And You Didn't Ask Why

You wake with your face sticky with sweat and you shiver in the chill of the morning. You roll yourself out of bed and you pull on a sweater and you pull the hood over your forehead. And you stumble down the hall to the kitchen to make yourself breakfast. And your feet on the cold kitchen tile make you shiver in the chill of the morning. The blue light of the morning crawls through the window which faces an alley off a street you've never been to. Right behind your own home there are places you've never been to. And the building on the other side casts shadows all day long. There are squirrels eating through the plastic garbage bags on your balcony and there is a cat in the kitchen with his face pressed to the window and you eat instant oatmeal in the middle of the kitchen watching it all. And you shiver. And you shiver. And you shiver. And you know no profound things.

This Is The Story of a Girl

This is the story of Emily Choo who went to buy a bottle of wine at the grocery store on a Sunday evening and never returned. She disappeared into a vortex combination of insanity and patheticism. She didn't even care that patheticism is not a word. It all started when she saw the family sized pack of oreos on sale for $2.99. "Sweet deal!" she said and grabbed a box. Then she continued to the wine section, where she was disappointed by the lack of $6.99 bottles of white wine. Thinking she might have to pick red, her eye was suddenly caught by $7.39 boxed wine. Feeling as pleased as one can feel when buying a giant pack of oreos and boxed wine, she proceeded to the checkout counter where she promptly burst into flames and disappeared into said vortex of shame and madness and patheticism.

Inside the vortex Emily had a hard look at her life. She went to Concordia, not McGill; she studied Creative Writing, not "Business"; and she was drinking wine from a box (did it even matter that she couldn't find a glass at this point?). "I can name all the countries in the world!" She said, hanging on to this one useless skill as a shining point of her life. "I can name all the countries in the world and all the state capitals and the capitals of countries in Europe and South America," said her friend Rachel. "Fuck," said Emily, and overdosed on oreos. "Is it because I listened to dubstep?" she asked. "Because I swear to you, I don't even really know what dubstep is."

Then, seemingly from all around, a voice spoke:

"hi i'm oscar i'm your cat you went to the grocery store in your pyjamas that's just sad, and i have literally been asleep all day."

"Oscar! Kitty! I feed you! Help me!" Emily cried out. "Where are you?"

"hi i am on your bed getting hair all over your pillow. first of all, turn off that shitty music and put a bra on. second of all, get yourself a wine glass, girl. thirdly, write your goddamn midterm and don't forget to take out the garbage tonight ok."

And like a phoenix born out of its own ashes, Emily was thrown out of the vortex into her apartment where she could confirm that Oscar indeed was getting hair all over her pillow.

"hi no fucks to give," he said.

it was a beautiful shitty place

names changed for privacy.

i used to live in a shitty apartment in the plateau, surrounded by nicer looking triplexes. the landlord was a busy jewish man with a black suv who banged vigorously on our door for rent every month. i found my roommates on craigslist. i think originally it was supposed to be a one-bedroom apartment but was then turned into a three-bedroom to fit more people. greg's room used to be a closet i think. my room was bigger than his but also small. it could fit a single bed in one direction only. i painted my room green and it was kind of ugly and i left it there when i moved out. nobody ever used the living room. we didn't even have a table until greg bought a tiny tv tray which tilted slightly on the uneven floor. kevin's friend who used to live there before i did still had a pile of stuff in the living room. he never picked it up in all the 8 months that i lived there. it included a tv, a basketball, a book about mao zedong, and a bright blue bra which appeared out of nowhere one day.

one time, i listened to post-war by m. ward a lot and it was beautiful and things hurt but a good kind of hurt, you know? i remember lying in my blue sheets in my green room trying to figure out what 'home' meant.

The Easy Forgetting

"You never could have imagined

back then with the waves crashing

what the body could erase."

- Stephen Dunn "The Vanishings"

I stumbled out of a bar to a street I know too well. My shoes fell in dirt, a block of concrete removed to make room for a tree. I leaned against the tree, my head falling back in laughter. I'm so inebriated that I cannot see three feet in front of me. I want a cigarette to warm the tips of my fingers and in my circle of friends we create clouds that roll up to the sky and disappear. I hope she kisses me tonight.

