culprit 'coons 5:08 p.m.

i left my kitchen window open last night, when i went out. it gives on to a fire escape and i came home to find little dirty animal prints on the floor, the garbage can open and my unfinished breakfast lying victim on the floor. those furry bastards. i thought i could hear them all day, ruffling in the closets, although i'm almost certain they must've come and gone late last night. they've done this before, those criminal creatures, last time it was to rob our cat (now departed, see i miss this cat) of his few worldly possessions: half a bowl of whiskies and a plate of dry kibble dinner. i will remember to close the kitchen window. i will remember to close the kitchen window.

microsoft paint says, "pride is coming!" 3:22 p.m.

come hither, super 2:53 p.m.

living alone and working from home is getting to me. the toilet's been leaking for months and all of a sudden i decided to call bill, my super, to come and fix it. he showed up and i offered him a beer, a glass of water. "tell me about your day, bill. how're things in the building?" he was anxious to get home and didn't take me up on any of my offers. the toilet got fixed, though. and he talked to me briefly, enough to get me through the day.

it's too hot to walk to the mail box 1:19 p.m.

and so here, with sincere apologies, is my letter:

monsieur benjamin,

ça va? je suis contente de savoir que tes tableaux vont bien. je suis certaine que tu réussiras tes examens. est-ce qu'il fait chaud dans ton coin du monde? 31 degrés ici aujourd'hui. je crois avoir déja (je n'arrive pas a trouver l'accent grave) mentionné que mon apart n'est pas climatisé. je n'ai pas dormi hier soir, même qu'il y avait un peu de pluie. en plus, il commence a être difficile a respirer. l'air est très épaisse a toronto durant l'été. la job va bien, par contre.

c'est drôle, j'avais sincèrement l'intention de t'écrire une vraie lettre en blogue, mais je n'y arrive pas. il me faut une plume et un papier.

a bientôt. bises.

kate.

i really hope it's pms 1:12 p.m.

because i'm crying a lot these days, not sure why. not even a combination of bobby darin and pasta salad is fixing me. apples with peanut butter either. i guess there's always wine and cigarettes but that doesn't really fix, it just blinds. maybe blind is better.

a list of my favourite candy 8:15 p.m.

i know i've said that i don't like sweet things, but that's not entirely true. i mean, i don't like them now, but i used to. despite my parents' best efforts, i lived almost exclusively on a diet of sugar and citric acid for the better part of my pre-teen years.

• nerds (the tiny coloured ones in complicated boxes)
• hershey's cookies and cream bars
• the haribo candies that looked kind of like jube-jubes but had poppy-seedish thingys on them
• red skittles
• sour watermellons and grapefruits
• worms of all kinds
• some french sucking candy
• wunderbars
  

i miss this cat 7:31 p.m.

as though he were my child. professor puffy pants. mister flashlight eyes. major hijinx. mister love store. are you open for business? he's in new west minster now, with his grandma. my former roommate's mother. and by the way, he is eating tulips. he loves flowers. almost as much as i love him.

can't let go of ani difranco 7:17 p.m.

it's terrible, i know. so nineteen ninety-five. but there's something about her music that makes me comfortable, keeps me coming back. i'm listening to fire door. here's a poem that i wrote when i was nineteen. not so long ago, i know. but long enough that you're not allowed to judge me on it. the punctuation's all wrong. thanks in advance for looking the other way.

we were standing in a bathroom doorway
when you asked, smiling cagily if
i’d ever been gay and if
it had been (here, you winced)
in that ani difranco way i heard
footsteps creaking closer and i think
you did, too because you smiled
and closed your eyes the way

you do sometimes and i was deseperate to say
that no pop culture reference could ever

convey my sincerity, sarah
but i faltered, tripped over my own words
and somebody else’s footsteps
fell to the pavement with a thud
and barely managed to mutter
that i didn’t think so
not in that way, i mean

the country game 5:25 p.m.

it doesn't necessarily have to be about countries -- it could be capital cities, or animal names or, well, a lot of things. if you're ultracool you could use indie band names. point is, whatever you choose to use, it's a handy distraction when waiting in line somewhere with friends. each person has to offer a word that begins with the last letter of the previous word. as in:

A: canada
B: argentina
C: armenia
D: does every damn country name end in A?
A: no, dumbass
D: um...hint anyone?
A: think sand. the war against terror.
D: iraq?
C: it has to start with A, moron
D: oh, right. um...
A: afghanistan. let's get on with it. nigeria
B: not fair. is this line getting any shorter?

seriously, it's fun. especially if you prepare ahead of time.

tuna pasta salad = yummy in my tummy 4:21 p.m.

take (a) half a big bag of pasta -- the shell kind, you know, the ones that get stuck inside eachother, spooning (b) a couple of green onions, a.k.a. scallions (c) a few stalks of celery (d) more mayo than i'd care to think about (e) two cans of tuna --> don't get the skipjack, come on kids, splurge! (f) half a yellow pepper, chopped because the red ones were sold out (g) s & p (h) a table spoon of dijon (i) tender loving care and two hours in the fridge...best served with beer, and lots of it!

the world's biggest spreadsheet 4:14 p.m.

for those of you (like me) who spend hour upon hour agonizing over excel, i thought you might enjoy this, even though it's a tad ancient:

http://www.informationweek.com/story/IWK20021217S0006

the jcb song 11:31 a.m.

http://www.jcbsong.co.uk/jcbvideo.asp

our summer project 2:09 p.m.

i like sitting naked in my apartment when it's hot. my body sticks to the cotton-blend case of my three year old futon. the wooden frame creaks when i adjust myself. my legs are smooth today, men in suspenders were giving away razors on the street. but my feet are dirty, as always. i walked to the laundromat wearing sandals. my mother called when i arrived home, told me she'd found a novel at the library that'd been written by a mother and daughter team. they made a killing, she said. new york times bestseller. she's asked me to draft an outline and email it to her. it'll be our summer project, she said.

tricky blue: a poem to the sound of mozart's requiem - XIII 4:54 p.m.

the place is dark, carpeted with latex,
walls painted red with blood. enter to
staircases and ominous hallways
which widen and narrow like the
hot, fleshy throat of a swallowing beast.

there is an escape from the smell of sticky
love consumption - the swimming pool. it is out
of doors: a severe concrete rectangle filled with tepid,
tricky water which appears blue but isn't. women
are collapsed supinely on wobbly plastic chairs.
folds of them inhabit gloriously temporary furniture.

they splash about in the infancy of their freedom:
breasts are on display, creases and folds of skin
barely towelled press them for exposure.

and there is music. a decided beat eminating
from behind half-closed doors finds silhouettes
dancing to a different rhythm. and what

could i say to her? she smiles with her entire
face, this one. white skin taught around her soft
stomach, she walks like a boy. has a serious jaw bone.
swim trunks and beautiful breasts above them.
i see her dip beneath the water's surface and watch
as she shakes her hair free of tricky blue water.
she is no boy. and as she swims toward another
body i notice that's it's no boy she's kissing, either.

i don't look myself 1:27 p.m.

when i'm fucked up 1:02 p.m.

i can't feel
words, can't
remember
them. they
look all wrong,
all of them.
beethoven.
jitterbug
perfume.
beets.
beer.
save
me.

beethoven, my lover 12:55 p.m.

i have a tear running down my cheek, it's in my mouth now and i can taste it. salty water. moonlight sonata is on repeat. i'm smoking. i wiped my face, cleared the tears and am still breathing. but barely. each note is so deliberate, so perfect. there is nothing more satisfying than brilliant, sparkling music. the method is calming, linear. i can see him now, playing, touching, laying a finger on a ivory key. a black one. beethoven, my lover. my long lost lover.

christ, he's going to harvard 2:26 p.m.

and here i am eating mr. noodles out of styrofoam, drinking instant coffee and pretending to know about trunk groups and clli codes in my patch-painted village apartment which, by the way, has mice. i discovered them (their droppings, to be precise) yesterday. they are not my friends.

medicate me, someone 5:28 p.m.

my mother recommends bathing with gershwin, light
some smelly thing and soak, she says. breathe. my eyes
dart about the room without permission. they like
the crown molding, the piles of dust cowering at the feet
of objects, the stain on the side of my antique refridgerator.
it's intricate. ice cream, i think. i haven't the attention span

for this.

not nearly as funny as moo-shoe pork, but funny nonetheless... 10:21 a.m.

list of my favourite movies 9:49 a.m.

