No, they’re not.
“Guilt is useless.”
No. It isn’t.
“Guilt can teach you not to make the same mistakes.”
No. It can’t.
I said some of it out loud.
Guilt is just there. It won’t teach you anything because it’s not fluid, it doesn’t change, like love. It can’t move forward or affect your choices in the future. You can't fix it. It doesn’t even have meaning.
Guilt is a spot of bleach on your pants that will never come out.
“Guilt is a scar,” said my friend and I burst into tears.
3:47 PM
2.05.2004
You lay on your cheek. You kiss with the
most gentle winter.
Time will suspend us and make us
oddly. familiar.
You flick it between your thumb and
your finger.
Fire it at a target. or a practice. Circle a tiny night.
Time put your heart in a
toaster oven and
browned it.
Then time put it on a
plate and let it
hard-en
on the counter.
12:26 AM
2.02.2004
I can not believe that money will be spent on figuring out who knew what went on when Justin ripped Janet's tit off.
11:22 PM
The book you set on my lap, when I was slumped on your floor between the lamp and the woodpile, is written by a man who choose solitude. You have told me solitude is a good choice. That peace is found while solitary. To be alone is wholesome.
But I know I bring you peace because it has settled between us like a fog, in the room you have made, that barely sniffs of living. The room with no trinkets and an old Bible with the cover broken off. Together, we are lucid, but we move with flair.
Do you want to leave a trace? Light the candles I’ve left in the snow?
I can only ask questions and yesterday I decided your eyes are grey.
4:14 PM
I thought maybe I could hide behind obscurity. I do it well. The call centres in New Waterford make no sense to me. I can love the old ugly but hate the new ugly.
I can pour coffee on an Irishman’s lap. Creating structure out of a fringe feels like a big let down. I’m the kind of person who can sit in a café and watch umbrellas bash one another for hours.
Yes, it’s true. I am a ping pong. But I’m so good at sitting still. I can write poems about Chekov and the sun leaving my home.
I can watch the passion seep out of me. And not even move to catch it. I can write about descending fog.
I can have nightmares about my dead boyfriend and our Frankenstein house and our Frankenstein jobs. I can wake up crying because outsiders have poked at my illusions. I can do all of this, but I cannot move closer.
4:14 PM
2.17.2004
I should stop showering and wear the same tank top I wore to bed two nights in a row two days in a row more often, and who needs to brush their hair when it sticks up all over the place.
Sitting outside Alteregos Café, some guy with no front tooth asked me for a cigarette, and then practically tripped over himself watching me as he kept walking down the sidewalk. “You look good today,” he said. Today? Do I know you? Stacey just looks at me and raises her eyebrows. “We are on display,” she says.
Then, after I became addicted to scratch cards, I was walking home from downtown and this guy with his baseball hat on sideways says, “We don’t have beautiful women like that where I’m from.” And then he starts doing this weird thing with his legs where he walks slightly crouched over, with his knees pointing outwards, behind me. His friend says, “Really, where are YOU from?”
“I’m from Cape Breton. We don’t get them like that over there.”
I turned around and said, “I’m half Cape Breton. FUCKwad.” And then I put my cigarette out on his wagging, doggy, little tongue.
3:33 PM
They’re fighting again. My neighbours. He’s on the front steps, the kids are screaming. “What you’re doing is wrong, wrong, wrong!” She shoves him inside. I can hear them upstairs. Muffled but hurtful.
I’m so glad that’s not my life and it will never be my life.
9:02 AM
2.16.2004
Quite possibly the Best Thing that has Happened to Me ALL WEEK
Thirty of us were waiting outside of ‘The Arts Guild’, after the show, talking in groups. From across the street we heard a guy yell “The Center for the Arts SUCKS!”
Everyone got quiet and heads turned to look at him. He was short, with black hair and a huge moustache that covered his top lip. I’m pretty sure there was food stuck in it. 40ish. Green jacket.
He keeps walking and we’re all staring at him. Then he yells “GROSSSSSSSSSS!”
Keeps walking.
“YOU’RE ALLLLLLLLLL GROSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!”
And then he said something about fags and art, screams gross a few more times. And one of those art fags runs after him and tries to give him the vibrating porta-muff as a gift.
6:04 PM
2.10.2004
It wasn’t even in context but I said it out loud.
“The hardest thing about art is making the image in your head a reality, or actually the hardest thing about art is overcoming the fear that what’s in your head will never be a true reality. Personal art is an illusion that no one else can see.”
Heads nodded.
“Guilt and regret are the same thing,” someone said.
No, they’re not.
“Guilt is useless.”
No. It isn’t.
“Guilt can teach you not to make the same mistakes.”
No. It can’t.
I said some of it out loud.
Guilt is just there. It won’t teach you anything because it’s not fluid, it doesn’t change, like love. It can’t move forward or affect your choices in the future. You can't fix it. It doesn’t even have meaning.
Guilt is a spot of bleach on your pants that will never come out.
“Guilt is a scar,” said my friend and I burst into tears.
3:47 PM
2.05.2004
You lay on your cheek. You kiss with the
most gentle winter.
Time will suspend us and make us
oddly. familiar.
You flick it between your thumb and
your finger.
Fire it at a target. or a practice. Circle a tiny night.
Time put your heart in a
toaster oven and
browned it.
Then time put it on a
plate and let it
hard-en
on the counter.
12:26 AM
2.02.2004
I can not believe that money will be spent on figuring out who knew what went on when Justin ripped Janet's tit off.
11:22 PM