We hang on to each other for support, because it's so funny I can't stand. I could swear we are moving in slow motion. Each laugh is like a howl, our heads thrown back calling to the moon. The ground doesn't hurt, nor do scrapes on my knee, ripped jeans. Stephen Dunn said too much doesn't hurt anymore.

She kisses me on the cheek, like I once saw her do in a picture with someone else. My stomach aches.

Our foreheads are pressed together. My hair sticks to my forehead. My mouth... The air is warmer between us. I have wanted this for so long.

I can see the freckles on her nose. I can see the flecks of green in her eyes. I can see each individual eyelash, closely stuck together, and the delicate skin on her eyelid when she blinks in slow motion. I smile into her mouth.

I can feel her sigh escape into the night.

Each breath is hot and I can see our breath hovering in the cold air. I kiss the edges of her smile and behind us the chaos of kids laughing and falling becomes haze and muffled noise. For one night I am in love and it ends too soon. She escapes into the night.

One day it will vanish, he said, how you felt when you were overwhelmed by her. Hurt, he said, how could you have forgotten? hurts.

There Was No Snake Oil Cure For Unlucky In Love

I was obviously drunk when I told you I loved you. You were wearing a white shirt, I thought the fabric smelled good. I leaned in towards your ear because the outside noise was loud, and I said "I like your shirt". I kissed you sloppily on the cheek. You blushed, were silent, but received my kiss with grace. Encouraged, I kissed you on the cheek, more carefully, more lightly this time. I said, "I meant to say 'I love you'".

You gripped my hand tightly and pulled me out of my seat. I stumbled and blushed, secretly pleased, my palm pulsing "yes yes yes". We stepped out into the rain and ran the sidewalks like it was summer. The wind hugged us closer. You invited me to my home. We exchanged our wet clothes for drier skin. When I closed my eyes the world spun counter-clockwise.

We staved off loneliness all night. The back of my head beat pulsating rhythms pound pound and a little bit suffocating. On your collarbone I could smell your white shirt. Or perhaps on your white shirt I could smell your collarbone. I hugged you close like the wind, I felt you move through my body.

In the morning your heart was a smaller size. You said, "my feet still hurt from my new shoes."

I said, "I will carry you.

"I know how the world is cold sometimes".

the weatherman's a liar

the evening i spent,

watching tv and watering plants,

writing stories,

washing windows.

it seemed silly to spend a gray day at the beach.

we did it anyway.

kites,

coloured,

blown up balls.

sand between my teeth:

gritty, and wet.

the forecast called for rain.

it never rained.

just the heavy promise,

clouds, thick, threatening,

never following through.

home, or

somewhere.

a bed under a roof.

does it matter where,

even if it feels a little

empty

the absence of rain on the roof:

silence.

++

remember when,

in the lamplight,

our skin touched.

in my room,

nothing illuminated

but your back...

and i keep thinking

if you were here

i'd pull you into me.

and sometimes i just hate

my computer lying next to me.

it is very hard to find a job

if you never leave your house.

my hair is really soft,

does anyone care about that.

when is someone going to pay me

to write a fucking poem.

Explosions in the Sky - Your Hand in Mine

she made stars out of her hands. i mean, she cut paper into little pieces and used her fingers to bend the paper into star shapes. i thought if i threw them at the sky they would float up there all on their own, but i wanted to keep them for myself. i know it's selfish, but given the chance, wouldn't anyone want to hold a piece of the sky in their hand? maybe the stars in the sky are really burning balls of paper, shared by people less selfish than me. maybe i just wanted to hold a piece of her in my hand.

paper star girl used to walk down the street a lot in the summer. she had jean shorts and converse (who doesn't?) and she jingled when she moved: it was bangles on her wrists and keys in her pocket (house keys, car keys, keys to closets, hearts, hidden places) and noises in her chest. she met people on the street and she liked to talk to them. she talked to the man with dreadlocks and a white t-shirt. she talked to the girl sitting behind a table selling hand made bracelets. paper star girl did not buy a bracelet but she gave the girl a cookie from her lunch (she had leftover pasta for lunch and two cookies). she talked to a boy with sandy brown hair and a pretty smile and he was nice to her. he had a blue t-shirt and she gave him a paper star.

