Musings
2/24/25
Creation date. A.M.
At work. Post french vanilla. Thinking about what. Not much. Unfinished conversations. Open-ended feelings. Brief interactions. Travel and credit card points and cleaning my room. Friends. I think it's good to minimize, so what is this for?
2/25/25
P.M.
In bed. Post ice cream. You're thinking about socks and creating space. Transforming spaces. You're thinking about change. You're thinking about all the times you've disagreed with someone and how lovely that can be. about the tip of your tongue and all the secret thoughts that live there. about being excited for a new book in a series when you were still a child. printing off the green slips at the bookstore and stuffing them in your pocket. worrying you were printing too many and someone might tell you off. ink and paper and "how can i help you today?"
2/27/25
P.M.
At work. Post iced latte. Thinking about the great to-do list and what it must feel like to check everything off of it. Eighth grade turning in my science project late and Mr. Wu taking off so many marks for lateness to prepare me for high school. I felt so bad for disappointing him. I remember the great anxiety, the looming over everythingness of it. I remember turning in an art project and losing marks for it being unfinished - I hadn't coloured it in. I explained to the teacher that I preferred it black and white. It didn't get me back the marks but I didn't want him to think I was just a lazy so and so. It was a drawing of the water bottle on my desk, complete with shadow. I was proud of that drawing. I hope I do more things that make myself proud this year. Things that would've made 13 year old me proud too.
3/6/25
P.M.
At work. You wonder how you could ever get bored of anything at all. You walk down your street and do it again three hours later and find it's changed already. You have an hour that feels so, so full, and maybe nothing happens but really everything is happening all of the time. You feel weightless, then heavy, happy and sad at the same time, you're full of rage and joy and longing and you're pulled like the tomcat toward the pie on the windowsill. Then you sit down and for a second something tells you you're bored, but no you're raring to go and have been for the longest time. What's the verb to laugh without asking yourself if it's earned? Act without recourse. It's not an abandon, it's not anything you really know how to talk about or write about or crack wise about, but maybe something you can hold hands and dance about. Why delineate? It's so rare to celebrate we ought to all do it more often with as many people and in as many ways as possible! You want to speak plainly but the plainest thing you can muster is a big goofy smile on your face!
10/19/25
P.M.
At work. Bad weekend but just in feeling. Life is good. Right. Day off. Clean your room. Go to the gym. Drink coffee and nap and watch wrestling. Yeah. Feelings linger and you talk them out once, twice, three times but there's always more in than out. You hope next weekend you feel more on than off. More like driving in a straight line than a zigzag. You zig, god zags. What's your god at the end of the day when you've no jokes left to make or fucks left to give? Still I want to hear back but I don't want to ever front again and nothing is more appealing than the wind that takes away all the small and big things like a good doctor does. Grace offers a seat at her table in the instrument closet which I softly decline and somehow end up at that same table. Yes, I've heard back enough times. You zig, god zags.
10/20/25
A.M.
At work. You talk too much. Say everything you're thinking if you could. Nothing bad to say, just alot. Too much. Drive yourself crazy. Tongue and cowlicks wagging out the window. You've lost another bout so decide to tattoo yourself. You're at the mall with a one-way friend and everybody loves her ink, asks her what the clouds mean. Nothing, I just like the way they look. You'd be the first to be bothered by anything you're so sensitive. Remember sliding into the rain on that right-turn and feeling embarrassed? Be like water. Socks on carpet. Love on monday. I'm all parts of the hm yeah I know.
10/21/25
A.M.
At work. You think you'll get a coffee soon. You were so ready to fall back asleep. To stay in bed all day. So ready to put life on hold and disconnect the phone. Catch it unawares. Now you're highlighting and bookmarking. Copy-pasting and updating. It's called a way to get through the day. Remember having projects. Remember when you said one physical, one academic, one creative. Joined the choir, the law society, the gym. They didn't want you for softball but you showed up and put on your shorts. Years on and you barely engage with your own body. Some quiet that would rather leave things to time. You're on the phone with a dear friend saying - hm yeah I know - and barely that.
10/28/25
A.M.
