I write erotica naked.
I bought a book on how to do it a couple years ago, and follow its formatting meticulously. Lots of descruption, tons of detail, adjectivs like perky, dripping, flushed, sweaty, etc. It's really quite easy once you have the structure down. Writing from the male gaze is the trickiest; I have trouble seeing the appeal of the sweaty canal of cleavage on a busty high school nurse.
At first my erotica came out stilted, cheesy, childish even - hardly the Anais Nin style I was aspiring to. Then one day, as nearly everything I owned was in the washing machine - I made the astonishing discovery that my erotica writing improved tenfold if I wrote naked.
I sit at my desk with my feet on each knee, yoga style, and turn up the heat. I drink tea from a stained mug and sporatically push my glasses further up my nose. My hair is piled in a greasy bun on top of my head, and my bare ass has red, raised welts on it from the slats of my chair. In short - I am probably the unsexiest sight to behold this side of Chez Pierre. But something about it just clicks. Sensual phrases pour out of me, steamy like my tea, and vivid scenarios that I have never and probably will never experience rise effortlessly from my pen.This stuff is good. I guess it could be my imagination, could be that I've read a lot of erotica, could ven be the formula I follow, but really, I think it's that I'm naked.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Tea Shop Sketch #2 - Cancer Patients
Whenever people come in and say they want green tea in bulk - any flavour, any price; I know they are dying. When people have cancer in later stages, and doctors have given up on chemo and pills, radiation and chemical remedies, they finally turn to the holistic. Just so they can say they’ve really tried everything, so they can pretend there is still some hope left. It’s depressing as hell. The doctors recommend green tea, and they trustingly come flocking to me, wallets out, for verification that this will save them. There are whole websites dedicated to the miracle power of the tea-leaf. I mean, obviously it can’t do any harm – chock full of antioxidants and all that bullshit, but it sure can’t save them. As I’m spewing off statistics and health benefits to them, pointing out our tin sizes and discussing steeping times, I try not to look at their drawn faces. They look at me with child-hope, sadness, and determination.
It’s worst when the cancer patient’s spouse comes in. They know its all bullshit. They know that along with piping hot sencha they’re feeding their loved ones faith and lies. They know, but what is there to do? Nothing. So we lie. We all lie. The doctors, the lovers, the tea-tender and the person themselves. It’s really the only way left to handle anything.
It’s worst when the cancer patient’s spouse comes in. They know its all bullshit. They know that along with piping hot sencha they’re feeding their loved ones faith and lies. They know, but what is there to do? Nothing. So we lie. We all lie. The doctors, the lovers, the tea-tender and the person themselves. It’s really the only way left to handle anything.
Bone Hold
It was my turn.
I walked up behind you
speaking with soft and even sounds,
as you would
to a spooked horse,
tones and volumes
that wouldn’t cut your ears.
You heard consonants better now,
they said.
Speak loudly,
they said.
Kei-ra,
I crooned
rolling your name over and under my tongue,
soothing your sore bones with saliva and sound.
Kei-ra,
leading my cold sweaty hand
to grip the base of your
bent neck,
freeing your brother
to finally walk away,
even look away.
I shifted my fingers with fear,
careful to always be touching
some part of your ashen skin,
thin as moth wings
and smelling of rot.
It hurt you to shower,
you told me.
The water stung your skin and felt
like that time
we were caught in hail.
We sat so still and silent, that
we heard your mother
chain smoking on the deck
before we smelt it.
click, whoosh, suck, exhale
Then the acrid smell that made you
roll your eyes
and remind her,
your lungs were nearly gone.
I felt drained,
like they said I should,
They said:
Our energy could make her well!
And whatever we did,
NOT to let go.
You called them hacks
and, as if to prove a point,
promptly hacked up what looked like
a bit of lung.
I kissed your brow
as your mother slid her hard hand
under mine.
I kissed you hard,
to taste the sweat
that had crusted into sugar there.
I kissed you for so long
that you flinched away from us
and for a moment –
no hands held you here at all.
I walked up behind you
speaking with soft and even sounds,
as you would
to a spooked horse,
tones and volumes
that wouldn’t cut your ears.
You heard consonants better now,
they said.
Speak loudly,
they said.
Kei-ra,
I crooned
rolling your name over and under my tongue,
soothing your sore bones with saliva and sound.
Kei-ra,
leading my cold sweaty hand
to grip the base of your
bent neck,
freeing your brother
to finally walk away,
even look away.
