At the South Country Fair I saw a lot of very talented performers and poets. I wanted to take in everything they said and just appreciate all the hard work they put into their creations. But at the back of my mind--who am I kidding? It was continuously in the foreground of my thoughts--I wish I could write something that good. It was thrilling and inspiring to be around all these artists, and simultaneously depressing as hell. I started to tear up at one point today. Not because the poetry was beautiful I'm sorry to say. It was, I'll have you know, but I was so selfish and self-judging that I couldn't shake these thoughts off. I couldn't hear a whole lot beyond what was going on in the space between my ears.

I do think that I have talent as a writer, and what I'm concerned about won't always be what I'm concerned about. But I haven't really written anything in a few months now, and I'd like to express how that feels, and I'm sure most of you can relate. I don't think I write because I think I'm any good as a writer. If I am any good, it's purely incidental, the bonus all writers hope for. I write however, because it is a kind of salvation for me. Call that extreme, but it's true. If I don't write for a long period it depresses me, of course, because like anyone it makes me doubt if I have anything left in me, which is terrible enough as it is. It's one of the few ways I can actually make sense of my own thoughts, and with any luck, one of the few ways people can actually understand me. I haven't been writing as much as I'd like to, which both a cause of the problem and a result. And because I so seldom show what I do write, I feel like there's a lot about me that the people in my life, the ones I love, don't know about. Literally. This includes my family. There's a lot they don't know about me. Not so much what I do with my time, but what's in my head. I've spent most of my life in my head. Believe me, I'm trying really hard to break out. Especially with my family. But it's not easy. So I write. It's one of the few ways I can actually make sense. Again, I don't write purely because it's something I want to get good at and be recognised for. My motives run deeper than that. I write to survive. To keep myself from becoming a total stranger to my loved ones, and myself. I don't think I've ever explained the things I feel most passionate about without stumbling over words, stuttering, falling into habitual mindless "uh's" "um's" and "like" and worst of all, forgetting my point. Writing reduces the chances of me making an ass of myself. Writing is also incredibly hard for me. It's easy to come up with a great little turn of phrase or combination of words. But to give them homes, in stories, poetry, any kind of context, is daunting, and exhausting. For me, the discipline it takes to sustain any sort of piece into a fully fleshed story, is nothing less than an act of courage. Yet I continually do not write, even though the alternative is far worse, even though characters and ideas and landscapes possess me and I can't help but obsess over them until they're recorded, and until then I stay in my head, and I get very irritable when people unknowingly take me away from my thoughts. It's not fair to those around me, and people always wonder why I'm so cranky. I continually do not write and it murders me. So if nothing else, consider this rant a plea for sanity, from myself, to myself.

Sacred Skin

As Michael prepared his apartment for Beth’s arrival, he kept asking himself: are you worthy? He asked this of his possessions too, as he cleaned. The only woman to grace his home was Mary, who hung in silence above his futon, above his showerhead and on his fridge. She was a good substitute for Mother, up in Saskatoon. He consulted his pictures, with rosary or without, over all matters. And she helped him—maybe not with words, but with the calming reassurance of her being there. She doted on him as best a long-dead saint could. Michael made sure she watched him from every room, to make sure he stayed out of trouble and to make sure trouble stayed away from him. Yes that’s good and all, but are you worthy? Besides Mary, not another woman had ever been here before.
What did they require? He had no television, computer, or radio, so the world could not cajole him. Was this appropriate? He had three pairs of shoes: one for work, boots for winter, and runners for everything else. He swept the floor every day, even in the complete absence of crumbs or dust. He kept his apartment with quiet efficiency. He donned cargo pants and sweaters. He kept his hair clean. Was that enough?
Fidgeting with his sleeves, he looked at the ice-bound streets outside, where yellow pools of light splashed in rows down the block, making the surrounding sidewalks and streets brown in the dark. He always believed he was like those lamps: providing light to those who needed it, unnoticed when he was doing his job right.