At work. To the last sips of your iced latte. She called it a masterpiece this morning. Thanks ma. You're alright eh. More than okay. Better than yesterday, hopefully worse than you'll be tomorrow. You're thinking about 1970, thinking about learning Spanish, about long, uninterrupted walks to nowhere. Hot streak. Thinking about the colours of your handkerchief - whatever that's supposed to mean. Cruising? I don't know, never watched it. Oh, you want to read a book? Let's talk about that some more. I confuse interest for intellect. I confuse my yeses and my nos sometimes - the ones in my head. My own non-binary. Big ego with little self-esteem. I feel great but wake up with a dry mouth every day and that's gotta be something (I pray it's not!) It's more fun to think about things sometimes than to do them - although I like to make things happen - I like to serve - some waves crash on the shore, some never make it that far - there's always more in than out.
10/31/25
P.M.
At work. Game six. Tight grip on the webs just holding yourself together. Could you punch through a pumpkin? Chestburster-style. Today someone told you they haven't decided if they want you to die in a ditch. People are wild. People are chaotic. They drive on every road and through the lawns and backyard pools too. People are upset. People are so sensitive, and sensitive about being sensitive, and so wild and so chaotic and so unthinking. Some people chase fireflies until they fall on their face. Some people have nicer faces than others. The others can't afford the landing. Look back like four, five times. Are you the firefly? Game six. You're asking yourself questions you already know the answers too - annoyed at your own inaction as much as you are everyone else's. How many times can you claim curmudgeon before it takes over the best parts of yourself? You need someone you trust (rare) to tell you what those were, if they still are. People say they're over it but they always come back, right? Not me - I'm all parts of the hm yeah I know. All parts of the each and every. One and only. Same same. No one is worth the salt on their breath but maybe if you had your tongue scraped it'd be good for seasoning my appetizer.
11/02/25
P.M.
At work. Water bottle half-full. Today a figment of your imagination became real. About a decade on. LS. She looks just like you remembered her. You almost call out her name then and there. You don't, of course. That would be insane. Or at least too theatrical for this reality. You don't mention it to your deskmate and wonder if you'll mention it to your best friends later. You see Kapanen is playing for the Oilers now and has picked up a habit of driving drunk. You wonder if she keeps tabs and know she doesn't but know she does. Think of all the habits you've kicked and which ones have come back. You must be some kind of addict or a human. You've started to feel a little less intelligent - which is nice in a way. Is this the shrinking of an ego? "I like to humble you", she had said, and melted you down to a puddle. You're still insane sometimes and people are fascinated when you tell them you think you're the smartest person you know (a lie) - which you follow up with "everyone should feel that way about themself" (another lie). Maybe you'll go ask her if she remembers all of it. You probably remember more than she does (probably not).
Later. Still at work. You realize you had been transported back three and one half years. Been shown an alternative - another way to try the same thing, with better results. Pattern recognition. October twenty-second. It moves similar. October twenty-fifth. Hmm. Then it's October twenty-seventh and you finally understand that old line about those who forget history. Yeah I know. Of course this was very different. Why - one person asks you if there's anything to it - you produce an essay, yet fail to provide the promised-response. Maybe there isn't. Time tells you those things. Pattern recognition. Slight adjustments to old formulas. Character assassination is attempted and the message reads "run it back". You pledge fealty to yourself. To re-blade the sharpening board that's grown dull from disuse. There's no reason to hurt anybody in this life. There's no excuse for being lousy.
11/03/25
A.M.
At work. Just shy of four hundred ml left in the water bottle. Ice too. You'd rather be most places than here. You can't wait to drive out Wednesday morning and wonder if you could get away with not coming home. Dour. Moody boys build their own lampposts to brood under when the others are all taken. It's not a sin to save yourself. You still need to maintain your cash and the employment does heavy lifting. You run through eight volumes and find a new mantra. Real quick. To it.
"You want me to open Pandora's box for you?" Why, sure. I have no idea what you mean. Huh. Well now I'm just plain confused. Tell me - what do I do with this information? Not real quick. Not to it. Just I had to let you know. Couldn't you have let me known sooner?
11/08/25
A.M.
At work. No coffee yet. It's nearly noon and your water is long gone. Look at you, superkid. Which friend likes that ice cream? Three stripes. Somewhere between. You want to go salsa dancing. Not your finest-looking shoes but they move the smoothest. There's nothing smooth about you - you're all edges. Bumps and ridges. Folded lines. Ribs covered in flesh. Flesh covered in goosebumps like you're scared of your own restraint. You tie yourself up from the rafters and swing free. You're something like Tarzan or Cesaro the way you hold yourself up by the ankles and ask for forgiveness. You wonder about your cousin Matthew and where he'd fit into the hive mind. The helicopter pilot. California California. Point me in the direction of Albuquerque. Fourth grade you print out the lyrics to some family song and sit at the base of a tall tree practising the words. You spin around and keep walking in whichever direction. You go to the mall and put down your twenty-seven dollars against a bit of sterling silver - A Little Romance (1979, Hill). You find subtlety where others are brusque and remember when things were simpler, when hot dogs stayed warm in thermoses, when you could stand up in the middle of a room and piss from the tabletop and collect Melissa's kiss on her way out the door.