I shifted my fingers with fear,
careful to always be touching
some part of your ashen skin,
thin as moth wings
and smelling of rot.
It hurt you to shower,
you told me.
The water stung your skin and felt
like that time
we were caught in hail.
We sat so still and silent, that
we heard your mother
chain smoking on the deck
before we smelt it.
click, whoosh, suck, exhale
Then the acrid smell that made you
roll your eyes
and remind her,
your lungs were nearly gone.
I felt drained,
like they said I should,
They said:
Our energy could make her well!
And whatever we did,
NOT to let go.
You called them hacks
and, as if to prove a point,
promptly hacked up what looked like
a bit of lung.
I kissed your brow
as your mother slid her hard hand
under mine.
I kissed you hard,
to taste the sweat
that had crusted into sugar there.
I kissed you for so long
that you flinched away from us
and for a moment –
no hands held you here at all.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Vertigo
My mother is terrified of bridges. When we used to take family bike rides she would walk her bike across every bridge, staring straight ahead with her jaw clenched and her shoulders stiff. She would scream at me if I kept riding, (for my own safety of course ) and make me slow down to walk with her. She would tighten her dry, raspy fingers around my wrist and I would stare at the traffic flashing between the cracks in the boards of the wooden overpass. I would image my fear pulling down cinder blocks and supports, and all of us falling into the stream of cars honking below. We would be blood splotches on asphalt and look like those squished fairies I had in a book at home.
After I had learned where nearly every bridge in the city was, I started to get sick flashes in my stomach when we would ride near one. Eventually I took my Dad's tool box - hammer and all - to my bike, and that put an end to those family bike rides. I still feel nauseous when I cross bridges, and have decided to never have children. I have known for a long time that I, like my mother, cannot pass on any kind of good.
Get off your Bike to Cross the Bridge
My mother’s vertigo was menstrual
she thought fear a phallic fix, felt
cloth that cloaked my callous self
a virgin noosed by vanity
She moaned dire musings in the dark:
bridges are breaking she breathed down my back
edges crumble and darling you’ll stumble
I won’t ever forget or forgive your
leaning low over open air
handing your raw heart to the herons
that circle and cry and keep you convinced
now the craven need never know height.
After I had learned where nearly every bridge in the city was, I started to get sick flashes in my stomach when we would ride near one. Eventually I took my Dad's tool box - hammer and all - to my bike, and that put an end to those family bike rides. I still feel nauseous when I cross bridges, and have decided to never have children. I have known for a long time that I, like my mother, cannot pass on any kind of good.
Get off your Bike to Cross the Bridge
My mother’s vertigo was menstrual
she thought fear a phallic fix, felt
cloth that cloaked my callous self
a virgin noosed by vanity
She moaned dire musings in the dark:
bridges are breaking she breathed down my back
edges crumble and darling you’ll stumble
I won’t ever forget or forgive your
leaning low over open air
handing your raw heart to the herons
that circle and cry and keep you convinced
now the craven need never know height.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Cliff Jumping in Lagos, Portugal
I stand on the top of a tall cliff
jutting out over the ocean.
I am very alone here, and
the last glow of sun
has left the oceans skin.
The bats have come out
and are swooping
around my head
and though I like them,
I’m getting afraid.
It was a risky climb
up chains bolted to the cliff face.
Now it’s too dark
to get down, so
I tilt back my head
and watch the blur of brown bat bodies
scar the air
hundreds upon hundreds
of these dark, diving shapes.
A rush of vertigo –
I crouch
and remember that
the way I fight fear
is with more fear.
I back up
to the edge of the plateau
take off my jeans and
stuff my shirt in one pocket
then tie them around my waist
I hold my arms out
and feel air moving strangely,
swirling almost hot
around my naked body.
Then I run so fast
that I can’t stop at the edge
even if I want to.
Suddenly
I am falling through layers
of tears and sandpaper
the wind feels so very
fluid, yet rough.
I tuck my knees to my chest
as I slap the water.
Plunging under
I truly believe
I can stay here forever,
and air is for fools.
Something sharp cuts my foot
and reminds me that yes,
I am a fool
and yes, my foolish body
needs air.
I ride the black waves back to shore
and sit on the empty beach
watching my
goose-pimpled flesh
lose its tan
in the moonlight.