all at once paper star girl gave everything away, yet maintained an air of mystery. it seemed to everyone who met her that there was something even better behind her smile, if only they could get to it. but they couldn't.

she turned dresses into skirts and she stitched holes together. i wanted to crawl into her bed, into pink and colours, and swamps and swallowed by blankets like oceans and silly putty. she was smarter than me, already i could tell by the way she moved her wrists and shoulders, the way she bounced on all the edges of her feet. i could tell by the way the ink came out of her pen when she carved letters onto paper: "i just want to reach over..."

the books i read made it sound easy, but my hands seemed to weigh more than all those pages i'd ever read put together. i couldn't lift a needle.

at night paper star girl spoke alone in her room.

i wanted paper star girl to make me stars out of paper. i wanted paper star girl to take care of me. i wanted paper star girl to stitch me together. i wanted paper star girl to wrap me up inside of her. i wanted to cry on paper star girl. was i afraid my tears would ruin paper star girl? see, did paper star girl make paper stars or was paper star girl herself a star made out of paper? and what if i ripped paper star girl, or if i cried and my tears touched her and she didn't rip but merely came apart in a mushy lump like kleenex under water?

i was paper and we set ourselves on fire and burned up on the way to the atmosphere, and fell right down again, and lay there in the gutter, ashy, burned up stars; me with my heavy hands, and the real paper star girl, with the jingles from her bracelets and keys and noises in her heart, with a love for people and cookies and making things with her hands. she had a knack for turning lives around.

"your shoes are always the same, and don't travel very far."

for sale: baby shoes, never worn.

- ernest hemingway

mother, forgive me, i sold your car for the shoes that i gave you.

- iron & wine

++

this is the first page of a book. right here. this line.

this is where i usually write words about things. this spot right here.

this is where i connect the title to the content. this is where you say "oooh."

in this case, shoes.

shoes. this is where i put a picture of shoes.

this is the space where the picture of shoes goes.

this is where i make some point about something. this is where you re-read the sentence.

this is where i write things not about shoes. but it's still kind of about shoes.

this is where it stops making sense. this is where you wish there were more pictures.

this is where i try to make it make sense again. this is where it doesn't.

shoes. this is where you imagine shoes in your mind.

this is the time where you look away from the screen to think about

shoes.

this is where you come back. it starts to make sense again.

this is where i wrap up my point. this is where you wonder if you should buy new shoes.

this is where i finish. almost there.

this is the end. right after this period.

this is where you scroll up to look at the picture of

shoes.

and now you are back. even though this post is finished.

you are still reading this. this is where you remind yourself of my final point.

you are wondering what it means. the author wishes to tell you that it means nothing.

you think it probably has something to do with shoes. you are right.

shoes.

Jaime Alexander Was a Painter

Jaime Alexander was a painter. She painted a lot of things. She painted people and animals. She painted things from her imagination. She did not paint things that were not real. Jaime sent her paintings to museums but the museums sent them back. Jaime set up an exhibit to auction off her paintings. Jaime sold one painting. Jaime's mom bought one painting. Jaime's mom said Jaime was a good painter.

Jaime was not making money from painting. Jaime had to get a job. Jaime applied for a job at an organic grocery store. She got the job. She had to wear a green apron. Jaime worked at the cash register.

One day when Jaime was walking back to her apartment from the organic grocery store she saw a little boy eating ice cream on a cone. The little boy stopped to lick his ice cream and then ran after his mother. The little boy dropped the ice cream on his shirt. He sat on the pavement and wept. Jaime watched him from across the street. The little boy's mother sighed and started wiping his shirt with a napkin. The little boy cried and cried.