11/09/25
P.M.
At work. Coffee on the way here. Thanks dad. Somewhere between. Real. Thinking about Niagara Falls. Think about being so excited in the car. Thinking about getting sad on the way back. Thinking about writing and bad poetry. Snow and rain and ice and fire and sex and death and Frankenstein. Thinking about setlists. Strum patterns. Walking the plank. Buying a boat you can't afford (if you can finance it you can afford it). Sweet sixteen. Acne on a pretty face and finding that infinite charm in a stranger hoping they'll stay a stranger so it'll go away. Saying "it'll pass" to an almost-friend because you have the same taste in TV and damn she loves it. Playing roles. Rote. Reading, riting, rithmetic. Trite. That prick downstairs thinking he's somehow better than anybody while being somehow worse than himself. Yikes. To be so ignorant. To write such bad poetry. To force smile after smile. To blush for no reason at all and be asked and answer "you know why". "Me", she whispers back. Yes. Hold it in. Look for the signs. Listen to them then. But you're still blushing. A face so red, not with acne, but so smooth you could dip a french fry in it. Take a bite of the honeycrisp and ask yourself what happened to the other four percent.
11/10/25
P.M.
At work. Coffee was an A.M. thing today. Lunch was tuna, yogurt, and a honeycrisp apple. Last night you dreamt about The Cure. You dreamt about the charter challenge and Madeleine and lemurs. You woke up early, anxious, determined. Nobody knows what they don't know until it's pointed out to them. Still then they don't know the thing. You make sure you have her number somewhere. You ask Nick and Jake what happened. Liam's a lawyer now. Nobody responds. Time will tell. You listened to a podcast once where the host dialed every number in their phone. You would almost do that just to see if she'd turned out esquire. You could ask Lauren. Or Mary. Or Abby. Or Shelby. Cult-like behaviour and Jordan is on the edge of it and the inside. In my compound everyone is happy and undetailed. You blew up at your science teacher. He was a pig. I was proud from a distance. What makes you happy? Remember those early conversations? Remember praying before performance? Remember sitting on my knee? Wearing your mom's peacoat in the tunnel? Feeling so grown-up and poor Alexa stuck playing with horses like a good rich girl? I remember homecoming, her drunk in the seven-eleven. I remember Kayla driving, stoned. I remember Gio in the trunk. I remember Mo getting slapped. I remember Kaitlyn taking my picture. I remember Michael sleeping outside the window. Showing us his bush bed of newspaper. ID check at the door. I remember him looking for someone to shack up with for the night. He found someone. I remember Daniel. I remember Vachon. I remember Luke. The other Luke. I remember Vashti and Agatha and Atiya and throwing out my taquitos. Drunk food does little for the sober.
11/11/25
A.M.
At work. Post iced-coffee. Homestyle. You're looking at your calendar. Your grandma's in the hospital. Blood clots? You don't trust your uncles. You don't trust the police or the politicians or most people except one-on-one. People are more honest when they're alone. Or better liars. Bit of column A, etc. Think about Ethan Reckless. Think about brats. Your mind is quieter today. You return to kick punch art. Borrowed motorcycles, tears, ship-pulling. In my golden days I was a saint. I dreamed I was a very clean tramp. You want to take her to a petting zoo. You want to...
11/15/25
A.M.
At work. Post drive caffeine. Water bottle halfway. Fourth floor.
11/17/25
A.M.