I stretch my clothes out on long flat rocks
and wait for them to dry
while sitting
and lapping the blood off my foot
with a tongue as rough
as those sandpaper winds
and are swooping
around my head
and though I like them,
I’m getting afraid.
It was a risky climb
up chains bolted to the cliff face.
Now it’s too dark
to get down, so
I tilt back my head
and watch the blur of brown bat bodies
scar the air
hundreds upon hundreds
of these dark, diving shapes.
A rush of vertigo –
I crouch
and remember that
the way I fight fear
is with more fear.
I back up
to the edge of the plateau
take off my jeans and
stuff my shirt in one pocket
then tie them around my waist
I hold my arms out
and feel air moving strangely,
swirling almost hot
around my naked body.
Then I run so fast
that I can’t stop at the edge
even if I want to.
Suddenly
I am falling through layers
of tears and sandpaper
the wind feels so very
fluid, yet rough.
I tuck my knees to my chest
as I slap the water.
Plunging under
I truly believe
I can stay here forever,
and air is for fools.
Something sharp cuts my foot
and reminds me that yes,
I am a fool
and yes, my foolish body
needs air.
I ride the black waves back to shore
and sit on the empty beach
watching my
goose-pimpled flesh
lose its tan
in the moonlight.
I stretch my clothes out on long flat rocks
and wait for them to dry
while sitting
and lapping the blood off my foot
with a tongue as rough
as those sandpaper winds
Tea Shop Sketch #1 - Biker Bob
I know Bob is about to walk into my tea shop when a beat-up red pickup lurches and skids into the handicapped parking spot in front of the store. Bob, although he walks with a definite stumble, is not handicapped. You can't see it from where I stand behind the counter, but he has a bumper sticker in his rear window that says, If god didn’t want me to eat pussy, he wouldn’t have made it look like a taco. I found it funny, but I think I was one of the few. Bob wears the same blue flannel shirt and stone-washed jeans every time I see him. His handlebar moustache is yellowed at he ends from drooping into a cup of tea – mango vanilla tea to be exact. He never drinks anything else. When Bob walks up to the counter, he winks at me, and shows me the latest message on his gut. He has one of those programmable belts where you can choose your own message to flash across it in blinking red letters. Often it’s a racial slur, or his phone number, today it just said: PUSSY.
“How ya doin’ me darlin’?”
(Bob is not Irish)
“I’m okay, kinda tired…”
“Well guess what I got for your skinny ass,”
“What?”
Bob throws a fruit roll-up above my head, so that I have to jump to catch it. We have a stash of about 20 of them in a drawer under the till, because no one who works here actually likes fruit-roll-ups. None of us have the heart to tell him.
“Thanks, Bob! The usual?”
“Damn straight. No butter on my scone. Butter is for fat-asses and morons… that shit gets in your hearteries and yer fuckin’ done for.”
“Right…”
I bring him his tea, and he drinks it out of the same cup he always does, sitting in the same chair by the furthest window. From this seat he shouts to me across the store whatever thought occurs to him.
“I’m working security for the fuckin’ Queen next month, eh? Right now I’m busy guarding the baby ducks from that oil spill...”
“What oil spill?”
You know, that fuckin’ big one out by that …lake. Hey, did you know I been electrocuted?
“Yeah Bob, you told me… weren’t you working construction when it happened?””Fuck no. I was fucking a model and she got so into it, ya know, that she dropped the vibrator we was playing with into the tub.”
“Oh… I could have sworn it was constructions…aren’t vibrators battery-run?”
“Well what would you know about it, girlie, you’re 13!” (I am 20)
Bob winks at me and chuckles, turning back to his tea, motorcycle boots propped up on a plush couch, mud oozing down the rivets of the fabric.
He slurps his tea extra strong, drinking it out of his own particular black paisley patterned teacup because he says, “it’s the least fruitcakey.”
Bob could be a cartoon character he is so perfectly the same, every time I see him. He is outrageous and predictable, thoroughly disgusting and rude, laughable and lovable.
Soon Bob is joined by his brother Tim. As much as I like Bob, I hate Tim. Tim is a pervert who only tells us we look pretty if we happen to be wearing a tank top or a skirt. Tim comes up behind us when we can’t see him and tries to give us neck rubs, “for making him such good tea…” He leers at our asses or breasts, depending on the way we face him, and makes every girl in the tea-shop feel like her skin is crawling and prickling. When Tim is visually molesting us, Bob looks away.