Jaime went home and started to draw. She drew the little boy sitting in the street. His little hand held half an ice cream cone. The other half lay broken in the street. There was a big ice cream stain on his chest. Some of the ice cream was melting in the sun. The little boy's eyes were scrunched up. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

Jaime began to paint the drawing. She made the ice cream pink. She made the little boy's shirt red and black stripes. She made his hair blond. The little boy was wearing overalls. The mother was not in Jaime's painting. The little boy's mouth was open. Jaime imagined his little voice wailing. She imagined this was the worst day of the little boy's life.

Jaime finished her painting. It had taken her 7 days. Jaime was invited to exhibit her art at a studio with 4 other artists. Jaime only showed one painting. It was the painting of the little boy.

Oprah came to the art exhibit. Oprah bought Jaime's painting for $5 million. Jaime quit her job at the organic grocery store.

If Clouds Were Stones We Would Toss Them Through Windows in the Sky

I hadn't really thought about her in a while. If I did it was only in a passing, unintentional. It wasn't that I didn't care, it was just that there was nothing new to think about and the old thoughts were so worn thin that they disappeared. I felt good about that. It had run its course and it was over and done and I was fine. I was here or there and she was somewhere and that was fine.

But for one second, one night, I thought about calling. I said it out loud. "No," my friend said, "no way." So I didn't, and it was fine. I forgot about that moment, recalling it only late in the afternoon the next day. There were other things to think about. There was water boiling and pages to look at.

I met some friends the next day. I thought about the way they interacted, felt like a spectator in some twisted play and let myself be paralyzed in my chair. 'Cause they laughed with ease, see, and my head felt like a stone, so I didn't laugh lest my jacket crinkle, make noise and disturb them. I guess I wasn't part of that situation. I wondered if I had even been invited at all.

I went home and slept until 1:30. I ate a piece of toast. I went back to sleep.

When I woke up I thought about another girl, with blond hair. I imagined that I had an apartment with two bedrooms and a fireplace. Can apartments have fireplaces? I went on my laptop with the intention of emailing a friend a story detailing my feelings about being a spectator but I never got around to it. I send too many emails about things like that anyway. It felt like it had happened a long time ago and was therefore irrelevant.

The next week my friend came back from vacation and threw a house party. There were a lot of people there. I drank beer and walked around with a cement head. A group of people wanted to smoke up in the back but my friend said no. They did it anyway and she didn't find out. I watched them from the kitchen. I talked a lot of nonsense to everyone that night. I found myself sitting on the couch with a friend of a friend who talked about this really great movie he saw the other day. I told him somebody should make a movie of the book The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway because they wouldn't have to write a script because everything is right there. He told me he'd never read that book and my hands turned to marble. I should find somebody who's read that book, I thought.

She was at that party. I told her about my idea for The Sun Also Rises as a movie. She smiled and agreed and said she'd never read that book. I tried to float through the crowd but my legs were tied to the wooden floors.

When I got home instead of sleeping I wrote made up stories. I realized how easy it was and wrote a lot of words about imaginary events. I wondered what kind of person that made me. I remembered this guy I had met in a bar once. I had told him I was studying English Lit. He told me he was in Commerce. He said that meant that he was logical and that my head was in the clouds. My head wasn't in the clouds, it was a tree in the ground. I decided I would publish my words in a collection of stories and poems called If Clouds Were Stones: A Collection of Short Stories and Poems, but when I woke up the next morning I had forgotten all about it.

I went to the mall and sat still like a copper statue. People made wishes and threw pennies into the fountain. She made a wish, tossed my copper thoughts to the bottom of the pool.

Pretty Books About Nothing

"No man is an island; entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away to sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

- John Donne, Meditation XVII

Instead of making us all read the same book, my grade 11 teacher let us pick our own books for our assignment. I had already been reading For Whom the Bell Tolls so I figured I might as well continue. I had picked it up off his bookshelf because of the title; it was part of a quote my mom had written down once. I'd heard of Ernest Hemingway before but never knew much about him, so I didn't know what to expect. It didn't (read: doesn't) help that I know nothing about the Spanish civil war and so most of the historical aspects were lost on me.