In his flurry of activity—as he picked up stray clothes off the floor and into his hamper, stacked his few plates and cups into the cupboards—he needed Mary’s soft gaze. He needed her mild expression, her heart radiating on the outside of her garments—these things reminded him to breathe. Once the whole place was clean Michael kept adjusting the position of the easel, moving it from one side of the living room to another, unable to decide where the best vantage point exactly was. Beth would be here in an hour. He laid out his pencils and brushes, from thinnest to thickest, left to right, on his dresser. Then right to left. Then alternating it, pencil, brush, pencil, brush.
Michael sat on his bed and pulled out a bin from underneath it. He opened it and sorted through the paper scraps, looseleaf, canvases. On each piece was a girl, some more fleshed out than others, some with grey faces from the smudge of Michael’s fingers.
Some were scribbled out in a frenzy, their contours jagged, as if constructed out of sticks. The other theoretical women in Michael’s life. He turned and looked to Mary for an answer. She held out her hands, palms up, supposedly in benediction. At the moment it just looked like she was shrugging, saying you’re on your own, kiddo. It occurred to him that he had no idea how to conduct himself around those he devoted his life to protect. He protected them with his absence, his invisibility. He did this for two reasons, two things he never doubted: first, that Adam was a prototype, and a failed one at that. Eve was the edited version, the better side of humanity. Second, he, being like the prototype, was not fit to exist.

From an early age, Michael knew all about Succubi. The things other children would tell him in Sunday school were all too convincing. They told him how they were devils that would come to a man at night, dressed up as a woman and make him put his weeny in her, and steal his soul. And the night before his First Communion, when he was nine, he saw one for himself. It was a woman he’d seen on television once, posing in lingerie. She had blonde hair that wrapped around her head like a boa. Her name was Victoria, or something like that, and from what he could remember she had some sort of secret. She made her way into his head while he slept. She didn’t do much; just came into his room and lay down in his bed, posing beside him much like in the commercials, and that was it. Maybe it was a test. His first dabbling in the holy life. He’d heard of this happening before. But just to be safe, the next day he was the first in line to receive the body and
blood of Christ, trying to get as far away from hellfire as possible. He didn’t tell his mom about this. He believed he was safe.
Others would come later. He’d see them in his room, walking around. Some of them weren’t from TV or billboards however. Some were girls in class. When he was twelve he even saw Ms. Pinter, his seventh grade English Language Arts teacher, and she was in her underwear. She leaned in and pressed her cleavage in his face. He woke up in the middle of the night with a spot of wetness on his crotch. He cried for hours underneath the covers. Unable to look at mom at all the next morning, Michael threw his soiled underwear into the garbage before Mom could collect his dirty laundry.
Hail Mary. She of all people could keep him safe. His mother was too fragile as it was; she couldn’t take it. So Michael turned to Mary. She would listen to him, nodding her head in understanding for all eternity. He kneeled on his bed and whispered “Holy Mary, Mother of God” over and over again into his locked hands, and they were the only words from it he could remember at twelve, even after years of Sunday school. Still they would come at night; but he understood why though. This was God testing him. He read somewhere about how Gandhi would sleep in a bed with naked women beside him, to prove his chastity was made of steel. Perhaps this was what Michael had to do. This was what his dreams were asking of him.
He didn’t mind hating the Succubi, because they were simply not real women. They were satans in drag, trying to make an enemy out of those dearest to him. There were only women for Michael after all. There was no father. There was a man; there was
a man who came and made Mom pregnant with him. There was a man who married her after impregnating her. There was a man who, having impregnated her, lived with them for five years and then left with all of their money, but not before smashing Michael’s baby-toothed face in. He told Michael to tell Mom he had fallen off the porch (Mom was also hurt; she slipped on ice and shattered her ribs). He told his son that he was clumsy, like his mother. There was that man. No father, though. Just a stand-in. Like Joseph. He lorded over them, and Michael wished to keep Mom safe from the man, but after all there are no five-year-old guardian-saints. And because he came from that man, he was liable to become something ugly like him.
He saw in the news, in books, everywhere rape victims, women bruised, shattered, and silenced. He felt responsible somehow. To be a man was to dishonour God. But he knew, even as a boy, there must have been some divine rationale in being born into this lot.
One night he discovered how to subdue the Succubi. Before going to bed, he conducted an experiment. He scribbled out his Victoria on a piece of paper as best as he could. He woke up later, with an erection, but completely dry. He tucked his erection between his legs and kneeled against his bed. Holy Mary, Mother of God. Holy Mary, Mother of God. But he uttered these words with a fresh vitality. He had weakened them. He would not let them turn him into the Prototype.

