archives

Literary lobotomy

This category contains 51 posts

Mocha and me

The sun chokes on cloud and I am where I was when I was. Ten years ago was the last time. The first, I’m not sure. Ten years before that, I believe. Three to twenty-three. Not speaking to speaking to not speaking again. Baby talk throughout. Even here, now, at 50 Point Conservation area in … Continue reading

You’ll see

There was this boy, though there always is, and this girl, though there always is, and she was blind and he wasn’t so he thought she looked pretty nice and he promised the impossible willies of improvisation like that he’d make her happy and make her lovely and fix her eyes too, and she said … Continue reading

The state of all

Everything is terrible, because capitalism bought our need and confused it with want; because want was not enough; because enough was a concept defined by people who wanted, needed, and confused themselves before we were born; because we were born; because others weren’t, others who could change and mobilize, not be so lazy to sit and … Continue reading

Why the sky is blue

I have become my parents. They ask me questions and want help and in that shift of how and which remote and can you build me a website, they stop being my parents with certainty and answers like what is a lever for or why the sky is blue and I stop being them too … Continue reading

A blackhole

I am the son of a son of a son of the Sun, which is a yellow blob that blobs yellow in my hair, which is a product of happenstance and mutation and love and anything but, which is an anatomical feature that I have and am lucky enough to share with my family who … Continue reading

Lunch

Last week was spent where blue meets blue: Vancouver. I bounced around from discussing medical pedagogy to particular forms of literary criticism to eating fresh Pacific salmon. I walked along a beach. I stood at the base of mountains. I had never been to Vancouver before. The brush of green against gray, the inevitable rain … Continue reading

The story

Okay, so here’s the story. A man is travelling. He’s a merchant. Moves here. Sells there. Moves somewhere else. Has a family that he’s supporting. Wife and kids. Usual stuff. Takes on an arduous life for them. Migrating and not seeing them and getting money only to send it back, which lets him send more … Continue reading

A typist

I’m afraid that this is just typing and not writing and if it was writing it would not sound so much like typing because all I can hear are the clicking and clacking and thump-thump-thump. Is that a heartbeat? Or is it just my finger’s pulse? I cannot tell because I have to write this … Continue reading

Mantra of art

The sun dies in the room when you block the window. I should have heard you come in, but I was writing a letter. Few things can disturb me in the mesmerisation of composition. It wasn’t so much the content, but the mantra of art. A writer who stops writing for anything else but more … Continue reading

Modern Sisyphus

The following was influenced by Albert Camus quote, “Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee?” * Should I kill myself or update my Facebook? Maybe I can see how many likes I can get instead. That’d be nice. It could also not be nice, though. I could get three only. How many … Continue reading