An acquaintance of mine recently posted this on her wall:
“MFA thesis defended!”
These are the comments that followed:
***************
Congratulations!
Way to go, Sloan!!
You did it, you’re the best!!xoxo
Awesome. Just awesome.
It must feel great to accomplish something so useful!
Congratudonlences!
That’s great, hopefully the debt won’t be too crippling!
You’re going to be a poet, I hope! A nation really can’t have too many of them!
That’s eight years spent in academia that you can be damn proud of!
So. Fucking. Brave.
Very sorry to hear this. WHAT NOW???? At least your mother died believing that you’d never finish that degree!
Thank God somebody is finally going to give some attention to Gender Dichotomies in the Kitchen: Feminine and Masculine Qualities of Spaces and Artifacts as exhibited in Queer literature of the 1990’s! It’s been a long time coming! You rawk, Sloan!
Idiot.
Hopefully after all those years you committed to that institution, you have a good relationship with them and they might offer you a job as a diversity officer or something!
Sloan, you have just taken your Blog to the next level!
So, so, so sorry to hear this. Big hugz!!
My ex works at the Starbucks on College and University, and I am sure he can get you a job there while you write your novel. Private message me.
Fantastic news! You must be super proud! See you at the Slam Poetry workshop on Sunday!
First of all, before I write my message, I want to thank Mother Earth for all the resources that she allows us to use, and honour all First Nation, Métis and Inuit people whose land we settlers now stand upon. We ask your forgiveness. YOU ARE THE BEST, SLOAN, YOU MUST BE SO PROUD!!
Have you told your psychiatrist yet?
]]>
He’s receded from public life and many have been wondering what he’s been doing. As it turns out, one of the things he’s been doing is applying to attend an Icelandic Writer’s Retreat in April. The application required that you write a short story or essay based on the following photograph of the Harpa Concert Hall and Conference Center:
This is Doug Ford’s entry:
Sometimes a guy can go to a pretty black place. That can happen after you lose an election. When your whole life has been about winning, and winning hard, losing feels like a sucker punch to the gut. Not even football or pornography or yelling at people can fill the hole. Sometimes a guy has to go to therapy.
Therapy is for the weak, and Ron Ice, a very successful businessman and philanthropist, was not a weak man. He was a powerful man, a man who was a shot put champion at his high school.
Girls used to gather around to watch him throw the shot put. Ron was like a Nordic god and he did very well with the ladies, thank you very much. Those were good times for Ron, but now, with all the critics and small people yammering away at him after the election, all the people who don’t understand how to run a business, he realized he needed to clear his head, even if it was the weak thing to do.
Ron looked deep into his soul and realized that he wanted to broaden his horizons.
Iceland.
Iceland was the territory that Ron always started in when he was playing Risk.
It had access to markets in both the east and west, had plenty of challenging terrain to hide in and there was little pollution. Ron would move to Iceland and start his empire there!
People loved Doug Ford in Iceland. He stood a good six inches taller than the rest of the population, and as he still looked like a Nordic god, people began to worship him, “Look!” the villagers would cry, “The prophecy is true and the Ice King now walks amongst us! Ron Ice took the country by goddamn storm.
One day ISIS terrorists took over the Harpa Concert Hall and Conference Center where they planned to burn Christians in cages. Ron Ice would have none of that. Ron drove down there in his jeep, got out and just walked into the place. People were in awe of what big balls he had. When the terrorists saw him they all started yelling and getting excited in that language of theirs. They waved machine guns around, but Ron was as cool as ice.
He just stared at them, a penetrating hate stare, and then he began to yell, his mighty eyes bulging, and when he did they all put down their weapons like subservient kittens and were arrested.
Ron Ice walked out of there, got back in his jeep and drove up to the misty green hills of Norðurland vestra, where he had some property and a condo, and from where he would soon launch his internationally successful printing business Ice King Labels and Tags.
]]>
And trailing behind us were two women, one young, the other middle-aged. They were in conversation and occasionally, when the dog idled, some of their words would come into focus.
“It was like everything I thought was real wasn’t, and I was sure I was crazy.”
“Well, they said I would have remained hospitalized but for that one thing.”
“I will never forget the look on his face when I opened the door and saw what was happening.”
“I can’t’ describe to you how sad I’ve been.”