For Whom The Bell Tolls was unlike any book I had ever read before. I wasn't sure if there was a point to the story. The dialogue that was realistic but most authors would have edited it out. It was like Hemingway wasn't creating a story, it was like he was there writing everything that happened. That style was new to me.

I wasn't sure I liked the book. It seemed to go against everything I had learned about editing. The night before my assignment was due I stayed up late and wrote my first stream of consciousness. It was about death, inspired by the title of a piece of art called "The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living". My teacher gave me 100%. It was a piece of crap.

I thought it was over, after that. I hadn't disliked the book, but I hadn't loved it either. I wasn't rushing to start reading Hemingway's other stuff. But it stuck with me somehow. I thought about it for 3 years, sporadically. Every once in a while I would think about the John Donne quote, the one featured in For Whom the Bell Tolls. Then, this school year, in my literature and culture class we read 100 Years of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez). Not that the books are similar in any way, but there's a character in 100 Years named Pilar, which happens to be the name of one of the main characters in For Whom the Bell Tolls. It was just a minor coincidence, but it made me want to give Hemingway another chance. So, for my birthday, I asked for an Ernest Hemingway book. They got me two: The Sun Also Rises, and A Farewell to Arms.

The Sun Also Rises
About 1/3 of the way through this book I began to worry that it was about something and I was missing the point. It probably is about something and I am missing the point. There are a lot of things that happen and I don't think they mean anything but it's nice to read about Paris and Spain. At one point the narrator, Jake, blatantly states "that had nothing to do with the story". It's funny because it seems like nothing has anything to do with the story.

I like The Sun Also Rises because it's a very pretty story. First of all, it seems like nobody ever works. Instead they drink and have sex and go on vacation to Spain where there's a giant fiesta happening. Secondly, Lady Brett Ashley and Jake Barnes are two really awesome characters. I believe that's all you need to make a good story. I want someone to make this book into a movie because it would just be perfect. Imdb says someone did make a movie in 1957 and it looks terrible, I think someone should remake it starring Charlize Theron and Matt Damon.

"Oh, Jake," Brett said, "we could have had such a damned good time together."

"Yes," I said. "Isn't it pretty to think so?"

Anyways, I haven't read A Farewell to Arms yet. Probs gonna read it on the train to New York. I did read another book though, it was also about nothing. But it was more about nothing than The Sun Also Rises.

Shoplifting From American Apparel by Tao Lin

Like The Sun Also Rises, I wasn't sure if this book was about nothing. So I asked Riese because she's smart.

Me: You read 'Shoplifting From American Apparel" right? It's not about anything is it?

Riese: No, it's not about anything at all.

It made me want to write a book because I write things that have no point too. There isn't even a moral to Shoplifting From American Apparel. Maybe the moral is if you do two days of community service they'll erase your record after 6 months so you should always do two days of community service.

Here is an excerpt from Shoplifting From American Apparel:

A few days later Sam met Kaitlyn in Williamsburg to go to the annual work party for the organic vegan restaurant where he worked. Kaitlyn had a "Synergy" brand kombucha in her jacket pocket. She said she dropped it earlier and it made a very loud noise and people looked at her. "Drop it now," said Sam. "No," said Kaitlyn. Sam tried to take the kombucha and it went further into Kaitlyn's jacket pocket. "I can't get it, why is it sliding away," said Sam. "Stop trying to grab my kombucha," said Kaitlyn laughing. A few minutes later Sam gained control of Kaitlyn's kombucha and dropped it and it made a very loud noise.

Brb, have to go write a book.

P.S. Read both these novels.

fiction about women

I wrote this in August. I mentioned it once here and once here. I've been scared to publish it because I think it's good but I'm worried that it's not. This story doesn't apply to me anymore. It might have been true at one point, but now it's taken its place in fiction. Anyways, here we go. Deep breath.

"It's the daydreaming that does it. I'm doing the usual thing -- imagining in tiny detail the entire course of the relationship, from first kiss, to bed, to moving in together, to getting married (in the past I have even organized the track listing of the party tapes), to how pretty she'll look when she's pregnant, to names of children -- until suddenly I realize that there's nothing left to actually, like, happen. I've done it all, lived through the whole relationship in my head. I've watched the film in fast forward; I know the whole plot, the ending, all the good bit."