Michael looked through the pictures. They couldn’t hurt him on paper, tucked away in a bin under his bed. They were out of his head, now, copied out in charcoal, acrylic, oil,
HB, anything he had at the time. He got better at drawing over the years, and these were the records to prove it. He buried his nose in anatomy books, books on still art, one, two, three point-perspective, anything. Books on Michelangelo, Manet and Renoir among others littered his shelf. He looked over Boticelli’s The Birth of Venus and Leda and the Swan of both Da Vinci and Cezanne. He studied everything he could—the curves, the expression, the posture—to better capture the souls of these creatures. He sharpened his skill, and with sleight of hand he expelled each one from his dreams. He had forgotten them, and suspected that they did the same.
He came to the drawings of Beth. There were several more than the others. There were only a couple for each, a schoolgirl crush or a celebrity in a thong. He had fifteen of Beth. She wouldn’t go away. And she only became clearer and clearer in his dreams: her hair curled on her shoulders, her bronze apple-shaped earrings, her sun-burned nose, her slender peach-toned figure. Why would his brain undress her like this? She always came the same way, too. And he would reach out too, and hold her. He watched himself in horror as he did it. He would kiss her and the ink of her lips would rub off on his, and her face would be a black smudge. When he pressed his hand against her breast it would crumple like paper and she would rip and fold. He mastered the female body as a geometric principle. But he never knew what a girl felt like. Even Mary was just a picture.
It was eight at night, when Beth called him. She was sobbing over the phone. “I need to come over. Right now. I’m leaving Cam. I’m bloody doing it. I’ll be there in an hour, okay?” There was a click on the other end, and Michael hung up and scrambled to prepare for company. She was coming, and there was no talking her out of it. She had never visited him at home before. This was his chance to save himself. He didn’t know exactly how he was going to do it, but Beth would somehow be a part of it.
Michael, in the six weeks that he’d known her, had become something of a personal therapist to Beth. While he was working security at the Mackenzie Art Museum he saw her come by the front desk, giving a little half-wave when she realized where she recognized him from. They shared an Art History class on Tuesday and Thursday evenings at the University of Regina. He kept to himself, and Beth took an interest in him, if nothing else at least as someone to talk to. She sat with him and they went for coffee afterwards, until it became a ritual, to liven up the wintry Tuesdays and Thursdays. She talked mostly about her fiancée Cameron, who was training to be a pilot. She told him about how he proposed to her at Cirque Du Soleil on her birthday, and she declined. He begged for half a year, until they were at a cabin in the Rockies, and she said yes to his pleading ring. She didn’t see him much after that; he left for Calgary for training, and when she saw him, she said he acted like he was trying to prepare her for her life with him. To edit her. Cam didn’t get mad, she told him; he would go quiet instead, and slink away, like a wounded animal. She disappointed him. As if she owed him. Like there was something inherently wrong with her. Original sin. Michael heard it all, of course. He
didn’t mind listening though; Cameron soon became something to crusade against, and by listening to Beth he had an edge.

With monk-like precision he had the place immaculate in fifteen minutes. For the rest of the wait he spent flipping through his drawings. How could he get her out of his head?
Then, a knock.
Michael froze. Beth knocked again, and with quick jerky movements he made his way to the door. He opened it up and Beth came flooding in. Hail, Mary. She came in hooded with a mane of fur lining her short red hair, her nut-brown eyes tipped with snow, her sun-burned nose, and her bronze apple earrings. Michael knew that everything she wore were gifts from Cameron, except those earrings. He took her coat and scarf, relishing their softness. He wondered if the rest of her was this soft. Then his glance met Mary’s on the wall. She was not smiling at the moment.
“Thank you for letting me come at such short notice, Michael. I had enough of being by myself,” Beth said.
“So you’re leaving him? That’s what you were saying on the phone, you’re leaving him?” Michael said.
“I think I am.” This was something she had resolved to do before. Why was this any different? “I think I was just looking for a reason. I couldn’t bring myself to it, but now I can.”
“Why?”