• chariots of fire (1981)
• searching for bobby fischer (1993)
• show me love (1998)
• dirty rotten scoundrels (1988)
• sabrina (1954)
• the secret garden (1993)
• a little princess (1995)
• reach for the sky (1991)
• the cutting edge (1992)

sound familiar? 9:34 a.m.

Definition

Passive-aggressive personality disorder is a chronic condition in which a person seems to passively comply with the desires and needs of others, but actually passively resists them, becoming increasingly hostile and angry.

Psychiatrists no longer recognize this condition as an official diagnosis. However, the symptoms are problematic to many people and may be helped by professional attention, so we include it here.

Causes, incidence, and risk factors

The causes are unknown, but, like most personality disorders, a combination of genetic and environmental factors are probably responsible.

Signs and tests

Personality disorders are diagnosed by psychological evaluation and a careful history of the extent and time course of the symptoms. Some of the common signs of passive-aggressive personality disorder include:

• Procrastination
• Intentional inefficiency
• Avoiding responsibility by claiming forgetfulness
• Complaining
• Blaming others
• Resentment
• Sullenness
• Fear of authority
• Resistance to suggestions from others
• Unexpressed anger or hostility

Treatment

Counseling may be of value in helping the person identify and change the behavior.

Expectations (prognosis)

The outcome can be good with treatment.

Complications

• Stunted career development despite good intelligence
• Alcohol abuse or other drug abuse or dependence

450TeL Communications Inc. 12:59 p.m.

HOT CLOUDS 2:38 p.m.

“But as long as the hot clouds do not reach us, we won't go,” said Supriatun by mobile phone from Indonesia. The hot clouds wouldn't reach you in Sudbury. Everything here is slowly cold. Residents smile the graduation of a season, only to greet the next, to burn leaves, to be cold again. Lives soothed by scheduled cups of Tim Hortons coffee, measured in pay periods, in rounds of bar-born unprotected sex. The landscape's rough: rocky, I'd say.

There is a very tall smokestack in the West part. I used to have a plan to paint it pink with flowers. Yellow ones, I think, the big symmetrical hippie kind. My parents thought it was adorable. The stack's a symbol, I'd say. It looks like a penis, a cigarette...The postcards prefer the nickel. The giant nickel.

Things are lonely here, I'd say. The pick-up truck engines, the mosquitoes, the beat-up kids, their dirty hands and pocket change make lonely noises. So do the bingo halls and the bowling alleys. The strip malls by twilight, that's where you'll find love. Those dirty hands fondling the young parts of cleaner bodies in the Silver City parking lot. Or behind the Subway restaurant. They call them restaurants here.

googler interrupted 8:55 a.m.

i've been having a serious amount of trouble with google's beta apps recently: gtalk is blinking, gmail is blinking, blogger is practically blind...the desktop app, though cool, has been unreliable and a monster drain on my poor comp's day to day. then, as though the frustration of trial software weren't enough, someone close to me introduced the possibility that google isn't the innocent novelty i would have it be. stuff about caches, metabots, world domination. as it turns out they're keeping everything on a server somewhere, so that when i search google, i'm really searching google's stash of info, not the web. i must've been living under a rock because everyone seems to know this but me. sitting on my father's 1973 corduroy ikea sofa (which miraculously still holds its shape) i experiment with the idea that google is god. it knows everything about my life, is everpresent, omnipowerful, mysterious. it will most definitely outlive me. maybe i should start praying to google. maybe i should ask it for a job.

poetry in public 12:06 a.m.

i read tonight. i stood up in front of a microphone and a room full of people and managed three or four hundred syllables. it was at the victory cafe, second floor: art bar. i was trembling and darted off stage, once it was over, to the sound of hearty applause. encouraged in large part by my admission that i'd never done it before, i'm sure. they like first timers, some kind of pretense of community or something. anyway, you're not allowed to read two weeks in a row but i think i'd like to make a repeat appearance. what do you think? are you proud? you know me enough for that.

my sister needed help (that's her) 11:28 p.m.

with some highschool creative writing course...as though six verses in iambic pentameter actually mattered to the canadian canon...she's much wittier than i was at her age, i think. lazier and more inhibited, though. a bottle of wine later, i proposed something. i think i'm a glass away from correct rhythm and real aid:

My days are long and hard and filled with heat
They stick and stink and hurt with no relief
Laughter seems to blind me through the night
So that I might maintain or feign good sight

Their trays and ways find me wanting a break
As though that were enough to stay awake
I’d like to think that work means more than this
Although right now I’d do much more for bliss

Red stains, blue stains, green stains and work tonight
I thought I’d once had soul to make a fight
But truth be told I’m too damn tired for that
And dream I’d quit right now but for that rat

He makes me think I’ve got no good to me
Makes me want to change the things I see
Makes me want to do something much more
Much more like a good thing and even more

The night is dark when I am done as though
Things were so great so bright without a row!
As though this weren’t the only thing there is
As though I had much more to bring than this

But truth be told it’s just words now are left
And words we know aren’t much but lower cleff
Versions of the thing we’d rather say
And what better to do on this bright day

something i was supposed to do earlier 10:03 p.m.

after i'd read a random blog promising that the following meme (As defined by Richard Dawkins in The Selfish Gene (1976): "a unit of cultural transmission, or a unit of imitation." "Examples of memes are tunes, ideas, catch-phrases, clothes fashions, ways of making pots or of building arches. Just as genes propagate themselves in the gene pool by leaping from body to body via sperms or eggs, so memes propagate themselves in the meme pool by leaping from brain to brain via a process which, in the broad sense, can be called imitation.) was propagating itself through the blogosphere: (1) find the book closest to you (2) flip to page 161 (3) find the fifth sentence and publish it, complete with these instructions. the book closest to me at the time was a thick telecommunications binder which didn't have page numbers just some weird section, sub-section way of seperating sentences. the next closest thing (several hours later) was "mots de passe" by pierre desruisseaux, a collection of poetry i picked up in grade 12 when i still wanted to like words but didn't really. i've read it since. the next book, the important one, the one that passed the 161 test was john key's "sowing the wind," given to me by my grandfather after he'd read it. the inscription reads:

Ex Libris: Ven. T. L. Leadbeater D. D.


To Kate

From Grandma & Grandpa
Spring 2004

I haven't read it. I'll sleep with guilt tonight. Here's 161, sentence 5: "But Philby rightly declared that for Iraq this was not a happy introduction to the democratic process."

if i had to ask... 9:22 p.m.

each of my boys a question, navigating the space between rhetoric and wondering, without worrying about form (punctuation demands response):

ben -- how far away are you...exactly
re -- what happened to you
marc s -- what next
marc r -- was i imagining
joel -- did you know
scott -- how did you invite me
nat -- are you happier
graeme t -- what if
andrew -- what would satisfy you
graeme j -- is it perennial

rambling -- i've run out of titles 9:09 p.m.

i am reading lynn crosbie's poetry on a patio tonight, it is light enough still. she uses oxford commas and sounds like a poet. her words are like breathing as though i'm not reading (rhyme) but tasting her last meal instead. or various meals, particularly the ones after big events. they are exactly like breathing, don't you agree? : : : try writing in a very small notebook sometime, it'll keep you honest. curbs adjective use, apparently. : : : i read the blog of a harvard girl who was torontonian and liked palestrina. found her on facebook. i think we're in the same chapter with a few pages of beer and experience between us. loads of books she would say, i think. important ones. : : : i wonder how much poets lie. the good stuff is inebriating and i don't often bother to ask because i'd rather smoke in that state. (you understand). really though, it must be thick with lies. love is never so desperate, colours so vibrant, scenes so perfect, men so angry. dogs don't curl up in corners, they collapse. everyone collapses. you, poet! writing life in cursive while the rest of us are lazy, uninspired, (oxford comma) and faster at typing. : : : i blame the public school system for my need to list, to alliterate, to tie up loose ends. i've to blame someone. what's with the chip, you ask. get over it, kate. it's gotta be the divorce, the drugs, the circumstance. anything but me. (you understand).

if i were a proper animal... 1:24 p.m.

tired but not sleeping 12:07 a.m.

jonathan doubled me on his bike. i'm used to the handlebars, but he preferred peddling standing up. we rode up church street and were waived at, i felt like a float. COMMA SPLICE. we have plans for martinis on tuesday and he's promised to lend me a russian novel starring the devil. best book ever, apparently. sounds right up my ally. i'm stressed about money. relieved to know, however, that most music is still free. say i am you by the weepies.

beer and commas: in the interest of encouraging the appropriate use of both 2:04 p.m.

the oxford comma: an optional comma used before the word "and" at the end of a list, in case you were wondering...

i like to drink white beer, blonde beer, red beer, and dark beer. all beer, really.

the comma splice: a punctuation error in which a comma with no conjuction is used to join two independent clauses. i'm a big fan.

it's nearly ten to nine, we won't reach the beer store before close.

for those of you who know me 11:10 a.m.

http://kevan.org/johari?name=kateleadbeater
http://kevan.org/nohari?name=kateleadbeater

these last few days 7:19 a.m.

have been worse than most. there is a nice song playing on the cbc, called "take it from me." i am quite tired and wish the song would've lasted longer. they're talking about a terrorist plot now. my cell phone is in the process of exploding: the screen is a mess of colours. i blame the terrorists. you should try blaming the terrorists, too. i want to throw something breakable across the room and watch it shatter. like a sideplate or a vase or something. i hope the week improves. i'm not doing well. really not.

major anxiety 7:49 p.m.

should be a cat's name. not mine. cats, cats, cats, people. cats, cats, cats, crazies. crazy cat people. crazy me. crazy, crazy, crazy.

moo-shoe pork! 11:01 a.m.

things to do in toronto for fifty cents 6:38 p.m.