I haven’t seen Bob in 6 months. I had to file a police report against him when he smashed a rock into the window and told the owner he was going to run her over with his truck. He was banned from the store, and I was almost fired when I said it was a shame.
“How ya doin’ me darlin’?”
(Bob is not Irish)
“I’m okay, kinda tired…”
“Well guess what I got for your skinny ass,”
“What?”
Bob throws a fruit roll-up above my head, so that I have to jump to catch it. We have a stash of about 20 of them in a drawer under the till, because no one who works here actually likes fruit-roll-ups. None of us have the heart to tell him.
“Thanks, Bob! The usual?”
“Damn straight. No butter on my scone. Butter is for fat-asses and morons… that shit gets in your hearteries and yer fuckin’ done for.”
“Right…”
I bring him his tea, and he drinks it out of the same cup he always does, sitting in the same chair by the furthest window. From this seat he shouts to me across the store whatever thought occurs to him.
“I’m working security for the fuckin’ Queen next month, eh? Right now I’m busy guarding the baby ducks from that oil spill...”
“What oil spill?”
You know, that fuckin’ big one out by that …lake. Hey, did you know I been electrocuted?
“Yeah Bob, you told me… weren’t you working construction when it happened?””Fuck no. I was fucking a model and she got so into it, ya know, that she dropped the vibrator we was playing with into the tub.”
“Oh… I could have sworn it was constructions…aren’t vibrators battery-run?”
“Well what would you know about it, girlie, you’re 13!” (I am 20)
Bob winks at me and chuckles, turning back to his tea, motorcycle boots propped up on a plush couch, mud oozing down the rivets of the fabric.
He slurps his tea extra strong, drinking it out of his own particular black paisley patterned teacup because he says, “it’s the least fruitcakey.”
Bob could be a cartoon character he is so perfectly the same, every time I see him. He is outrageous and predictable, thoroughly disgusting and rude, laughable and lovable.
Soon Bob is joined by his brother Tim. As much as I like Bob, I hate Tim. Tim is a pervert who only tells us we look pretty if we happen to be wearing a tank top or a skirt. Tim comes up behind us when we can’t see him and tries to give us neck rubs, “for making him such good tea…” He leers at our asses or breasts, depending on the way we face him, and makes every girl in the tea-shop feel like her skin is crawling and prickling. When Tim is visually molesting us, Bob looks away.
I haven’t seen Bob in 6 months. I had to file a police report against him when he smashed a rock into the window and told the owner he was going to run her over with his truck. He was banned from the store, and I was almost fired when I said it was a shame.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
baby, you/re an anarchist/
so you don/t listen when I say Chesterton/s got something to teach you/you preach at me while dangling off bridges/I nod enthusiastically while silently unscrewing your caribiners and cutting the cords holding up your banner hoping maybe it will whip through the thick air and wrap you in wrathful plastic that plummets and plunges you deep into the putrescence of the North Saskatchewan/(breathe)/It/s not that I don/t agree with your message/in all likelihood the tar sands probably are evil/most things are/evil that is/all I want you to hear is/fuck you I recycle/and every time I drop a plastic bottle into that bottle green bin I am reminded that I don/t matter and it/s not enough/we are insignificant specks/dust motes but smaller/nothing and no one and nowhere/yeah you hate the man and the man hates you/I hate you/you/re yelling anarchy with your tongue out/that shock rock hand signal morphs into the Spock sign and fuck I/m confused so I suggest that if you're such a hard-core environmentalist shouldn/t you just kill yourself/no waste then/sustainable living without the living/hahaha/you don/t get it and tell me that my attitude is destroying the world/so again/fuck you I recycle/it/s just that Molotov cocktailing my local Starbucks won/t do shit but make me late for school/I want to tell you all of this but you/ve got the monopoly on righteous rage/and my voice is gone anyways/ dry and dust-clogged from misuse because baby/all I ever do is sit alone in my room and read Chesterton/cough brine out of my lungs and dream of the nihilists taking over your world
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
playing with poetry cont...