“I think he found some one else. Some cute little twat, I imagine.” She spoke as if numb, eyes unfocused. Beth told him how she was checking her messages on her phone and there was one from someone named Meg for Cameron, about how much fun she had last night and they should do it again some time and call her back as soon as he gets this message okay thanks buh-bye. “The worst part is the idiot gave her my number. I heard it earlier tonight and I couldn’t be by myself anymore. Cam doesn’t know I heard it. He won’t get home until later tonight. I’m really sorry if you were busy.”
“No, not at all. Please.” He let her in and he sat her down on the couch.
In the kitchen, Michael flipped on the kettle and gave a plaintive look to fridge-Mary, who was holding a little blond Jesus. His face was adult-like, though buried under rose cheeks and baby fat. Mary wasn’t saying much tonight. Jesus wasn’t much help either, but he was still in diapers. Michael covertly glanced at Beth, who was looking around the place. Is it worthy?
Michael came out and sat beside Beth. He didn’t know what to do, so they both just sat there, staring at the ground. He hoped she would say something, like she usually would.
“The kettle’s on. What now?” Said Michael.
“You know what? This is a good thing.” Beth said to the carpet. “This is a win for me. He’s always the judge. No, the executioner. Little Saint bloody Cameron, holding the keys to heaven. Now he’s bloody messing around with some other little twat. This is good.” She slumped back to the couch. “I still feel like shit though.”
“So you should talk to him, then?” Michael said.
“Talk to him. Yeah. I should.” Her face glowed, even now. “Am I a horrible person to not care that this happened?”
“I don’t think so.” Michael thought about this. He didn’t know for sure, but he knew Cameron would say yes, so he decided that was the right answer.
“I don’t know. But thank you. Clearly the gentleman is not completely extinct,” she said with exaggerated formality. Michael felt the divine rationale coming in to play, and he smiled to himself. She laughed and smiled at Michael.
Suddenly she wrapped her arms around him. He leaned into her, her head in the crook of his neck. His cheek on her hair, he reached his arm around her and held her closer, with a stiff arm. Was this enough? Neither of them said anything for a few minutes; the kettle whistled in the background. He felt her mouth on his neck, warm and wet.
He jolted up, and unsure what to do next he slipped into the kitchen, trying to stay calm. Was this a woman, or was it Beth? He poured hot water into two cups, and he heard Beth go into the bathroom.
Some time to think.
Michael touched his neck, where she kissed him. No smudge of ink, now. Only the memory of warm. He was failing the test. It wouldn’t have surprised him if fire and sulfur started spitting out of his kettle. He grimaced at Mary and her babe. They had
nothing to say. Mary had never been this unreliable before. No help this time, Mike. It’s not open book.
Fifteen minutes later, Beth came in, blank-faced. “She’s his cousin.”
“What?”
“Meg. Megan is the name of Cam’s cousin. He just called me asking if she called. I asked him very calmly who she was. He said his cousin. She’s in town for the weekend. I think my heart stopped for a second.” He watched her face, almost able to see the possibilities of salvation drain out of her. “I don’t even know if it’s true. I think it is. Cam’s a terrible liar. He didn’t do anything. And I come here to—he didn’t do anything. He’s fucking perfect, isn’t he?” She laughed bitterly, fidgeting with her ring. “I don’t add up. I can’t do it. He could just as well have fucking shot me as pop the question, when he did.” Michael watched her face; it would wither if coffined into Cameron’s world. Not knowing what else to do Michael gave her a mug of chamomile. “I’m sorry for wasting your time, Michael.”
“No, not at all. You’re a blessing, Beth.”
This made her laugh, he couldn’t understand why. “Thank you, Michael.” She sipped her tea. “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”
His mouth went dry. He stared at her slender feet itching one another on the pale green kitchen floor. How could he not document those feet, those splendid peach calves? He looked up at her face: a discreet wisp of hair dangling, caught in her lips. How could he not record that hair? It might save her. “I would like to try something.” He took her by
the hand into the living room again. He went into the bedroom and returned, carrying out the easel.