- Nick Hornby "High Fidelity"

++

all i know how to write about are the women i’ve loved. there’ve been a lot. every woman i’ve ever seen i’ve fallen in love with. the ones i’ve met for 5 minutes or less or more, but not much more. There’s the woman i met for a day and then i loved her for a month. there’s the woman who came up behind me on the escalator, then i wrote an entire love poem where every other word was ‘love’ prefaced with ‘i’ and ending with everything you do. these women break my heart. they destroy me. it’s only the ones i’ve missed that tear me apart like this. you know, the missed opportunities. all i can do is write some kind of fiction about women, all the women i’ve loved inside my head.

what i really mean is there’s one woman i want to talk about right now. that’s it, right? it’s never women in general, not for anyone. there’s always someone specific in mind. well, there is here, for me.

it would make sense to start the story from when we met. that would be logical. but the real story starts when i was born, because this is my story and that’s when i begin. so i guess meeting people and women comes in somewhere in the middle. or ‘late start’ since the story’s not over. there’s no real start to anything actually. i mean this whole life is like a circle or something anyways. there’s no starting point. the important part is this: there’s this woman, and then there’s me.

if i knew how to explain it, i would. but i don’t, so i can’t. i’m making it up as i go along. i don’t know what i’m talking about, but no one really does. if they tell you they do they’re lying and the world is full of liars and believers, and you need one liar and one believer and that’s how you get the truth. are you listening to me right now? are you believing this? what did i just tell you? pay attention. this is about love which doesn’t exist except inside your head.

so this is some kind of story about something. this is my story within a story. it’s about a woman or women or love. (it’s about the love i created inside my head).

let’s make a list. the list is called “things about you” but it’s not about you, it’s about this woman i’ve been talking about, you know? the woman in the story. see if you can figure it out. i know it’s a boring name for a list but it’s late and i don’t think the name is very important right now. i mean, it doesn’t matter. the list is still the same.

things about you: a list
blonde
crooked thumbs
distorted
low
round eyes
small teeth

i could be describing anyone right now. if you know who i’m talking about maybe it’s obvious and you are probably thinking i’m crazy right now, you’re making a mental note, suddenly you think differently of me. that’s fine. i’m fine with that. either i’m in love with everybody or i’m in love with nobody.

so i’ve written stories in my head. stories about this one woman, this blonde with crooked thumbs, a distorted sense of perception, low low sweet n’ low, round eyes and small teeth; one of them is about how we fight all the time. this is the beginning of the story, i guess, if there was a beginning. the beginning is in the middle because we’re already fighting and i’m making it up.

it’s the middle of winter. i think winter is perfect for breathing close to someone when you’re outside and hiding your hands somewhere. see, this woman, i shout at her in the snow but she never shouts back and that’s very frustrating. and i tell her that. i tell her she’s a robot and she has no feelings. she tells me i have too many feelings. i just shout a lot. it’s okay to shout in the winter because the world gets bigger when it snows. all i need is one believer now to turn my lies into truths.

in this shouting scene she’s wearing a hat and i’m not. but i have a scarf on. we’re on the sidewalk near a main street across from my school but there’s no one around because it’s winter. the world is bigger so there’s more places to hide and that’s where the other people are. or maybe someone is walking by but they just keep going. i don’t know because i’m too busy shouting. she’s not answering me, really. you know why? because this is a one sided conversation because it’s not real because it’s happening in my head because i live there. and i can’t think for someone else. not even for this woman that i love but don’t know at all. we just go to a hotel and drink wine. red for her, white for me. i know that much.

on the way there it starts to snow. i can tell we’re not really mad at each other, we’re just mad at each other. there are red patches on her cheeks but it’s from the cold not because she was shouting. that was me. that’s why my face is red. i’m not wondering if she’s going to hold my hand. it’s like we’re pretending we’re not going to the same place. i know she is just waiting for me to apologize.