I'm playing the piano
banging each note with the backs of my hands
pounding them into a
tuneless
rhythmless
submission
I'm playing the piano and
there are cotton balls coming up
through the keys
beside B flat
I see them dissolve and I know
that it's not cotton
it's smoke
I crouch upon the piano bench
still drumming out sound with my swollen knuckles
I replace my fingers with my toes
so no one knows there's been a change
but so I can stand and see
behind the dust and grainy wood
where you are hiding
I keep jigging on the keys
toes tapping out awful
childish noises
cold ivory on chafed calluses
this tuneless ditty dying under my cramped feet and
you dying under my cramped gaze
you are crouching
among wires and pedels
on a bed of sheet music
my metronome between your legs
holding up the small glass pipe
you're sucking on
you're all white scabs and mouth sores
oozing scabs that crack and bleed
when you pucker up
to kiss or to
take another hit
banging each note with the backs of my hands
pounding them into a
tuneless
rhythmless
submission
I'm playing the piano and
there are cotton balls coming up
through the keys
beside B flat
I see them dissolve and I know
that it's not cotton
it's smoke
I crouch upon the piano bench
still drumming out sound with my swollen knuckles
I replace my fingers with my toes
so no one knows there's been a change
but so I can stand and see
behind the dust and grainy wood
where you are hiding
I keep jigging on the keys
toes tapping out awful
childish noises
cold ivory on chafed calluses
this tuneless ditty dying under my cramped feet and
you dying under my cramped gaze
you are crouching
among wires and pedels
on a bed of sheet music
my metronome between your legs
holding up the small glass pipe
you're sucking on
you're all white scabs and mouth sores
oozing scabs that crack and bleed
when you pucker up
to kiss or to
take another hit
a self-analysis of the capacity for humour
I'm sitting at a sketch comedy show at Yuk Yuk's alone, clutching my freshly sharpened pencil and wondering why I can't be funny. Black humour, now I've been told I have a competance for that - but to be perfectly honest, I"ve never tried for black humour, it just seems to seep through into my 'serious writing'. I've been told time and time again - once more by Minister Faust at his reading last week - that if i want to learn to capture my audience, get my point across in an interesting and provocative manner, be diverse and entertaining in my presentation, then I have got to learn to be funny.
Minister Faust was introduced by an excited and flustered Janice Williamson, who proudly described how she met him while protesting the war in Iraq. He had given a speech so rousing regarding social change and human rights, that it caused Dr. Williamson to announce him as having "performative brilliance in all means, be it radio, television, or as a host for his live TV program. When she finally sat down, it was in the centre front row, with her chin in her hands to hear him speak. I idly wondered if I would ever have that effect on someone.
I settled into the third row which was close enough for a perfect line of vision and decent acoustics, but far enough away so that if boredom struck, I could watch the river and the skyline without seeming rude. However, when Minister Fust stood up to speak, I instantly forgot about potentially needing a decent distraction. He was an engaging, dramatic speaker - and unquestionably easy on the eyes, as my mother would say. He prefaced his reading by trying to sell us his television show, Health TV, and offering us low-grade prizes like pencils and mugs. I was unimpressed, but not so much so that I refused my pencil at the end of the reading. I inwardly recoiled as he described his reading and a branch of science fiction. To my elitist taste in literature, science fiction is the stuff of doomed boyfriends and annoying little brothers. To my delight, the book was absolutely hilarious, and I laughed out loud (this is rare) at least twice.
He discussed in his Q+A period how important honest language is for dialogue, and strongly recommended attending sketch comedy to hone our humour skills. So here I am now, sitting at Yuk Yuk's, not trying to polish, but merely discover if I have any hope at writing humour. I give up as I realize that I've been so stressed out, I haven't even laughed in the past hour. I walk out of hte comedy club feeling dejected, and catch the bus home. Lying in bed that night, I realize that I left my notebook full of meticulous stratagies for humour and my crappy-but-free pencil on the bus. I sigh and roll out of bed, pulling on a sweatshirt and walking to a nearby 24 hour internet cafe. I sit squinting in the dim glow of the computer screen and order two of Minister Faust's books form Amazon.com. Instead of trying to be funny, I'll settle for reading funny. It's got to come to me one day.
Minister Faust was introduced by an excited and flustered Janice Williamson, who proudly described how she met him while protesting the war in Iraq. He had given a speech so rousing regarding social change and human rights, that it caused Dr. Williamson to announce him as having "performative brilliance in all means, be it radio, television, or as a host for his live TV program. When she finally sat down, it was in the centre front row, with her chin in her hands to hear him speak. I idly wondered if I would ever have that effect on someone.