At work. No drink yet. Lots to process these last few days. Hospital visits and love and work and coffee and parties. You could start anywhere so you start nowhere at all because you really started twenty six years ago and you're just continuing. You burst into the office - "Where do you keep the power tools?" One of those great times when nobody answers your question but everyone has a different answer anyway so it doesn't matter. You give out a couple fist bumps like golden tickets to the cool kids club and on your way. People are upset about some signs and you start to feel the squeeze but choose not to because (it doesn't matter). You think about something you said yesterday - like a sailor to the lighthouse - something that just came out because it's what you feel and it's true. You dreamt about grand arguments. You dreamt about
Later. Still A.M. Post iced latte now. "Do you have painter's tape?" Again, you ask a question. "No." Wrong answer. You go and find it yourself. People can't be bothered. No one picks up the phone, but they'll send a message asking you to call them back. Is your hate pretend? Are you prone to bouts of... wandering off? Do you confuse chemistry for compatability? Are you a member of the "hm yeah I know"? When was the last time you cried in a car wash? Ate the hashbrown? Broke a sweat? Put it back together? Your car can go anywhere you just need to choose a direction. Remember. Halfway between yesterday and all your tomorrows. You want to rhyme your sentences and speak with a lilt. Click your heels together and never falter, neat, clean footwork. Stuck on the spoke like the hem of your pants. It's bad news for an anxious person, no news at all. Three drill bits on the sideboard. No clean mugs in the cupboard. Conincidence is incentive enough to fill your water bottle and sip slow. Abdul talks to you about the prime minister. He talks about the "big shits" and you wonder what his media diet consists of, the way he's fraught with fragility. Connie walks backwards and waves. You ask her not to bring you any more granola bars. She's family in a way. The lights change colours but you don't register the difference, only acknowledging the existence of a before and an after. You're meant to - no - you've planned to - meaning is like religion, is like an omen or the universe winking at you - you've planned to see a movie tomorrow but you don't really want to. You're tired of sitting still. No. That's not it. You think you just want to talk. Non-descript. Tevin Campbell? Please just tell me stories for a day or two.
It's two thousand eighteen and you're on the rocker cognisant of the cat. The tomato-spackled orange rubber block sways "you been runnin through my section all day" and you're making friends in Philadelphia (stage hands for the Roots), fishers in Montgomery, KaVonna and Dela from Indianapolis. You ask about Gary to Vonna's amazement. You talk Freddie Gibbs. She talks Vancouver. She says "You're too much". People talk divorce. People talk about anything.
11/18/25
A.M.
At work. Post iced coffee. Dreams like fifty short games. Dreams like one night after another. Anthology of the Killer. Some nights move like static. Like an early morning flurry of white white snow when the cable shuts off. It's like finding out Santa Claus isn't real. That drinking isn't cool. That smoking kills. You. Sunday. Monday. More. Everything in the pantry on old wooden shelves he put up forty years ago. Pasta. Wine. Hard candies. The Esso tiger on a fridge magnet. Everything sparkles here. Board games and jigsaw puzzles. Dollhouse complete with asbestos tiling. It's night again and your blanket is too thin. Pants you wouldn't wear out because you already have. Your mind and body tessellate. You send texts in your sleep. Every thought its own corkboard. Install the cameras. Close the circuit. Dream awake. Put a pencil behind your ear because it makes you feel like you're a man.
11/20/25
P.M.
At work. Post iced latte. Tightly wound, pulled back like a summons to traction alopecia. Ready to start. Full clip but no target in sight. Womp womp. The corner of my eye is a nice place to start and I am selfless, giving all the wrong answers. This is called easing. This is called one-way release. This is my instinct: say what you mean. Ignore that. Fuck that. Stack all the chips and leave the table dry. There's no edge here anymore. Just one long sharp corner and any move you make cuts you deeper. Is it better to speak or to die? You're sitting cross-legged on the same mat where your grandparents used to change your diaper, rocking back and forth. All you're missing is the hyperventilation. This bathroom smells like floral soap and steamed towels. You brush your teeth from the floor, crying silently, wondering when exactly that became this. "You pity me?" You give the wrong answer again (her right one). You pity a lot of people. Why should she be any different? Because she just is.
11/22/25
A.M.
At work. Ice water. Your knuckle bleeds where you hit the pillar. It only makes you want to do it again. You're BUSTED! Open! Nothing like Andrew's stories. Nothing like having a tooth knocked out by a camera that slides down your throat. Nothing like remembering the parts you forget over and over. Nothing like being misunderstood. Intentional obfuscation. Fear. You think about Lincoln who doesn't keep a collection and you'll keep one book at a time. You'll fly out west and live in Victoria and go for hikes and long bike rides and swim some weeknights. You'll learn the moonsault without ever being stretched or stressed. You'll worry about your brother and mushroom soup and late-night muffins and brunch and art galleries and thrift stores and other lies. You'll worry like it's all you know how to do in between all the fighting. You're already rich but you'll never be famous and you'll never be anyone else. You'll never tell another lie except to your doctor or your lawyer. You can sin every week and if you say your prayers it doesn't matter. You remember writing about celebration. Dancing. When you're giddy you're golden.