-buy 3 tim horton's tim bits
-go 0.3 kilometres in a taxi
-make a panhandler do entertaining things
-pay a one day late fee for an old movie at the local store
-buy two poppies on or before remembrance day
-pay gst and pst on an item which is priced at $3.34
-buy four sticks of incense
-buy one very discounted mango in kensington market
-buy one can of juice from concentrate at no frills
-buy a terrible postcard of toronto with the cn tower blurred and obscured
-make the united way a little more successful
-buy a can of discounted tuna and give it to the food bank
-pay for the electricity it costs to blow-dry your hair two or three times
-barter with someone on queen street for a dozen bobby pins
-dry one load of laundry for 14 minutes at the laundromat
-buy three cups of lemonade from the blonde girls down the street
-make two phone calls from bell payphones
-buy a used comic book
-buy a pack of kleenex from a twenty-four hour convenience store
-buy a can of no name pop from the dufferin street mall
-buy a jumbo freezie from any self-respecting convenience store
-get as many free bookmarks as you'd like from the public library
-buy a pack of lettuce seeds from the garden centre of your local grocer
-buy three high quality screws from the local hardware store
-pay for fifteen minutes of internet at a net cafe on yonge
-speaking of yonge street -- buy a dirty girly mag
-watch twelve minutes of porno
-smoke as many cigarettes as there are smokers

my feet are extremely dirty 12:12 p.m.

from spending the evening on the rooftop, going on prentensiously about colours and semi-colons. blue and terracotta. black and white. yale and harvard. the brick chimney sits at the same angle as the beer bottles because the tar surface is uneven. my hands hurt when i wake up to the sound of the cbc. pay cheque, coffee, yogurt, anxiety, lorazepam. a one hour biography about ellen degeneres on the star network. my superintendent has taken our ladder, our means of access. we're trapped on the third floor now, unable to get proper breeze, proper sun, a proper view. my hands are beginning to tremble, my palms red and rough from my adventures. i'm going to do something now - eat maybe, or lie down. i feel restless, unsatisfied. waiting is the worst.

from feza with thanks for your guidance and friendship 8:32 a.m.

one of my turkish psychiatrists sent me a photograph! we are in the basement of Rodney's Oyster Bar on king west with a couple of crabs going about their business in the background. i was very happy to hear from him, what a lovely surprise. i have an open invitation to visit istanbul. now if only i was rich enough to get there and cool enough to go.

i feel as though i should blog 10:16 p.m.

i've had an eventful night. words, commas, thoughts, a picture. but i've got none of those. or not enough of them. there was a first love, a second, a third. all of them different, all of them perfect. all of them wrong. i am left listening to the same songs i always did, alone in a room with four walls, two windows, two candles and tears. i'm not a bad girl, i promise. my mother had the best of intentions. i had the best of intentions. the keyboard simply doesn't have enough keys for me to reach an understanding with anything. no matter how much i tap at them, they aren't enough, don't provide enough. somebody stop the cat from crying. I CAN'T DO BETTER. can't write better, be thinner, more committed, more loving. i am as i am. i am as i am.

emre: tour guide to the turkish psychiatrists 2:46 p.m.

he has an unusual smell about him: a confusing mix of spicy cologne and foreign tobacco. he is slightly shorter than me with an insistent posture. he has closely cropped dark hair doing its best to disguise baldness, an unlucky victim at thirty-one. his goatee (i hate that word) is carefully groomed and he is never without his side bag. he often speaks in cliches, stumbling over his clumsy english offering "for instance..." as an unsuccessful distraction. his stomach hangs gently over his leather belt. sharon and i both agree that he is too quick to chime in, to pontificate -- he smacks his lips as he explains that he is a free lance tour guide and that the details (smack), for instance...are of no great concern to him but for the future references, more flexibleness would be good. sharon, with her legs sternly crossed, makes the leather banquette creak as she leans over and whispers to me that his travel agency didn't pay for flexibiLITY and if it had, flexibility would have been on offer. her pony tail is slicked back with hairspray. her tight smile divulges that she is terribly high strung due in no small part, i suspect, to emre and his unsollicited advice. she points out tensely that he doesn't have signing authority on the account and that his company credit card was rejected yesterday. i am not to sign for his portion of the bill.

church street on may 24th 2:39 p.m.

the air is nearly wet, a canopy of pregnant clouds forbids the electric enthusiasm with which these first few days of real heat are customarily met. the patios on church are fit to burst, attended not only by young girls with cigarettes but also by older couples dining on continental fare with pleasant garnishes on plastic tables which seem rock and sway with the rhythm of conversation even as the sky grows darker and the birds scatter...

blogging in the IT room (to the tune of rocking in the free world) 12:58 p.m.

in a cubicle next to a small chinese programmer named clement. i think he thinks i'm working. i'd bet he thinks i think he's working. actually, i think he is working. everyone else has gone to lunch, pizza up the street. i stayed behind so i could sit in the back room, tapping away at an old and ugly keyboard about nothing in particular and several things in general.

hungry in my tummy 11:00 p.m.

i am too tired to read tom robbins, plus i haven't many cigarettes left. i am waiting against a wall in a basement bar for the turks to be done their dinner of coq au vin and vanilla creme brulee and my tummy is wanting for food. it is empty and unsatisfied, swishing with beer. i am wearing a striped shirt today. i think my tummy would like a greasy hamburger with cheese and tomatoes and pickles and mayonnaise. i think that my tummy would like that very much. i think my other parts would like the attention of a person's warm mouth, soft flannet sheets, an unexpected phone call, a big storm with hail, power outages, candles, board games, pot and folk music. and vanilla creme brulee for desert.

Strictly Rambling: The Umpteenth Installment 10:45 a.m.

Breakfast was bizarre today. Left over Lebanese, a one 1L bottle of coca-cola, two cigarettes and counting. I spoke to my friend Uday, a newly hired trademark something or other. He moved to Ottawa, says it’s cold there too. Also mentioned that the job couldn’t be better. He had a reading day today, which meant he was still sleeping when I called at 930. I accused him of wasting my tax dollars. He responded that he’s funded by fees, not me. So much the better then, I guess. I love that saying, although I’m never certain of using it properly.

I’m sitting on the fire escape of my downtown apartment, wishing it were New York noise that I’m hearing. It’s raining funny furry leaves and I’m not sure where they’re coming from. Laptops are such fragile creatures, I hope this one isn’t bothered by the precipitation.

My roommate’s been MIA for a few days now. I suspect she’s still recovering from Freedom, of the party persuasion. Or enjoying her last few days in love. He’s leaving soon, first to Detroit and then Australia.

