In the Past

Send me something. Send me a postcard.
Okay. Send me a pic of your tits.
No. Really.
Send me a fucking postcard, what do you need a pic of my tits for?
Because. I need them. I’m researching stuff all about tits.
Send it, do you want to be a part of this groundbreaking research?
Yeah. So you see how many loads you can get out of each photo?
Whose did you like best?
I don’t know yet. The study isn’t complete. Send it. now.
No, I’m in love with someone.
What does love have to do with tits?
Do you love me?
Fuck you.

In the past, even the recent past when I was a child, when my parents were my age, how did people get off? Or how did they find people to say things to? Who were they gross to?
It’s not reasonable to assume they didn’t say disgusting things, not my parents specifically, this isn’t an emotional query. But how? And maybe they didn’t think in the same ways, maybe men whispered everything in a girl’s ear while her man was standing right there beside her studying a drink menu. It’s impossible to imagine our fathers hunched over  cheap laptops begging girls they’ve only ever kissed and pressed their boners into for tit pics. Or our mothers riding the train home typing on 700 dollar cell phones, asking our classmate’s dad’s to think of them while they fucked their wife that night. I’m not saying it didn’t happen in some way, in its own way but could it have, really? Were they born too late or did they believe that love did have something to do with tits?

I want to move to the country. I want to see the stars. I want to get a trailer and move to the country and see the stars. I don’t think that’s some kind of hillbilly plan, I was raised in the country. I have been here longer than I ever lived there. I was free. I wouldn’t be doing any of this if I was there and I could look up at the sky and sleep at night.

I'm one of the many talent squanderers of my generation. There is a path and select few will follow it all the way to MFA-ing / awards galas-ing / their way into an admin position with a mid range press. The rest of us didn’t consider this option and now it seems I’m laughing,  like I’m lol-ing at the mf’s who clearly knew what they were doing when I  was sleeping in until 3 and writing two hours a week. I / we exploited every little bit of ‘talent’ we had until we were considered at least republishable then squandered. All squander. We’re always tired. We always needed to get to the LCBO before it closed and we usually needed a little help with rent. Am I laughing at them? If I am I have no clear idea why. One of these days, say like twenty years from now one of my babies, or my whole pack of dirty unkillable babes will swarm them for their copies of the Believer. They’ll steal their un-creased Moleskins and crease their first edition Hemingway who by chance will be experiencing a renaissance in popularity, the benefactors of his estate living in the North of France taking calls again.

So? What’s so funny about that?
So you’re going to have a whole bunch of poor babies who steal shit?
Yeah. No, it’s not funny.
Take off your shirt. We’ll drink here without our shirts. Who’s going to say anything?
That Chinese man. He’s been ordering people around like it’s his park. He’s all no drinking on the Queen’s own park.
It’s 12 am, get one of your monster babies to jump him.
How do you know they aren’t also your monster babies?
Because you don’t love me.
Are babies made of love?
Yeah. And other shit.
Are they?
Take off your shirt. Maybe they are and maybe they aren’t.

Once you’re there in the country, and say you have a trailer or a shipping container and you’ve done it up a bit and you can sit on a little stoop or deck kind of thing and just smoke a cigarette and look at the whole fucking universe up there like it was nothing. The universe squandered up there, living off its own coattails. Just banged itself out and we all love it or don’t but mostly we do. As if love had to do with beauty or random events and as if when you look up you could believe anything else. I can read books there, my boyfriend is good with jerrying and rigging and overhauling and hammer and nails.

You could learn all that on your own, you know.
Really? I could learn to renovate a shipping container?
You picked the container idea because he could do that.
I got lucky.
You could get a smaller apartment. You can visit the country anytime.
I have no money.
I have this study, I told you about it, yeah?
Oh yeah? Pays in what?
But it’s a kind of love, it’s the middle school love that’s like best friend love and it’s that inseparable kind of love.
But you get separated.
Yeah that’s what makes it love. It’s awful.
Love is awful.
Love is awful.

Did our parents love each other? I would have said no, I would have said for many years that they just lived in houses together where they tried not to look at one another too much, where they tried not to move their mouths as they counted down the days before their offspring bled them dry in fruitless arts programs and humiliating internships. How is that anything but love? To not mouth the countdown, to avoid that eye contact, all of it was the sweetness they had available to them, they didn’t have iphones or skype. They wouldn’t tell us if love had anything to do with tits if we asked anyway.

There’s a place in Parkdale, 2 bedrooms and
Is there a yard? Smoke?
I don’t like it. It’s not for me. It looks nice. Where will my babies live? Where will you keep you TLS?
Beer? You don’t want to go. Right because you’re authentic and you need to go figure out about love and getting stabbed to death in a Winnebago in Douro.
I wish I could afford a Winnebago.
Fuck you.
I couldn’t be more in love with you.
No, really. Fuck you.

Those people under the stars, I always imagine they have no wifi, I imagine they love each other in that not mouthing the countdown way people love one another. I imagine they will have a past and they make their menial little days into history or matter--it matters to the other ones of them. And I see my own past stillborn, swirling or frantically, statically shivering in a galaxy, a milky way of similarly hideous, lazy, hysterical little fuck ups--our histories. There’s nothing up there. It’s very pretty, we mostly love it. And right now, at this moment we’re all still pretty beautiful, there is no past, there are at least twenty men jerking off to pics of us let’s say this week alone--is that not love? To squander our time together. To sit in the Queen’s own Park and say you’re not in love and think about your parents and text your thoughts about all this stuff in full later that night.

Evie Christie remembers.

Published On: September 2, 2013
Permanent Location:

Volume 7, Issue 4
  Labour Day, 2013


Forget Magazine

In The Past
Evie Christie

Four PoEMS
Michael Johnson

Feb 12, 2001 - Present

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6


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ISSN: 1710 193X

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