either everything is true or nothing is. how much of this are you believing?

inside the layers of clothing come off. i never really thought about it but i guess i’m wearing a jacket and a sweater and a shirt and probably an undershirt because it’s really cold. (i want to say more about the cold and this woman but i can’t because that would give it away. i’m only giving some things away, not little truths, just little lies. stuff that makes up a story, you know? it doesn’t matter because i’ve already classified this as fiction, turned this into something that exists on the fringes of life, the edges of my mind. and maybe it’s based on a real person (blonde with crooked thumbs, a distorted sense of perception, low low sweet n’ low, round eyes and small teeth) or maybe it’s not. whatever you want to believe, i guess. whatever you choose to think about me. who am i trying to convince?)

we undress each other and make peace – i mean love – and then i take a shower and we order chinese food. we eat chinese food in the boxes and drink cheap wine and time sort of fast forwards. i can just skip this part. let’s just say that we’re both quiet and she’s been quiet since she got here, since i shouted at her in the snow, and i know she’s going to say something soon. i can’t say what because i don’t know her very well even though i’ve known her for a year. it’s amazing what you can talk about when you don’t talk about anything. we lie in bed and hold each other and watch the news but i’m not really watching, i’m just looking. i’m looking at her and thinking and knowing that we’re probably going to fight again soon, except it’s just going to be me by myself. i’m always shouting at the wall and she’s always calm and quiet until she gets her word in and that’s it, i’m defeated.

we walk around in the fresh snow again outside the hotel. i’m wearing these shitty converse with holes in them and my feet are freezing already. this is based on real life, this is actually a fact. the one truth i’ve told is about my holey shoes. i guess it’s better than nothing. i already said this was fiction didn’t i? it’s all about love which only exists in my head, and barely

there

at

all.

i’m making tracks in the ground, walking in a circle around this woman. she’s talking now, about worldly things. i touch her here and there, kiss her here and there. if we are puzzle pieces we don’t really fit together, but at least we’re in the right box, part of the same picture. we never tell each other lies because we don’t need to, instead we just say things and i don’t know if that’s worse.

i imagine our friends talking about us, saying we’re crazy for each other. they say that i’m crazy and i show it and she’s crazy but she won’t admit it and that’s why i’m always shouting. that’s why she’s never shouting. they say that we’re two extremes and i’m not talking about ‘opposites attracting’ because we have a lot in common (we also have nothing in common but that matters less), but we work because we need each other. it works on this paper because i wrote it, i made it, i’m the writer who turned fiction into fact. fiction into truth. this works if you believe me.

the truth (or...?) is that i can’t not be in love with anybody. right? either i’m in love with everybody or i’m in love with nobody and the latter can’t be true, it just can’t. i’m in love with every woman i know and i’m writing the same story over and over again. i’m rewriting my life over and over again.

we’re rolling in the snow and my jeans are wet. the snow is a good kind of cold, you know, that kind that you can hold in your hand and you won’t get shivers. i’m chasing her and shouting and i’m cold and hot and happy and warm. we lie in the snow. she’s wearing her hat, i’m wearing my scarf. some snow goes down my neck and i shake and giggle. the rest of the world is hiding, somewhere in the white spaces where we haven’t walked yet. i’m not wondering if she’s going to hold my hand, i know she’s just waiting for me to kiss her and i do. we lie on our backs and watch and feel the snow cover our faces and bodies and they’re just like white falling stars. tomorrow our tracks will be gone, replaced with something clean, a fresh new hope.

we go inside and make love – i mean peace – i mean tea – and we sleep and dream of space and snow and each other. and it’s warm inside these blankets and her body’s warm and the tv’s still on. i can hear it subconsciously. in the middle of the night i wake up and turn it off. i kiss her shoulder and bury deeper into her heart and into the sheets and it’s still snowing outside but not in our bed.

so here’s what i’ve learned: either everything is perfect or nothing is. and the answer is both at the same time because they’re the same thing, you know? everything is perfect, and nothing is. so she’s either everyone you know, or no one at all. believe what you will.