Someone on the television is talking about making us pay to see doctors. Twent-five dollars per visit, because we’re apparently incapable of appreciating the cost of health care without shelling out a few bucks. There is an aphod on my screen. A lunch date is impending. I suppose I should wash myself, clear the Styrofoam containers from the coffee table. I like the song on the new Ivory commercial, it reminds me of something…

heather crowe is dead: second hand smoke killed her 8:27 a.m.

shit. that wasn't supposed to happen. i hope my spirits waitresses are safe. the by-law's coming in to effect soon...just a couple of days. they should be okay. got years to clean up. but it'll never be the same! oh well, for the best, i guess.

i feel like a fourteen karat failure, sparkling after my fifth beer... 12:21 a.m.

pretending to do important things, essential really. using my business voice: hello such and such, this is kate calling on behalf of so and so and how are you today? reminding myself and everyone else all too frequently that i have a leather briefcase (black), a salary (benefits pending), a proper trenchcoat (beige) and a credit card (VISA). i don't mention that it's maxed or that i've never dry-cleaned or that the salary's laughable or that i haven't a work ethic to speak of. i don't tell that showing up's half the battle and the other half's the business voice. those are my secrets. not so secret anymore, i guess.

to be fair, i've nearly got business cards and worked seven days this week. as though that means anything. some boy says i'm beautiful. the cat still seems to like me. so do my parents, apparently. but they'd all think me sparkle anyway, that's what they're there for.

rock star 5:37 p.m.

she twinkled while she sat at my kitchen table, reached, spasmed for a piece of bread with butter still cold and lumpy. tore at it with her stained teeth, letting little bits soak against the inside of her cheek before swallowing hard. her arms were bruised, scarred. her hair was greasy, she had dark circles under her eyes, stains on her shirt, small red sores around her mouth. there are echos of that healthy beauty, i can hear them when she talks about music. says the needle exchange isn't far, she'll stop by more. vancouver was nice, but too easy. she is a rockstar. inevitably, irreparably, a rock star.

i burned my face 7:43 p.m.

yesterday, sleeping. the tar was soft and hot on my back. the three foot brick lip prevented the wind from interfering. i managed two pages of anaïs nin before giving up and giving in. i had a dream that my apartment was bigger, had several rooms and a chipmunk which followed me around as i worked. it slept on the crown molding in the living room. i also dreamt that i had filed my income tax and was selected as a winner by our newly elected prime minister. the chipmunk attended the ceremony, rick mercer facilitated. they gave me a funny hat with ribbons, a box of after eight chocolate mints and a talking stick. i woke up with a sunburn.

z is for zed (or) the heresy of our western cousins 5:12 p.m.

for those of you who ride the ttc with any kind of regularity, it's unlikely you've missed the newly agressive attempts to increase tourism in british-columbia. "get to know bc from a to z" the clean and well-designed posters read. which of those letters does not belong? my pulse quickens at the prospect of explanation.

i'm more uptight about these kinds of things than most people, i'll readily admit. but i like to think that it's part of my appeal. don't respond. point is, i am the daughter of protestant parents. i learned several lessons in my first few years of life: square pegs do not fit in round holes, boys are gross, abc does not rhyme with z on this side of the border.

i was shocked to see that our cousins to the west would've chosen a catch phrase that capitalized on a classic americanism. wtf? it occured to me that perhaps they were being ironic, or something. that didn't last long. i feel betrayed. we all know what ad campaigns do to children, apart from encouraging purchase. they lay the boundaries of language. inform speech and behaviour. i sincerely hope, for the sake of our ailing nationalism, that teachers know better. or what's left of them, anyway.

The Road West 8:20 p.m.

My parents drove a Honda Civic station wagon. Silver, rusted, standard recited the plate numbers to drunk-smelling motel clerks 9-0-9 J-K-J they whispered in the vast spaces between Sudbury and Thunder Bay when we didn’t make it in one day, as planned. When the distance spread out before us like life or high school, like Stephen Hawking’s version of things: big, empty, full of rocks and creatures we didn’t understand or care to know. Manitoba always made more sense: stopovers, sugar bribes, better beds, cable television and a swimming pool once when I was nine. The legislature and the wooden cut outs of funny or fat people the flowers the gardens the sun the promise of democracy and the road West. Saskatchewan was puberty: the middle space between departure and destination, flat but nearly foot hilled, up-close uneven and full of growth. We were restless in Saskatchewan. Anxious for beaches, secrets, soft rocks and pocket money. Anxious for sex in the later years. But before we could begin to fantasize about the naked white bodies of summer boys, there were the Prairies. Those fields, golden bales and barbed wired fences made my mother insane. She’d begin to mumble about noise, how she couldn’t stand it and couldn’t someone turn off the goddamn radio. She howled and barked and by the end of it all we were sullen and sweaty nearly ready to jump out of the moving car, the air conditioning having betrayed us before we even managed to make Lloydminster. The heat, my mother never knew was a blessing. My sister and I collapsed in the back seat, in a trench of suitcases like corpses couldn’t bear to move a muscle couldn’t bear to shriek, couldn’t bear to tell her she was a miserable bitch. Weren’t we all that summer. But not my father, of course. My father had principles and a Pentax. Had us standing tall at Head-Smashed-in-Buffalo Jump sun drawing tears from our eyes smiling hysterically waiting for the click. The click that would end it all and send us back to our sauna Civic, our books, our half-melted chocolate bars, our temporary tattoos and our bunk-bed fantasies. When it was his turn to drive, he would listen to jazz and mourn the state of the country. Especially at twilight: the weather, the workers, Ralph Klein’s wife smoking outside a church at Batoche, the workers again. Golf. He is a Communist. Once, when a swarm of softball players took over Regina we drove all night in darkness. My mother slept and my sister watched for deer and dead gofers. It wasn’t her turn: it was mine. My father filled his hand with secret seeds of revolution fed them to me slowly, with the other hand on the wheel. His voice pained by Oxford and the good days cried out against injustice and those lies, those heartless bastards. His words stuck to the pit of my stomach like the gum I wasn’t supposed to swallow and did, more than once. And always before we were properly prepared came Alberta. Alberta meant dry, over-salted roasts, tiny shriveled green peas in water, arthritic grandparents and whispered fights. Fights about meat, oil, money. Hushing noises at the dinner table. Grace with tablecloths and matching napkins. Guilt. Traffic. Leaving Edmonton was confessing that we couldn’t travel forever. That we couldn’t live forever. That we would grow old and tired and poor. That the alternator would give out. Every year, lost in the loneliness of the flatter parts we began to resign ourselves to August and the end of all things. And every year, without fail, we were rescued. Saved from a few more hours. Mountains rose to the occasion. Trees stood tall with encouragement (solidarity my father must’ve thought) and the roads, having tired somewhere after Canmore abandoned convention and began to wind. We were worried that we would never arrive, but inevitably we did. Tripped and scraped our knees running to the lake, gasped and bled with ecstasy, cried out, let go and drowned in the perfection of it all. Loved each other, forgot time and pain and Ontario, walked barefoot in the wind and felt as though it had all been worth it. Felt as though there had always been a destination: paradise at the end of the road West.

things more substantial 9:24 p.m.

i have been called vacuous, inane, strange,
simple, stupid. i'm certain that much worse
things have been said behind closed doors,
but of the words launched and targeted
in my presence, them are those that stuck.
anger has since given way to sleep, to calendars,
to seasons but i remain pre-occupied by
the distinct and famously real possiblity
that i am a hack. too many adjectectives,
too many cliches, too many predictables. but for
the fear of re-affirming the slave morality
of which i am allegedly victim, i would say:
fuck them all. and what now? read more,
run more. i am tired and far from original.
i have nowhere to run. it is not as though
my current existence hasn't afforded me
the occaisional pleasure: sunlight, poetry, beer,
sweat, clean clothes. translated: seasonal
affective disorder, ego, substance, endorphines,
and an ever-common pedestrian sense
of self-satisfaction. but all of this language
is getting old, as am i. and with another
birthday advancing on the horizon like
a midieval army, i am left wondering if
i should sober up, straighten out and stop writing.
move on to things significantly rather than
slightly more substantial. i can already hear
the ultra-supportive statements shuffling
their way into my inbox. i knew that's how
you would respond. but despite all the good
intentions which pave just about everything
these days i am alone, drunk and have yet
to settle the bill.

penning sounds more like a drug 9:14 p.m.

which is why, next time i'm stuck in an awkward social situation, forced to explain the scribbles, the bits of paper, the constant blogging, i'll say, "i've been penning a lot recently, wasting my nights...it's terribly addictive. i wouldn't try it if i were you. i mean, it's good and all but could cost you your job and your relationship if you're like, honest, and develop the habit." no excuses, i'm unreachable, penning tonight.

you are an interesting dancer 9:52 a.m.

but so precious, with your wild limbs swinging
in a happy frenzy, a thin layer of sweat glossing
your skin. the room pulsated like a living thing,
our stomachs full of barbecued beef and chicken
protested the next bottle of fifty all night. but that
didn't stop us from stumbling on to the sidewalk
at quarter to one, laughing and slurring, sharing
a cigarette, even though you don't smoke. today
was a bit rough, i have to admit. but i'd trade a
little nausea and dehydration for a night like that
any day.

parts of toronto you should've seen and didn't 8:58 a.m.