The older woman, attentive and silent, was a witness. She was looking right into the still shocked eyes of her companion, determined to walk with her and listen for as long as it took– the movement bringing the story to the surface and freeing it, if only for a moment.
Further along a little boy held a pile of leaves and twigs in his hands, declaring to his father– who sat on a bench in front of a coffee shop– ” Making a nest is hard!” The father became a necessary expert, “Yes, it is, but birds are very good at it!” His wife, beautifully sunlit and scarved, rolled her eyes and smiled, “Your father’s nickname in college was The Birdman, did you know that, Alistair? He was famous for his nests!”
A middle-aged, maximally bearded man wearing a sweatshirt with something accidental on it, jogged along. He had an easy gait and appeared naturally athletic, but as he loped closer to us and then past, I could see that his smile was wild and uncontrollable and he was muttering to himself. His clothes filthy, he clutched a beaten five dollar bill in his long, thin fingers, and ran straight to the liquor store.
On our way home the dog bounced through the leaves, and an elderly woman in a wheelchair, still wearing a poppy on her blazers, smiled at us, “She looks so happy!” she said. I shouted back that it was a beautiful day, and the woman nodded crisply, “I will grant you that,” she said, before gearing her chair forward and buzzing across the street.
* (Photo of leaves courtesy of Debra Lary)
]]>
THE SITUATION
I was really looking forward to having sushi for lunch. I walked all the way to Sushi on Bloor and then back home, and when I put MY LUNCH down on the coffee table and went ( FOR JUST ONE MINUTE) to get some water, the dog ate every last bit of sushi that there was.
YOUR MOODS (rate each mood 0-100%)
Enraged 180%
Depressed 90%
Humiliated 60%
THOUGHTS (highlight the HOT thought)
I will regret killing the dog.
Rachelle will be inconsolable if I kill the dog.
HOT THOUGHT—SHOULD I STILL KILL THE DOG?
Can you go to jail for killing a dog?
Will I have a heart attack if I attack the dog?
Why does the dog hate me?
What does it feel like to be an Alpha?
Why is the world against me?
THE SITUATION
Rachelle and I were watching Game of Thrones and Ygritte, Jon Snow’s love, died.
YOUR MOODS
Depressed 200%
Frustrated 200%
Angry 200%
Hurt 200%
Insecure 30%
THOUGHTS
WHY THE FUCK DOES GAME OF THRONES KEEP KILLING OFF ALL THE PEOPLE I LIKE?? JESUS! THE PEOPLE WHO MAKE THE SHOW ARE MONSTERS!! THE LOVE STORY BETWEEN YGRITTE AND JON WAS COMPLEX AND TRUE AND ONE OF THE FEW GLIMPSES OF LIGHT IN THE DEATH AND SORROW FEST THAT IS GAME OF THRONES AND THEN THEY GO AND KILL HER! IT WAS MEAN, JUST FUCKING CRUEL! CAN THERE BE NO BEAUTY IN THIS WORLD???!!! (THIS IS ALL A HOT THOUGHT) I TOOK AN ATIVAN HOPING TO RELAX, BUT IT DID NOT KICK IN FOR AN HOUR AT WHICH POINT THE EPISODE WAS ALREADY OVER. THE DARK MOOD STAYED WITH ME FOR DAYS.
THE SITUATION
Jose Fernandez, star pitcher of the Florida Marlins and of my fantasy baseball team A Fury of Pigeons, had season ending surgery thus scuttling my chances of winning the league this year.
YOUR MOODS
Depression (100%)
Anger (100%)
Jealousy (80%)
Bitterness (200%)
THOUGHTS
This cannot be happening.
Somebody is playing a big trick on me.
It’s a massive conspiracy.
There is a massive conspiracy afoot to make me have a heart attack.
HOT THOUGHT–I LOVE JOSE FERNANDEZ SO MUCH.
I love Jose Fernandez more than I loved Ygritte.
]]>
Recently, as I was cycling down the street on my way there, I passed a young woman walking down the sidewalk. There was a unique tenderness written into her face that had an almost holy aspect, and she seemed preoccupied, as if all of her emotions were living right there on the surface, and I immediately wanted to know what she was thinking. But as quickly as I glimpsed her, she was gone, receding into the city as I coasted by.
