Derek
While I waited at a red light, I saw him walking, a steady, but abrupt pace. One leg stiffer than the other. He wore the same leather jacket, the ring in his eye brow. His long black hair hung around a stoic face, a face that seemed hard. I recognized him instantly.
Lists of Love
In second year, I went through a phase where I made lists of the things I loved. These lists would not be of boring things like ‘music’ or ‘the colour blue’, but instead they were filled with random things like ‘organizing my iTunes library,’ ‘laughing so hard I start to cry’ or ‘eating a greasy breakfast with friends after a crazy night out’.
Faking It for Fun
One of the many great and terrible things about growing up is slowly fitting into an identity that will cling to you for the duration of your life. The process goes without saying: we were all young and know what it’s like to wait for the day you wake up and your nose fits your face, you have pectorals to match Michael Phelps, or you’ve spontaneously lost 20 pounds.
Plainfield
Small towns can be peaceful, quiet, and offer needed solitude. You notice the wind in the trees, the music of leaves. Friendly, you say hello to everyone.
Aotearoa
I think about William Wordsworth most when I’m laying lethargically across my couch, staring aimlessly into a bright television set. I suppose it should affect me differently; like when I’m trekking across a beach to spot a colony of yellow-eyed penguins, or silently gazing up at the Southern Cross.
Robins
Imagine, a world shaped especially for robins.
The volume of worms needed to please such an environment would cause the soil to always be extremely fertile. The sky would be clear of all smog, planes, and runaway balloons.
Part of The New Zoo
There are four thousand students coming into university this month, being introduced to their new zoo, and we’re all behind our own bars.
Dis-Orientation
I know it is orientation week. My sleep is reduced by the music that is loud enough to shake the ground, and the foundation of my house. I see students gathered in circles, and I know that at the centre of these circles is the source of the music.
Divided
I haven’t heard from my older brother since the end of April. His last message said that he was painting his dining room. If I had of known that would be the last thing he’d say, I would have made him tell me every thought that went through his head that first day when he breathed in the acrid smell of paint.
To Go Home
I have homes. I have had homes; houses, in fact, that have been detached or semi-detached. I will soon have an apartment. I have places to go to and from; something to call my own at the end of the day as I crawl into my bed and pull the sheets up to my chin.
Home Is Where The Goose Is
Here in Waterloo, our two universities are not only home to flocks of students, but flocks of geese as well. As a student, I have learned to live with the student population and the goose population, though both are prone to disgruntled outbursts when they fear their territory is being threatened.
Home(s)
I remember hanging out at my parents’ house in Toronto one weekend while in university. Sunday came around and I mentioned to my Mom that I was heading home. Heading “home” meant back to my student house in Waterloo, but wasn’t I at home already?
Defining Empty Spaces
Home is not a place with walls, windows or doors. It’s not an apartment or a house, nor does it have two rooms or six. None of those things matter – they define empty spaces.
Exploring Heart
I am homeless.
Not in the literal sense, I do live in a house. I feel homeless because I lack a hometown. I have no city to return to and proudly claim as my own. I have lived in a few cities, but I don’t have any roots or deep-seated memories calling me back.
Rolling Suburbs
There are nights when I think I won’t wake to see the morning. The days leading up to these nights are not awful, not terrible in any particularity. They are the days where my ribs begin to separate and let the air in until I cannot breathe; not when the sky takes residence in the center of my chest and there is no room for me to stay.
Weathering Hands
On the days I picked peas, my hands had purpose. It wasn’t until I worked at the farm that I discovered hands could be an extension of your self. For years I thought I had been nice to my hands; I gave them rings, I painted their nails, I worked out the kinks, and restored moisture on winter days when knuckles bled and cracks spread to the palms.
Faith, Film, and Funerals
No matter how many classic movies I watch in a weekend, reality finds a way of catching up with me; an email reminding me of an appointment, a deadline that approaches without warning, or a sudden phone call that informs me that my grandfather has passed away. That’s the unfortunate thing about reality – rarely is music played to foreshadow tragedy.
Faith by Numbers
I haven’t decided what I believe. I’d like to think I have all the time I need to figure out how spirituality and I can cohabitate; time to collect all the pros and cons of each religion through a Wikipedia and Google search, and weigh them meticulously until I discover a label that’s right for me. One day, I’ll sit down at my laptop and decipher what I believe – or rather, which religion my beliefs lead me to.
Untitled
Wading into the terminal hustle, I step off the route seven bus. A kid in a baseball cap asks me for a cigarette. Then a light.
“What time is it?”
He studies his phone from somewhere behind fogged lenses. It’s just past eleven. Still time to take a leak.
The Failure of Richie Miller
Richie Miller is a Twitter based novel that I began writing on April 7th, 2009 while I was “studying for exams” during my second-last semester at the University of Waterloo. The idea spawned from an article I read about a poet who released his most recent poem through Twitter updates. Neat, I thought. It’s great to see writers and artists experiment with social media. Then I thought; I’m going to write a book via Twitter updates, one tweet per day.
Don’t Make Me Dance
The universe is full of unrequited, unexpressed love and joy.
Unaltered bed sheets.
Unkissed mouths.
Untangled legs.
Untasted pussy.
Unmoaned orgasms.
We, the great unfucked.
Female Seeking Females Wielding Swords
I’ve always been drawn to women wielding swords. When I was a little girl, She-Ra, Xena…
One Woman’s Words
T.S. Eliot believed that in poetry and literature, the past is never abandoned, but that present…