the beer store at queen and river on sunday afternoon seven minutes before close hosting a handful of hardened alcholics ordering bottles of max ice with exact change for the second, or third, or fourth time today. allen gardens at night, every night, bundled bodies collapsed on benches under the weight of the world and its temptations, its necessary oblivions, its unnecessary cruelties. boys with sweet faces and enemy memories hiding in the alleys around church and wellesley, like stray cats at war, waiting. the hungry screams from whispered beings at the methadone clinic south of king, east of parliament. the low-income landscape of woolner, the sunset painted by pollution and the smell of crack. men fondling eachother in queen's park, under the cover of darkness, like warewolves howling at their so-called lives. all the parts of toronto you should've seen and didn't. because they remind you too much of everything. because you'd rather not and no one's going to make you.

brilliant and beautiful 9:13 p.m.

her skin is an ivory delicate, like her mother's. she wears rings
with blue jewels on hands that remind of my own, prefers smaller
portions and quiet rooms. sleeps only on expensive sheets, loves
her dog. and what a shock that she would ever have been young,
would have ever made mistakes, drank too much, fallen out of
love. but i've seen the pictures, and i know it's true. and on those
nights that i arrived too late, twisted and pubescent, she offered
me the warmer half of her bed, a glass of water, a glass of wine.
she read to me stories, of art and promise, cleaned and steamed
vegetables and served them on a proper plate with an anecdote.

she is often tired. spends her days fighting demons i've yet to meet.
but despite the battles that leave her wounded and thirsty, she never
fails to answer the phone, to undertsand. she would run through a
burning forest to comb my hair, rub my back, tell me that we're okay.
and i would like her to know that i haven't forgotten the times
she was collapsed and oblivious, raging. the times she was gone,
lost amidst the battling rats of a terrible childhood dream. and god,
how i'd like to kill them all. slit their throats and watch them bleed
litres for every tear she wept in the next room. but i haven't
the constitution and she has taught me that it isn't a solution,
after all. she is good like that.

and as she reads this grand thank you card of a mother's day poem,
i would like very much for her to know that i have never loved
anyone with as much honesty as i love her. her teeth, her smile.
the things she's told me a hundred times before and tells me
again. she called me a goddess once. gave me money she didn't
have. listened to my hateful highschool rants and proceeded to buy
me a prom dress. knew my lies. knew me. i love her a thousand
times and forever.

she is brilliant, beautiful, my mother.

strictly rambling 5:02 p.m.

a clean aids test with a three month delay
is useless as though my reckless intimacies
would've paused for those ninety days,
beer glasses would've remained empty,
insecurities unattended. as though the sheer
possibility of a chronic manageable burden
would've straightened me out. as though i
hadn't been living with one already.

toronto is teeming with hearts beating
sidewalks feeling the weight of a hundred
and forty languages spoken only in the
brokedown bungalows of the hard to
reach parts with pigs dancing on fiery
skewers complaining about the weather
and the state of the motherland.

speaking of which, mother's day -- t-minus 30 hours.

eyes wide shut 10:54 a.m.

it was not until the advent of photography that people were able to see themselves with their eyes closed. weird.

direction: sud 9:08 p.m.

i wanted to hold you tighter and for longer
as though that would change everything
you're much less delicate than i suspected
that tentative sweetness remains a staple
and i am so proud of your posture, your smile

evie christie's genius and the successes of graeme truelove 12:57 p.m.

so much the better says mister truelove of my newly acquired love for hacker-pschorr. one of my favourite sayings, though i'd forgotten about it. climbing the stairs leading from finch station to the surface, a keyboard rendition of Für Elise nearly strangles me. as though i wasn't short of breath to begin with. beethoven is a very unhappy dead man at this moment. digress from ludwig. dwell on mister truelove for a moment, his condominium bid, his new appointment. imagine ottawa, security, stability, grass. focus. evie christie's genius hits me over the head like a blunt object in the midst of a conversation i was having, despite myself, with myself. i am trying very hard not to mouth words in public. definitely something to avoid. back to elaborate self-torture using lives of other people as whips. jelena madunic. wonder if she's been accepted to law school. speaks four languages, has long hair. extra-curriculars. sarah tessier. arch enemy and intern at quebec national assembly. painful. laurie roberts. organized, rarely hungover, committed, thin. it hurts. matt johnston. flown to new york for an interview. at least i get a ride from finch. i love this game.

this one time, when i was really depressed, i... 7:43 p.m.

having wiped tears from my swollen face with his t-shirt, we decided on a proper pissing contest to lighten the mood. this one time, when i was really depressed, i...

g -- masturbated a lot and left guilty kleenexes strewn about the room
k -- didn't change my clothes for days on end, including socks and underwear
g -- spent the gdp of a small country on marijuana cigarettes and pizza
k -- smoked until my fingers were yellow, teeth were yellow and lungs were black
g -- stopped going to class, stopped going anywhere
k -- stopped going to class, stopped going anywhere except the beer store
g -- broke into several cars, using an ax, stole a computer, fucked up a catholic school fence
k -- stole a menu from the chick 'n deli, a couple dollars from you, bounced a cheque
g -- made my mother cry
k -- made my father cry, my mother was crying to begin with
g -- played a lot of video games
k -- slept with a lot of men

there is no succedaneum for caring: starbucks, this rant's for you 6:31 p.m.

i have not seen akeelah and the bee. i do not intend to. i'm sure it is on par with similarly funded hollywood adventures in profit, but i am livid beyond words (bad pun, i know) about their ad campaign and am putting my foot down. starbucks, for the past umpteen years, has spent every drop of its corporate blood and sweat making the purchase of a caffeinated drink an excruciatingly efficient experience. i once left the place without my coffee because the store cast me out before it was ready. without even the slightest pretence of regard for the literacy of its customers, starbucks is unapologetically printing big words on sleeves without providing their corresponding definitions. i stared at my succedaneum grande dark roast today for twenty minutes before getting over myself and looking the damn word up. i returned to starbucks later this afternoon in order to purchase the cheapest thing on the board and complain about the absence of a corresponding definition to my sleeve word. the feeble drudge who was unfortunately faced with my question responded, embarassed, that there were a series of cards somewhere in the neighbourhood of the cream and sugar that i was welcome to sort through. i don't fucking get it. sorting through the cards isn't inclining me to upsize, add-on or engage any other such profit-affecting activity. it's just pissing me off and making me to crowd the store. causing me and hundreds of other starbucks customers to miss a perfectly good opportunity for self-improvement. who's got time to sort through a disorganized heap of identically sized and coloured word cards, especially with an overpriced coffee getting colder by the minute? prentend you care, starbucks. that's all i'm asking. pretend you care about literacy. just print the damn definition, assholes. until then, i'm boycotting. and so are all of my eager-to-spend friends. right, guys?

coffee and cake: 2:17 p.m.

the poets of a day's meals, european with a dark sense
of humour. nothing as compared with the protestant
snobbery of the mint jelly served with pork roast and new
potatoes or the creamthick self-assuredness of pasta carbonara
boasting italian prosciutto. the tightly tinfoil wrapped
honesty of lebanese food deeply appeals to me with its
unlikely pickled vegetables and spicy chickpea spread.
and there is definitely something to be said for cranberries
those bright and christian christmas bundles of acidity
baked into a sensible bran muffin. or, better yet, the soft
french prentension of triple-creme brie on a crusty baguette
which makes me long, in turn, for dry sauteed garlic greenbeans
and all the saltiness that soysauce is eager to provide and what
about a proper tuna steak? barely seared with some inauthentic
wasabi-kicked sauce and toasted sesame seeds on spinach
leaves have no mercy for the clementines which decorate
them. and rightfully so. vegetables are the nobler creatures,
especially when steamed with garlic butter and served with
a rosemary rubbed rack of lamb. and perhaps some beer.

i wonder if you'll read this and... 1:12 p.m.

resent me my words, breathe hatred into the lonely parts of sunday and fill the night like a balloon with all of my shortcomings until the week bursts and splatters among the years leaving us to contemplate the hours we spent with him, each in our own way. i assure you that i am no great damsel. on the contrary, my person is riddled with cracks and pounds begging to be filled and lost, respectively. he loved you first and for longer. and though we could spend ages of energy sorting out the complicated scheme of memory the fact remains, i am no enemy.

vesuvio's (or) in the name of the father, of the son and of the missing brother 11:17 p.m.

the father, smiling and generous, admits to having trouble hearing over dinner. he goes on at length, prompted by my occaisional comment, about the state of student-book vendor relations and the unfortunately high cost of copyright. reaches for the bill the moment it hits the table, i like him very much.

i am very fond also of the mother, a gardener, much like a flower herself, glowing and brimming with giggles. she sips slowly on her glass of wine. seems to be stuck in spring, which is particularly becoming.

the son, another matter entirely. tall, thin, sharp. he squeezes my knee under the table reassuringly. stares at me without blinking. kisses my forehead. places my cold hands between his warm thighs and tells me he loves me. he's of a good breed.

the missing brother, in all his height and sarcasm, will return home to find, in the refridgerator, a package of pizza wrapped and left with much love. wish he'd come. had some comment to make, some chuckle.

what good boys, they are. and from such good parents.

i have a special message for you... 1:05 p.m.