After stopping to do a little banking, I walked into Wellspring about 15 minutes later and saw this woman inside the building waiting for the elevator. I was startled by this coincidence and started up a conversation, one that saw me telling her that my allergies were driving me crazy. Waves of benevolence seemed to pour from her when I said this, and with a humbling compassion and sincerity, she reached out and touched my arm in sympathy. I immediately felt horrible, like some fraud whom she believed was bravely battling through cancer and all the small, secondary miseries that are so often attendant, when the truth was that I was probably the luckiest person in the building. I felt ashamed and grew mumbly, bidding her a goodbye as she stepped out of the elevator and walked into a room where a grief support group was meeting, and I realized then that what I had seen in her face earlier, was the remembering, the cherishing of love, something that still encircled her like light.
Me: Kind of scared.
Me: Kind of very scared.
Me: What if there’s a rope?
Me: I can just imagine it hanging from the ceiling.
Me: Swaying ominously.
Me: They’ll force me to climb up it.
Me: There might be a rope!!
Me: I’m not overreacting.
Me: Look, I know it’s not grade 4 gym class.
Me: No, I’m not expecting dodge ball.
Me: It would be nice if you were supportive rather than sarcastic.
Me: I don’t have dodge ball nightmares.
Me: Not anymore.
Me: Fartmares.
Me: Very funny.
Me: No, I’m not going to ask them if they can do anything about my “gas problem.”
Me: Because there is no gas problem.
Me: My trainer?
Me: Her name is Laetitia.
Me: She’s French, France French.
Me: She thinks I’m really funny.
Me: No, funny ha-ha.
Me: Cute accent.
Me: She really loves the anchor tattoo on my hand. It reminds her of Marseille.
Me: I know it was a commitment tattoo I got with you, but I can’t help it if other women find it attractive.
Me: My hands don’t look old.
Me: I’d say they look like they belong on a 25 year-old man.
Me: She’s going to test my grip.
Me: No, not my grip on reality.
Me: Man alive!
Me: My right hand has like a GI Joe Super Kung Fu grip!!
Me: Laetitia is really impressed! Gave me a hug!!
Me: Oh, you know the French.
Me: They’re like that.
Me: Yes, whorish.
Me: Such beguiling giggles, too.
Me: Are you going to your girl’s night out Salsa Dance Slut thing again tonight?
Me: Your sisters are a very bad influence on you.
Me: Alejandro.
Me: No, I don’t want him coming to my birthday party.
Me: I just don’t.
Me: I don’t want to talk about it.
Me: I don’t care if the therapist said I have to communicate more.
Me: All right.
Me: I communicate that I hate Alejandro.
Me: Well, didn’t he poke somebody in the back with his boner while dancing????
Me: I can’t do this now, I have to prepare for my next test.
Me: Mentally. I have to get in the zone.
Me: I want Alejandro out of the zone!!
Me: The next test?
Me: I have to walk briskly for the next six minutes.
Me: Yes.
Me: Well, why wouldn’t I take off my shirt?
Me: The French are used to that sort of thing.
Me: And I’m going to get a good sweat on.
Me: Oh.
Me: Apparently the equipment works better if I keep my shirt on.
Me: No.
Me: I don’t see any equipment.
Me: I think Laetitia might be a drunk.
Me: She’s all worried about me texting when I do the brisk walk test thing.
Me: Thinks I might walk into a wall or something.
Me: As if.
Me: Hate Laetitia and her bad skin.
Me: Glad I’ve never been to France.
]]>
You’re malevolent, like the sort of thing a Super Villain might keep in his utility belt.
When I bought you I thought of the aroma of pumpkin pie, I thought of the gentle touch of a mother, a soft and restorative healing force, but what I received was more like a radioactive explosion. What the fuck are you?!!
You gave me a THIRD degree burn!
That’s the Grizzly Bear of burns! Doctors and nurses were peeling back the bandage and looking at it like it was Two Girls One Cup! And these were medical professionals!
You FUCKER!
Your stupid blue, felt cover, which instantly pills– as if it was some fucking Blow Fish– 
just falls off like so much flesh from a THIRD DEGREE burn! It’s useless, nothing more than a deception! You would need to be encased in a one-foot thick case of lead—like a coffin—to protect your victims from your deadly Superheat Technology! What, were you some crazy experiment that the Soviets abandoned because it was too dangerous? I am thinking that you were, you bitch.