P.M. You've had your latte and your water and your tuna and your flattened out rice krispie square. You're getting texts back from all the wrong people. You're talking Tin Lizzy and Steely Dan in person. Brave face. You're squashing. Pointing out the obvious. Does this make you accusatory? "What makes you think you're good at that?" Tell me that's not insane. No one talks like that. This isn't bell hooks love this is a neural aberration. This is taking off the tape and gouging to re-open a wound. This is an unfailing statement. An Oshima expression. I think you don't know yourself and I think your confidence ought to be shaken off like a harsh comment from an angry little man. Angry little men and women are the most confident but they're the most little too and that's why they're so angry. "I've trained classically, I've trained contemporaneously, and you suck."
11/30/25
P.M.
At work. Post iced latte. You're visiting your grandmother when you get a text. Old man wants to fuck. Interested? Flashbacks of people misbehaving. You're upset but she just wanted to boost your confidence. You've been feeling plenty confident and she doesn't understand that this is what knocks you down a peg and always has. You empty your cupboard at home. The horde is thinning but you won't be anymore. You're looking for some excuse to find some excuse to make some excuse. Well, then. Catch up it's been three weeks. Frankenstein. You might bleed again later. You might feed your dog her medicine. You might sweat it out and sleep at all angles at all hours. You might meet up late and draw names from a hat. You're caught up now but you want to move everything that's in the way. Dirty laundry. Someone's mad at you again or you dreamt it. Are you free December second? You think you're about to be in a very uncomfortable spot and you are but not the one you were expecting. Well, then. The concert was nice and Gunther is back and the C2 is on and Christmas is around some corner. You see a dead body for the first time in years and a hatchback on the highway with a decal that reads 'Maltese Falcon' driven by a hunched-over old man wearing glasses on a string. You're happy just to share the exit if not the turn. Ninteen sixty-seven gets you to the bathroom but it's been here since nineteen forty and the stall door doesn't lock just pulls in real tight. "No one goes for home fries", she says, and you imagine a happier version of this evening. This one's about a seven but the company's grand and you're glad to maintain this friendship with someone who's attentive, understanding, and different enough from yourself.
Later. At work still. A second coffee - cold brew. People talk like always. You've played board games at her house and now she's telling people she doesn't like you and interrupting herself "I've said too much". Funny, we really don't know each other. We both like the same band that tens of millions of people do and that's all I could say about you or that you could say sincerely about me. Someone you haven't spoken to in three years other than the walk-by niceties. Well, then. It's none of my business so kindly keep it to yourself. I guess that comes with friendships with hateships which is fine and you're simple and old and an oversharer with a broken ankle, if I'm being unkind. I reject the suggestion in my phone for the first time in forever. She looks different in glasses. You smell different when you're happy to be alive. I might bathe tonight. I might throw something as high as I can. I might trail-run and cut myself out of pictures. "Do you believe in ghosts, god, love?"
12/1/25
P.M.
At work. You've had two coffees, an egg wrap, some tuna, a protein bar. You had some Bill Fay for lunch and that faded around track six. You have googly eyes like the first time you wavered. Never keep your rule for long. Posters. Powerpoints. Promo videos. Not mean, but a little judgmental and you've got to be careful with that. Eighty percent good, JJ says. You catch a rare apology and wave it off (is this protocol?) You find that same inconsistency, still upsetting, still so slight in its movements - almost imperceptible. Broken hearts bounce back but the release is in the eye. Everything askew. Around a campfire your date's mother picks a fight with you over a Led Zeppelin song. Was she drunk or maybe just sad? Fuck Starkweather. Fuck Badlands. Christian Patterson. Redheaded fuck. An ad catches and you laugh - "good caulk is hard to find". So are most things. Good things won't let you wait and neither will I. I'm moving forward and you set me back a thousand times because release is in the eye and I'm a slow horse.
12/3/25
P.M.
At work. Lots to drink today. Two coffees, some juice, a can of pop. Needs some water. Lost your place. Come back. You know what it costs to take the uterus out of a German shepherd? Four thousand dollars. In your dream Highway Dragnet is on the shelf right next to all the Borzage you can imagine. French and Dutch and a deal to be had. Filling boxes like 2Q, like high kicks, like "I'm sorry" obscenitized. Here you can get away with nothing - the stress is the same and you just miss her all the time. There's a stuck zipper here and everything is coming out, to a point. Tell it to your last friend. Tell it to your first follower. Take it cold, go sleeveless. Go shirtless. Go home.