Whiskey Echo Sierra Tango sayyid 12:19 p.m.

In my travels on the Bloor subway line, I have come to be especially familiar with a particular tribe of natives from Toronto's West side. I have found their way of speaking to be strikingly unique and have decided to keep a record of their vernacular on this blog. The usages I've been exposed to are deeply unfamiliar to me, I have found examples to be the most effective way for me to communicate meaning, which is why there is a notable absence of formal definitions.

still (n., a., v.) used almost as punctuation, still is nearly always used at the end of sentences. ex. it's too cold to be smoking outside, still. i should be studying instead of sleeping, still. that's not really fair of you, still.
next (adj. ) used in a way similar to the english phrase "this next." ex. i am going to fuck next girl. i am going to smoke next joint.
spliff (n.) this plant in order to produce the substance popular at native social gatherings. synonyms: splay, spleef. for those who do not have the ressources to produce spliff themselves, it is purchased from another member of the community, commonly referred to as a "hook-up."
what are you saying (phrase) intended to mean, for example ex. how are you? how have you been? although the tone of the saying implies an interragotive inclination, the natives use this phrase as imperative.
what are you dealing with (phrase) use instead of what things are pre-occupyinng you at the moment? what kind of anxieties do you have? this phrase will often be used when initially meeting a friend or acquaintance.
yam (v.) an adaptation of the word jam, when asked, natives explained the word is "easier to say this way."
fuds (n.) adaptation of the word food in its plural form. ex. i am going to go yam some fuds.
quads (n.) quantity of measurement with respect, in particular, to spliff -- a quads is the imperial equivalent of a quarter ounce, or the metric equivalent to 7 grams.
lates (ajd.) from the english later, lates (similarly to jam) is a reworking of a popular parting phrase to reduce it to a single syllable. natives will often repeat the word more than once at the conclusion of a conversation. ex. okay, i'm leaving now. lates, lates, lates.
brethren (n.) similar to the english word "brother," brethren does not refer to a literal sibling relationship but rather to a close friend. used most often with a possessive pronoun. ex. alright, my brethren, blaze up that spliff.

and then we were three 9:51 a.m.

standing at the roadside hysterical, too much space between us. it was a child mind you, and not mine either. a small child, fingers like sticks of sugar-free gum, a wrinkled nose, a bald head. the year was 1986 and my mother never recovered. he would've been my younger brother. i remember taking trips to the cemetary, seeing her weep and wail, wearing a proper black dress with tan stockings and plain, low-heeled pumps. there were always photographs, dutifully taken by my father. i think they both secretly wished the plaque would age, like the boy buried beneath it should've. trips to thomas-evan were followed up with a lunch of bagels and cream cheese. he was born, and died, in hull.

we stayed in a hotel after the death of my maternal grandmother. i think it was a holiday inn. my mother took me to the fairweather store in the big thunder day shopping mall and bought me a navy blue dress and matching blazer, explained to me that it was inappropriate for a child to be dressed entirely in black. she paid with a credit card. the day of the funeral, i remember blow-drying my hair, being excited for my new clothes and anxious about the ceremony. i had never been to a funeral. i made a comment to my mother, inappropriate as it was, about the order of events. she glared at me with a face twisted with anger and began to cry. she spilled a cup of coffee and collapsed in the corner chair. she screamed at me from that chair about things i can't recall, raged and raged and i thought it would never end. i spent my grandmother's funeral and subsequent enterrement brooding about that morning. i wanted to tear off my navy blue dress and run yelling from the church. i swore i would never forgive her. i have never forgiven myself.

and now you, friend. i have you in my mind's eye, ivory skin tear-stained, heart fit to burst, faced with a church full of mourners. and rather than be by your side i am in some stupid meeting in some boardroom far away, having sent flowers and condolences. i am so sorry you have to live this, friend. so sorry. the world is unnecessarily cruel.

a shuddering creature in your shower reaching for the small of your back with a still-nervous hand recalled amidst the steam and scalding water the needled wind from one of those first dizzying nights recalled your fleece-lined toque and its braided strings dangling recalled how warm you were and concerned when she slipped her hand beneath your shirt and against your skin for the first time in the dim-lit corner of a corner bar with the best of intentions and a smile...

(pay me no mind) 7:31 p.m.

cpac isn't real company, can't rub my back, kiss my forehead, keep me calm. i am willing peter mansbridge to whisper plesantries and make promises through the television, but he's playing hard to get. they asked me about it once in an office without windows, put a checkmark on a page and wrote me a script. dialogue. i can hear the sound of cars and footsteps on the street below my window but no one is stopping. the apartment seems to be getting warmer, the ceiling seems to be sinking. seems, seems, seems. there are fruit flies interfering with my oranges. do they have teeth? my mother is too busy marking to speak to me about the budget. i can't figure out the cost of a gun, forget things. colander. i've had to start chewing on an olive pit, to spare what's left of my yellowed fingers. i am sculpting sentences like carboard cubes. subject-verb-object original. as the applause fade, i turn to my mirrored wall only to discover that there is blood running from my ears, picasso. i can feel it flirting with my skin. the living room is beginning to flood, liquid crawling up the doorframes like the pencilmark prints of a growing child to the sound of bach's sixth suite for unaccompanied cello. the blood is thickening like an exotic pan sauce, heated by the building which has begun burn. every hurtful word i've ever heard is swimming toward me at breakneck speed with hungry teeth. i am pale and quickly becoming paler. my hair is falling into the soup. the dark circles under my eyes are eating away at my skin and ambition. in the corner of the room, my dead hamster is singing me a twisted birthday tune. i miss him and his woodchip smell. i miss the sleep, the tired beat of a proper life drum. shhhhhhhhhhh, child. drown me in a river that remembers the taste of winter, please. leave me peaceful against the watersmoothed rocks.

pearson international airport smells like... 7:58 a.m.

anxiety and business. it is monday at 6 am. terminal one is newly gigantic. the air is cold, thin, metallic and populated by superindustrial jet engine fuel, european perfume, starbucks coffee, laundered uniforms. a flock of japanese school girls with brightly coloured suitcases, pigtails and plaid skirts break formation. they are thrilled and scurrying. a few men in printed shorts and thong sandals finger their boarding passes nervously waiting to check their sensible black and navy blue suitcases, respectively. next to me a blonde in stilettos, bare legs, taps her foot. i liked her especially. she was flying to montreal.

we left the empties near the chimney 8:37 p.m.

i will list the rules:

1-no dice
2-snake eyes (battle)
3-three man -- gotta wear the hat, drink everytime three comes up, shows up...
4-pass
5-drink to the left
6-pass
7-drink to the right
8-pass
9-bathroom break
10-pass
11-new rule
12-new area

the beer store closes at eleven on saturdays, that's why we like saturdays. rooftopdebauchery.

p.s. bark expletive deleted meow!

half-assed attempt at lesbian fiction 9:33 p.m.

she was thin, short. skin the colour of french pastry, as though she'd brushed with a thin coat of egg whites, milk, and had been left to bake in a warm oven. she was golden. her eyes were dark, glistening. her hair was darker, pinned half-up with short tendrils flirting with her forehead. she paced nervously, had great bones. katherine.

brett was taller, heavier. greasy hair brushed back into a lazy braid. she glowed, floated through the room, gave out smiles like business cards. smelled of beer and french perfume. smoked incessantly. chewed on her cuticles. they met in the bathroom.

katherine emerged from the bathroom stall to find brett bent over the bathroom counter. they shared a brief, nervous conversation, a few lines. spent an hour apart and reconvened. katherine sat on the counter swinging her legs. brett stepped up to her, smiled. katherine lowered her eyes, blushed. they struck up a conversation.

after several minutes and a few smiles brett nudged her way a little closer, leaning in to whisper, pretending the music to be too loud. hello, she said, barely audible, breathing on her neck. katherine sat up. louder this time, she asked, are you here alone? katherine, who'd been nursing a plastic cup of draught stopped and stared...tbc

let's dance 8:11 p.m.

