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.
Knowledge is Your Wallet
My OSAP bill came in the mail yesterday. Inside a thick brown envelope with even thicker paper were details of how much I spent on broadening my mind and thinking critically. It was all in a language I did not know; ‘capitalized interest’ and ‘amortization period’ were cavalierly used as freely and openly as any of the terms I read in my textbooks.
Against Checklists
I hated Laurier the moment I set foot on campus. It was too small, modern and ugly and I couldn’t be bothered to socialize amongst sorority and fraternity kids because I thought that was all this place was made up of. It was populated with over tanned girls carrying oversized Aritzia brand TNA bags, pashminas, UGGs, and they outnumbered the guys approximately seven to one.
Disconnected Roots
I have a photocopied handout of my family’s origin that was passed around at a 1994 family reunion: The Borutski family reunion. I didn’t attend because I was so small and unaware of where they—my family—came from. They came from Round Lake; that is all I ever needed to know. In this handout, something of which I have poured over many times since it was given to me a year or so ago, reading and re-reading it, I discovered the origin of my family on my mother’s side. I saw the first house built by my great-great-great-great grandfather and his dozens of sons.
For The Love of Her Child
When I was sixteen, we were walking through the mall and I saw a screaming child on the ground next to a disgruntled, tired looking mother. I turned to you and I said, “I am sorry for ever acting that way. “ You laughed, grabbed my arm and said thank you, telling me that you loved me no matter what kind of shenanigans I get myself into, young or old. This is your favourite story to tell, aside from the time a mannequin fell on me (by my own hand), and I am happy to have given it to you.
Death as Spectacle
When I was twelve years old, the first person that really meant anything to me died of lung cancer. He had been ill for two months prior to his death, barely living on the IV drip that slowly passed through the plastic tubing and into his veins. He was my grandfather, Maxie Mask, and he died at age 65.
The Business of Creativity
Today I felt inspired. I felt the rush of creative adrenaline course through my thick blue veins and influence my brain and heart. At that point I picked up my lush pink scented marker and began to run it across thick bristol board. What had I written? BAKE SALE! TODAY! TODAY! TODAY! Today, I felt inspired.