For ten minutes Beth sat on her side, shifting slightly in the stiff position that contained her: Madonna of the Futon. Three tall lamps beamed down on her like searchlights beside Michael, hunched on a stool behind the canvas. He looked at Beth and then the canvas and then her again. He looked and looked and looked. He couldn’t start, not even a sketch. Everything was too close. It was different now that she was there with him in the room on the couch, punctuating his waking moments rather than embedded underneath his eyelids. How easy it would be to let the Succubi win. How attractive, damnation.
He put his head on the canvas, out of Beth’s sight. But he swore she could hear what he was thinking; the next moment she was standing over him. She took his hands and stood him up very close to her, inches from touching. He rested his forehead on hers. Their breaths were slow and tremulous. Michael’s eyes remained shut however. He prayed. He prayed he could turn to stone, that his eyes become like stained glass windows, letting light into a pure and empty space inside of him. He prayed the blood that surged through him would evaporate. No such thing happened. He felt only his father—he was no better now—trying to crawl out of him from some deep wicked place. He prayed that he could become another street lamp in the winter, where he could illuminate the world without drawing attention to himself—cold, free and loveless. It was too late. Beth was already in
his blood. There was only the wetness of her lips that mattered, a swelling curiosity of flesh.
“Please don’t make me look at you,” Michael said. His voice sounded hollow to him. His mind was racing. He searched hard for those magic words. Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with Thee. She put his hands on her hips, and moved them up, lifting her t-shirt up with them. She lowered her hands to her sides, while his remained. He traced his fingers along her ribcage. His touch was light, his fingers cold, enough to draw forth goosebumps. He could feel the air expanding inside her chest. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb—he moved his hands behind her, running his fingers up and down the smooth furrow that divided her back in two. There was no bra strap—Jesus. He slipped his hands up her back under her shirt and held on to her shoulders. He held her close for balance, gripped by a sudden vertigo. Holy Mary, Mother of God. He lifted the shirt up, over her head and to the floor. Still, he dared not look. Pray for us sinners. Beth took his hands and ran them down her to her belt. Now and at the hour of our death. He felt her smooth, modest breasts, her ribs rippling down her, the light hairs on her abdomen. He undid her jeans, pulling them to the floor. Crouched, he rested his head on her knees.
Beth then made the next move. She must have been nervous, because she was as careful and ceremonious as he was. When Michael stood up, she lifted his sweater and shirt and Michael raised his arms like she did. Michael then felt a snip below his waist, as Beth undid the button of his pants, and in a single motion, his pants and underwear slid to
his feet. Now they were both standing in puddles of their own clothing. He was sweating. He moved his lips to a prayer, circling his thumb on his fingers like he was holding his rosary. Pray for. He sagged under the weight of history, under heredity. Sinners. Mary wasn’t listening. Hour of death. There was nothing left now. His eyes would have to participate sooner or later. Michael got up—Hail Mar—and opened his eyes.
Salvation would be delayed until further notice.

He looked down her pale brown body. How it stuck out in odd ways: her hips running down thin rounded thighs, the small hairs between her legs, curls pressed down by her panties. Her toes adorned in scarlet nail-polish fidgeted in their rows. He followed her calves and thighs and hairs up again, to her belly, punctuated by her navel. The light from the lamps carved a path on her skin, from her blushing nipples, up between her breasts to her neck, and then to her mouth, slightly open, lightly smiling. She only had her bronze apple earrings on. This was no Succuba. He saw her for the first time, and saw what she really was. Full of grace.
He then looked down at his own body as if he’d never seen it before: there was nothing but a pink, thin man left, shaking underneath. The hair on his chest was blond, almost invisible, while the hair surrounding his erection (he blushed at this, trying to hold it down), was brown. He was a quilt; there was nothing consistent about him. Unworthy.
Beth hooked her fingers loosely in his. Her breath was heavy on his neck, and his shook on hers. Her body was warm against his. He would not draw her anymore
They stood there, swaying. All they could hear was each other’s breathing.

Hey guys it's me. This blog's been inactive for half a year now, even though I've been regularly snooping around. Sorry about that, to whomever was perhaps mildly curious about or otherwise bored enough to read it. At any rate, I'll try my best to post more often on here again. I'm gonna try publishing some of my work on here, which is what I had originally intended this blog for, and I'd love to get some feedback if possible. Anyway I'm off to bed for now. Cheerio!