your naked body lanky limbs tangled
with mine in a song of sweat humming
the melody soundtrack of a hundred nights
soothing your fingers wet your breath
heavy your penis erect and quiet always
quiet my boy the runoff from my dreams
reduced to puddles on a pillowcase sprawled
across the sheets the two of us ensconced in
some nocturnal waltz and on that starlit
stage accompanied by the sound of sirens
and the crinkling of a certain plastic bag
you forgave me my faults loved them even
i have not forgotten

excavations 11:43 a.m.

the three hundred yard walk to the subway in silence highlighted in pink our patterns of restraint, tight-lipped and stubborn we marched and i would normally have expected a toothpaste flavoured meeting of lips as we turned the corner to greet hayden street, his eyes wide and mine lowered. but not today. we marched on, instead, toward the mouth of a crowded cave guarding our words like unspeakable secrets, waiting to be swallowed.

the three hundred yard walk to the subway in silence weighed heavily on my heart as i travelled through the tunnels alone, forbidding anyone to share my bench. having made of my briefcase a wall i huddled, pretending to read, but truthfully watching the lights, from the corner of my eye, speed by in a frenzy of distance. i wondered if we would emerge, and when.

the three hundred yard walk to the subway in silence offered me a few solid breaths of reflection in exchange for the pained sigh of my conclusion: it would have been best if we had loved only in the echoes of sex. we are young, i thought, knowing us to be too deeply involved for such deus ex machina statements. too deep and still digging.

j'ai trouvé benjamin rodger - en cachette! 10:40 a.m.

ce matin, in our mailbox. stuffed into a standard number ten wearing gaudy white glasses and a button-down print shirt. he didn't smile, hasn't been sleeping well. neither have i. tells me things have been hard at work. gossip. i can relate. this side of the atlantic, his letter finds me sick with anger, nails bitten to the quick, wondering what i could've done differently. envisioning, the gavel having silenced the whispering room, a procession of preachy syllables emerging from the judge's mouth: "tem-pest-u-ous, but not en-ti-re-ly un-sym-pa-the-tic, en-ig-ma-tic some might say... ." i resist a full accounting of our crooked days and ways, remembering instead the hours we painted, cried, were naked, broken, beautiful, reckless, drunk. details enough, i say. details enough. what's that i hear? you'd like something more? a confession, so as to properly condemn me before my peers? have it, then: i am unabashedly promiscuous, incorrigibly filthy, an unapologetic lush. i dominate conversations, leave dishes unwashed, fall asleep without undressing. i am fat, unworthy of sympathy, arrogant but easily wounded. more? i am incapable of frugality, essentially unreachable by phone, prone to rants and sudden changes in mood. i am not and have never been an honest vegetarian. or an honest socialist. i am weak-willed and easily flustered. i am completely out of touch with popular culture. i have yet to recover from childhood. satisfied? shall i go on?

montreal smoked meat and prepared mustard... 6:20 p.m.

a few kosher pickles, quartered lengthwise, a small brick of aged cheddar. two bottles of beer, three cigarettes, a trashy paperback thriller, an overstuffed pillow in a stained case. a laura secord cream egg, uneaten, a thirty-five minute bubblebath, three scented candles spilling wax, a clean aids test. two unreturned long distance phone calls, a dirty daydream between dirty sheets, a birthday. greenlseeves, a half-quarter lost. a hell of a lot of rain. monday.

ou est benjamin rodger? 6:54 p.m.

::: perhaps he has been swallowed by the azur tides of the mediterranean, clinging a blank canvas, images of a canadian capital city in chartreuse swimming between strokes ivory-capped waves and a vengeful european sun his companions ::: perhaps he is painting with violet mittens, in the cold closets of a french art school looking to his well-bred compatriots in red woolen scarves for inspiration ::: perhaps he is collapsed grey drunk on the blonde floorboards of a month-to-month rental waiting for a dark-orange dawn to disturb his deep sleep ::: perhaps he is tired of correpsondence in blue ink with this black disaster and prefers the salmon smiles of more functional versions of the female form ::: perhaps he's given up on this dark-orchid life and has left us for olive dead instead :::

ativan period space 4:01 p.m.

i am too depressed to bother with punctuation which is a rare occurance commas were my first love each word now a burden my fingers slow and shaky i fail to produce a better adjective and i am ashamed i would like very much to bury myself in a steaming pile of my lover's laundry a womb to heal this heartbeat which continues to race to burn to lament those hideous perfections to which i remain unentitled say the cosmos CEASE! the rogue syllable echoes between barren walls tumbling about the room taunting the pleasures of this sequence crumbling more rapidly with every passing beat say the cosmos CEASE! and with that a string of expletives angry beads of acid rain heaped upon the cambrian shield in both languages don't ever dare to ask me which and at last ellipsis the ativan has found me ellipsis wading through my own words young ideas like thick mud binding me to my position comma lest i leave my shoes behind period the ativan has found me like a drunk mother or a fat dog failing to love me with the life-changing passion of smack but quieting the cosmos ellipsis moderating the beat nonetheless

clumsy man, you've grown 3:15 p.m.

since that young summer. across the table, taller,
in your collared shirt. and you remembered! the evening
we spent drunk, collapsed and flirtatious on a patch of grass.
what self-assured little soldiers we were in those bright
and blue-skied days ... i miss our uniforms, sunday soccer
(although i never played) and that subsidized salad bar
in the basement cafeteria. as we walked, yesterday, having
not seen eachother for years, i was concerned.
i'd forgotten how you gesture when you speak,
had forgotten your smile and many of the warm faces of those
fateful months. i'd forgotten that first of many days when we spoke,
nervously, about western alienation. do you remember, graeme,
i thought it had something to do with hemispheres! what
a silly girl i was then. what a happy girl. it was wonderful to see you.

after shower scribbles 8:50 p.m.

the room is laden with flame-retardant jumpsuits,
ribbons, coloured paper in crumpled piles and the child
is swimming in her cervix as we speak, its candied
feet pressing against her ribs in invitation: one she is
anxious to accept surrounded, though she is, by
unassembled furniture, the estrogen-filled laughs
of mothers and childhood friends attempting to soothe
the last of many uncertainties...we talk, as me are meant
to, about the incompetence of men, the wonders of
obstetrics and the inevitability of epidurals. the wine
remains undrunk, a few good bottles sacrificed
on the altar of sisterhood and solidarity. sandwiches
are devoured by anxious mouths as lists are compiled
and what an apt prelude this affair seems to be as we
wait all too impatiently for the sound of the tympany,
the applause, and at long last the announcement...

congratulations, evie!

alternate telecommunications acronyms 3:13 p.m.

CRTC

Can't Relax 'Till Cumming
Call Roy To Cancel
Cats Rest Too Calmly
Clearly Romans Terrified Children
Clinton (Rarely) Talked Crap

iLEC

i Left Eerily Careful
interesting Lectures Extend Conversation
international Law Excited Churchill
interest Likes Expended Cash

SSRI

Sad Sarah Requires Intravenous
Sorry Still Remains Inadequate
Sunshine Sometimes Runs the Intrigue

aa, my twenty-first century child 2:57 p.m.

i've got the aids anxiety and it doesn't suit me much
lung cancer concern or a liver disease distraction
would be much more appropriate, i think but i've got
the aids anxiety nonetheless have had it since i was six
dreaming of world churches and an aunt i hadn't seen
in years, damp bed beneath me, doctor peering down
with t-minus two minutes wet on his lips and what
a deep-seated dysfunction i must have to worry
this way about my partners and the embarassment
i've got the aids anxiety, child, and don't i feel ever so
twenty-first century? tired, scared, spending, waiting...

french social philosopher (5 letters) 10:54 a.m.

we stumble can't seem to remember despite our rhinestone educations (or at least his, mine he would say) when we finally throw our hands up in defeat google offers sorel and we snicker, coyly between kisses, making jokes about the boots we'd worn in those pink years before puberty. played in seperate cities, different snow. what terrible boots and how heavy! but warm, he offers, and canadian.

misquoting marx 8:04 p.m.

there is something very calming
about a gaggle of middle-aged men
feeding their addictions together
misquoting marx over value-brand cigarettes
and pints of draught. i'm beginning
to know them, to recognize their rants
although they know not mine, this room
full of fathers white and tired with hearts
warmed by habit. some of us just have
a harder time of it. but we understand
eachother, i think, we solitary social bunch.
it is, whether you'll take my word for it
or not, a very honest enterprise: alcoholism.