And listen Death Pad, I was using you exactly as you were designed and as I was instructed to use you. Was it my fault that I fell asleep while watching that excruciatingly boring movie about whales and that your Deception Cover vanished? No, it was not my fault! It was my misfortune! And then vulnerable while asleep, you heat raped me. You burned a fucking hole in my side! I thought I was having a nightmare about global warming, but no, when I was living a nightmare starring you, the evil kill pad!
My therapist tells me a have an abundance of displaced anger and that it’s up to me how I use it. I choose to use it to kill Super Villains.
I am coming after you, you cocksucker, and I am going to set you on goddamn fire. You will also have to pay me forty million dollars or something, because this fucking burn is disgusting and it kills. In fact, the pain is so great that I am now completely addicted to Percocet, which is the only reason this entire letter isn’t written in capitals.
Watch your back, motherfucker.
Michael Murray
]]>
What follows are the text messages that I sent to Rachelle.
*******************************************
Me: Is Angus still gaying it up in there?
Me: Can’t believe he was married.
Me: Really, who did he think he was fooling?
Me: I could tell from the first time we went bowling that he was gay. Way too much follow through.
Me: Rachelle?
Me: Rachelle?
Me: Remember what our therapist said about you ignoring me?
Me: I feel invalidated.
Me: That’s why I drink so much. You invalidate me.
Me: Rachelle?
Me: Door to outhouse seems to be locked.
Me: Door is locked.
Me: I AM TRAPPED IN THE OUTHOUSE!!!
Me: HELP!!
Me: I THINK THERE IS AN EVIL GHOST ON THE ISLAND!!
Me: IT LOCKS PEOPLE IN OUTHOUSES AND WATCHES AS THEY GO INSANE AND DIE OF HEART ATTACKS!!
ME: IT’S PROBABY AN INDIAN GHOST MAD ABOUT US STEALING LAND!!
Me: I HATE EVIL GHOSTS!!!
Me: Must calm down and breathe deeply.
Me: Sweet Jesus!
Me: Breathing deeply was a very bad idea.
Me: Now very dizzy. Could vomit.
Me: Must be 1000 degrees in this coffin.
Me: Fuck global warming.
Me: I’m going to bang on the door and yell.
Me: Listen for me!
Me: Dizzy again, now with splinters.
Me: Pretty sure I’m going to die here.
Me: In my poo coffin.
Me: Amazing how strong outhouse is and how weak I am.
Me: Feel like a girl.
Me: Going to die feeling like a girl.
Me: Going to die never having seen a UFO or discovered my spirit guide.
Me: Never got to go to Japan.
Me: So sorry I never got to take you to kinky Japan.
Me: I love you Rachelle.
Me: I loved you with everything I had.
Me: Never really cheated on you.
Me: I want you to go on and live a beautiful life without me– like that speech in Titanic.
Me: I’m Jack and you’re Rose.
Me: Watch that and think of me swimming around in the water.
Me: But DO NOT hook-up with Armand.
Me: Yeah, don’t think I don’t notice the way you light up around him.
Me: Armand. Stupid name.
Me: Like a perfume.
Me: How could you like him???
Me: Would haunt the hell out of you if you hooked-up with him.
Me: HE IS A DICK.
Me: Getting darker in here.
Me: Oxygen must be getting low.
Me: Don’t know how much longer can last.
Me: Would like Sigur Ros played at my funeral and that scene from Armageddon when Bruce Willis is saying good-bye from space projected as backdrop.
Me: My love, you were always the best part of me.
Me: I will be with you always.
Me: You were my everything.
Me: Waiting now for the chariot to swing low.
Me: When the light comes for me I will go to it.
Me: I am ready.
Me: NO!!!
Me: I will fight for you!
Me: I’m not going to give up!!
Me: Splinters be damned!!
Me: Oh.
Me: Just spotted little clasp under handle.
Me: WOW!!
Me: The clasp releases the external lock!!
Me: The world is an explosion of sunlight!
Me: Electrolytes dangerously low, but will stagger to cottage.
Me: Realize how precious life is now.
Me: Hate abortion!
Me: Just stubbed toe on rock!
Me: Hate abortion, rocks and global warming!
Me: I’m coming for you, my love, I’m coming.
Me: If you get this, please save croissant for me, feeling peaked.
]]>