I settled into the third row which was close enough for a perfect line of vision and decent acoustics, but far enough away so that if boredom struck, I could watch the river and the skyline without seeming rude. However, when Minister Fust stood up to speak, I instantly forgot about potentially needing a decent distraction. He was an engaging, dramatic speaker - and unquestionably easy on the eyes, as my mother would say. He prefaced his reading by trying to sell us his television show, Health TV, and offering us low-grade prizes like pencils and mugs. I was unimpressed, but not so much so that I refused my pencil at the end of the reading. I inwardly recoiled as he described his reading and a branch of science fiction. To my elitist taste in literature, science fiction is the stuff of doomed boyfriends and annoying little brothers. To my delight, the book was absolutely hilarious, and I laughed out loud (this is rare) at least twice.
He discussed in his Q+A period how important honest language is for dialogue, and strongly recommended attending sketch comedy to hone our humour skills. So here I am now, sitting at Yuk Yuk's, not trying to polish, but merely discover if I have any hope at writing humour. I give up as I realize that I've been so stressed out, I haven't even laughed in the past hour. I walk out of hte comedy club feeling dejected, and catch the bus home. Lying in bed that night, I realize that I left my notebook full of meticulous stratagies for humour and my crappy-but-free pencil on the bus. I sigh and roll out of bed, pulling on a sweatshirt and walking to a nearby 24 hour internet cafe. I sit squinting in the dim glow of the computer screen and order two of Minister Faust's books form Amazon.com. Instead of trying to be funny, I'll settle for reading funny. It's got to come to me one day.
playing with poetry
Exposure
I am choreographed into vulnerability
chest lifted
head back
wrists held out to the crowd
as white and ghostly
as when you taught me how to
hold a hookah to my lips
and drink sweet cinnamon smoke
I fall violently to the floor
ripping the canvas of my musculature
rolling and splitting myself up my center
contorting with that pleasure-pain of
knowing there is
Ichor in my blood
and I am invincible
a hairless sweaty hand
sliding up my thick woolen skirt
leaving a streak of ash
along the inside of my thigh
the score is to arch my back
as I spread my legs
lift my pelvis
drop my eyes
but I’m not going to do this anymore
I stand and press my palms
over the bruises on my hips
I wipe the blood form my ankle
with the back of my calf
I remember how
It was because
your name was Atticus
that I trusted you
I am choreographed into vulnerability
chest lifted
head back
wrists held out to the crowd
as white and ghostly
as when you taught me how to
hold a hookah to my lips
and drink sweet cinnamon smoke
I fall violently to the floor
ripping the canvas of my musculature
rolling and splitting myself up my center
contorting with that pleasure-pain of
knowing there is
Ichor in my blood
and I am invincible
a hairless sweaty hand
sliding up my thick woolen skirt
leaving a streak of ash
along the inside of my thigh
the score is to arch my back
as I spread my legs
lift my pelvis
drop my eyes
but I’m not going to do this anymore
I stand and press my palms
over the bruises on my hips
I wipe the blood form my ankle
with the back of my calf
I remember how
It was because
your name was Atticus
that I trusted you
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Hello all,
My topic may seem tame to those of you who got to go out and test-drive all sorts of fun and fancy vehicles, but due to circumstances involving my younger sister and a smashing hall party, I no longer have a driver's license. I sorely regret not having the opportunity to dress up rich and try to take out a Porsche or something shiny and leathery-smelling, because - contrary to some opinions - some girls do like to drive fast. Regardless of my disappointment at missing out on a social/literal thrill ride, I will get to the point by prefacing my experience of "buying a laptop" with some background information you may or may not choose to mock me for.
Nearly everything to do with computers stresses me out. I was going to say nearly everything to do with technology, but I'm working on being less dramatic. I even started with nearly, not everything - progress already. I can handle simple functions, such as Word, (not 2007- oh, the devastation) and checking my e-mail, but that is the limit of my suspicious, hesitant relationship with the computer. Please keep this in mind throughout the piece; it may add new elements of humour and pathos.
I rode my bike to the downtown Futureshop at about 830 Thursday night. (I was being uncharacteristically proactive, my procrastinating instinct combined with dread normally would have staved off this assignment until Monday night, or possibly even late Tuesday afternoon). I locked up to a rail near the back of the store, and, feeling quite proud of myself for attacking this assignment so early on in the week, strutted through the automatic doors. The ceilings were higher than expected, and I felt a sudden rush of vertigo, brought on I suppose, by my eyes adjusting to the glare of fluorescent lights and the flicking and flashing of so many electronic screens and signals.