deep and still digging 9:46 p.m.

in a basement somewhere in west toronto
past the big park and before the river
you are twenty-three years deep and still digging
(pace is such a difficult beast to tame)
the day is four nights gone, the cake
has been eaten, the pan cleaned, those
colourful worms skewered by cocktail swords
(some dirty metaphor, i'm sure) have made
their peace with the material world and retired
to a darker den where you speak loudly, with
intent, slow to wake and quick to love (just as i
remembered you) beneath the many layers
which you'll soon begin to shed because winter
is six nights gone and nakedness is easier
than ever and as you slip on your shoes
with a casual confidence that has taken
seasons to acquire, leaning on the wooden
frame of a childhood doorway, eyeing the distance
before you, the rank stench of work-to-come
hanging heavily in the air -- you are not alone.
somewhere in east toronto between university
and a great valley, i am twenty-one years old
deep and still digging, pen in hand, heart on sleeve,
warm beneath your sweater and smiling.

i hate apologizing 3:01 p.m.

telling her that i was wrong, wasn't thinking and am terribly sorry. i hate that. and i never am sorry. i'm always laughing softly at the end of my sentences. listen carefully next time.

red is the new black 4:05 p.m.

hanging casually from your frame, tighter the in right parts
tucked awkwardly into the waistband of your jeans, you'll kill me
for not having told you but it was her idea not mine, i swear
we shared a few words staring at your ass as you walked away
and both thought (surely) how good you looked in red and vodka
and both thought (surely) how good you always looked in black and beer

her gentle jawbone and that damn smile (or) words from a wasted morning 3:28 p.m.

It was cold outside, I think.
Cold when I first met you.
It was a month of steam-thick words
and slow fingers. St-Clair was slippery
as hell. Early on there was talk of Israel,
as I recall. But my mind often betrays me
on the details, so I can’t be certain.
Spring of that year was sloppy, wet
and remains buried somewhere
beneath the dark sequined particles of time
that keep me wondering nervously
what I might’ve said. To you, at least.

Longer days found me writing messy
and far-too-frequent emails. That much
I remember because of the paper trail
that led me to wonder if I might escape
with you to New York and never return.
It was a cold Canadian summer spent scribbling
half-finished sentences in many places:
sweaty subway cars, badly-lit bedrooms
and siren-filled streets. I took you home
once in September, to my bachelor apartment
in that neighbourhood I’d rather forget.
You left in a taxi, I think.
You often leave in taxis, I think.

There was the bathhouse.
There was your birthday.
There was that election.
Sangria, martinis, Thursdays turned Wednesdays
and all of the dirty bathrooms in between.
And after having spent a morning contemplating
these lost but not forgotten moments
there are a few things I’d like to share:
I detest seeing you pinned up against
walls by other women, hate the way
the night ends when they’d like it to,
am angered by your had-a-great time
phone calls and loathe being reminded

Of how electric you are, whatever the occasion.

it's one of the only pieces of him she kept... 9:51 p.m.

a poster of temagami. trees thicker than small houses in a sea of wet leaves. some organic southern city wading through green beads with light pushing through a few insistant cracks. matted and framed with a simple inch of brass on each of its four sides, it has been taller than me for most of my life.

i was hoping you might 6:55 p.m.

she worries about his punctuation
use of question marks escalating
adverbs are so tiresome but he's
got something and it's not news
patience perhaps or that boyish
smile an ability that he developed
with the guidance of a good father
to listen and care softly with a quiet
calm about him biting his lip and
sniffling stubbled chin up and capable
of much more than she suspected
from her solitary corner she wishes
that she’d thought more carefully about
the bag the conversation the outcome
wishes that she had special combinations
of moments and time to offer him
as tokens of her good will but she
doesn’t instead some vague sense
of promise inhabits her stomach sick
with anger and uncertainty visited
by the look of those boyish eyes
and that all-forgiving smile thick with
intricate grey webs of thought and
bright simple blossoms as though in film
bundled, finally, with the brown string satisfaction
that it’s enough, that it’s always been enough…

breaking news: son of (supposed) war criminal looks hot in dark suit 6:38 p.m.

He's looking quite strapping, that "thuggish businessman," son of Slobodan Milosevic. SIDE NOTE: Am I the only one who remembers it being pronounced SLO-bo-dan instead of Slo-BO-dan? Scruffy, tired and a bit sad, I like his tie in today's Globe and Mail. My father says that his father was framed, "it's a complicated situation...American anti-socialist sentiment...no free media, these days..." told me that over grilled calamari (perfer it deep fried) somewhere on the Danforth. Thanks for dinner, Daddy! Still, I'm a bit concerned. Are there ethical issues involved in being attracted to the sons of war criminals? Maybe I shouldn't be so flippant...I definitely shouldn't be so flippant. Apologies. He's a bit old for me, anyway. Not a bad suit, though.

thirteen cents a minute 9:52 p.m.

i think it's fucked that telco companies don't pay any attention to changes in country names, political nuances...it often doesn't affect their margins or bottom lines and i think that says something huge about the world. myanmar might as well be burma, it's still 13 cents a minute. there's no difference unless money knows it.

i wonder if my dad knows abortions are free in this country... 5:48 p.m.

he should and if he does, it means we can't hit him up for money. too bad. it would've been a good scheme.

six degrees says yonge and bloor 11:18 p.m.

it's a mild toronto night, april has its blond head
in the doorway like a child at a dinner party
asks if its time for dessert, i saw a woman show
a little shoulder on the street today and i sense
that the wait won't last much longer, the guests
are getting anxious i've seen more bicycles this
week than i did last and the bay street wind
doesn't seem as hungry makes me wonder
what'll be on the menu for next season aren't you
excited for fruit? the sun on college, proper hangovers
and fifty cent mangoes, st. lawrence market sweat,
bike rides without shirts or shoes, lake ontario...
the forecast looks good, kids. damn good.

how do you think beethoven would feel... 1:51 a.m.

about having his moonlight sonata as some man's cellphone ring? he's a cabby, brown and unable to produce sentences that i can understand. breaks a twenty with quarters, takes queen street when he should be on shuter, slows down at a yellow light. where have all the good drivers gone? the ones that cheat a little, cut off the teenager in the honda, leave the lincoln in the dust. where have all the good cabbies gone? the ones who blow smoke at the red cigarette circle sign on the dash listening to ethiopian classical and laughing because you're drunk. back in the good old days, when dinosaurs ruled the earth (i think it was december) some cabby gave me a cd, cared that i got home okay, waited until i'd unlocked the door...back in the good old days, some cabby let me use his cellphone (i don't think beethoven was involved) to call my have-we-broken-up-yet boyfriend eighteen times while we waited outside his door. cabby turned off the meter and drove me around while i cried, drunk and smoking. took me to casa loma. made me feel like some white trash queen in an orange car with green sides, he was great. tonight the cabby (they're citizens of some secret nation-state) didn't talk, let his cellphone ring the minor notes, gave no smiles, got no tip. where have all the good cabbies gone? and by the way...how would you spell that taxi driver's name?

i've been accused of not updating and here's my reply 12:56 a.m.

the people at the table next door are talking
about a hot cross bun mess of things
sticky sweet red jubejube union bites
electic green tidbits of provinical politics
digress to aboriginals for good measure
let sit and soak in domestic anything

someone said plato! someone said plato!
the men remind me of my father...
every man reminds me of my father
isn't that the case with you, friend?

if they were more attractive, those bakers
at the nearby table, they'd be having a different
conversation and there'd be sex on the horizon
dirty, drunken sex with some young thing
her black thong dangling from the corner
of a guilty chair like a casualty of war
or some teenager from a tough highscool
the smell of cheap perfume and ovulation
spread across the room like cream cheese
on a tim horton's bagel. hungry, boys?

the obese man likes to challenge his stick-man
company, the oily-faced girl stands too close to be
so adverserial in response and tucked away behind
the bar the more symmetrical of the three is attempting
an escape into a different conversation with the
broad-shouldered man next door who likes sports
and is a bit old but smells of old spice and cigars and
she seems to like that

the waitress is writing tuesday on the menu board
it's after midnight and she'd rather be home with her
cat who i'm sure is a black knight in his own right
but monday should be safe until last call if you ask
me, which you didn't and i apologize for offering

good night

------

all a girl needs is a drink, a good pen,
and maybe a cigarette

i have all three and my thesis comes apart
as quickly as it came together
i didn't expect it to last...

i am decided on more adjectives:
thick brown glass domestic bottles broken sharp wet
glistening slippery dangerous wonderfully blurred

and stale