It really was dizzying, thrown at you all at once like that.
I made my way to the far right quarter of the store, and stood directly under a huge red sign promising: COMPUTERS & ACCESSORIES. I thrust my hands into my pockets and looked around helplessly - honest and effective - and before a minute had passed, I was approached by two eager-to-please stereotypical salesmen, both with out-thrust name tags pinned to their chests, one announcing STEVE, and the other STEPHEN.
Salesman #1: "What can I help you find today?" with a winning smile.
Salesman #2: "What can I do for you?" sidestepping around the first.
These two opening greetings ricocheted off each other in a confusion of anticipation. I put on my best 'overwhelmed' face and smiled apologetically.
"Well, I don't really know. I guess I'm just looking for a basic laptop..."
I immediately felt guilty. They looked like my younger sister back when she still worshipped me, before the hall-party days, so eager to please, so willing to do anything. So I indulged a spontaneous rush of good intention - mercifully crushing them before they had a chance to build up hopes of a big sale.
"Which is the cheapest one you have? Oh - and I won't be buying it today."
Their enthusiasm predictably waned, and the rest of the pitch was unremarkable. I was shown a few basic models and recited features I couldn't understand. I shook the salesman's hand goodbye, and thank you, squeezing harder than necessary to have him look me in the eye again. This was Salesman #2, as Salesman #1 had wandered off some time ago. I navigated my way out of the store, pausing only to shake my head in disgust at a sign that read something like: If you've been in Futureshop for more than 6 hours, alert the police you're not missing! I'll never understand it, and so, as people have a habit of doing, I pretend I am above it.
I left the glare and the hum of machines behind me with a shrug of relief, and happily sucked in the cold night air as I walked around the store to my bike. My bike... that was now only a cut cable lock, twisted up as if nursing it's severed, splayed guts. My own guts squirmed as I stared at where my bike had been about 30 minutes ago. I took about 10 minutes to pass through the 5(?) stages of grief, lingering a bit long on anger, before starting the 19 block walk home, fuming the whole way. A sufferer of a mild strain of agoraphobia, buses have always been a last resort for me, so the loss of my bike was a devastating thing. I did however, discover that I walk faster mad.
Still (somehow) in my proactive mind frame, I decided to stop by Compusmart on the way home to check their hours, as I was supposed to compare/contrast two stores. Compusmart had closed down. I stood outside the doors and felt a twinge of satisfaction. It certainly wasn't compensation for my bike, but I wasn't going to another computer store, and maybe - just maybe- I thought, they would put in something useful, instead. Something like a used bookstore, or a hookah bar, something I can understand, something I can relate to, something I can see has a purpose that's good, a purpose that is nothing near light pollution or computer-glow headaches, stolen bikes, or a name-tag that says: STEVE.
My topic may seem tame to those of you who got to go out and test-drive all sorts of fun and fancy vehicles, but due to circumstances involving my younger sister and a smashing hall party, I no longer have a driver's license. I sorely regret not having the opportunity to dress up rich and try to take out a Porsche or something shiny and leathery-smelling, because - contrary to some opinions - some girls do like to drive fast. Regardless of my disappointment at missing out on a social/literal thrill ride, I will get to the point by prefacing my experience of "buying a laptop" with some background information you may or may not choose to mock me for.
Nearly everything to do with computers stresses me out. I was going to say nearly everything to do with technology, but I'm working on being less dramatic. I even started with nearly, not everything - progress already. I can handle simple functions, such as Word, (not 2007- oh, the devastation) and checking my e-mail, but that is the limit of my suspicious, hesitant relationship with the computer. Please keep this in mind throughout the piece; it may add new elements of humour and pathos.
I rode my bike to the downtown Futureshop at about 830 Thursday night. (I was being uncharacteristically proactive, my procrastinating instinct combined with dread normally would have staved off this assignment until Monday night, or possibly even late Tuesday afternoon). I locked up to a rail near the back of the store, and, feeling quite proud of myself for attacking this assignment so early on in the week, strutted through the automatic doors. The ceilings were higher than expected, and I felt a sudden rush of vertigo, brought on I suppose, by my eyes adjusting to the glare of fluorescent lights and the flicking and flashing of so many electronic screens and signals.
It really was dizzying, thrown at you all at once like that.
I made my way to the far right quarter of the store, and stood directly under a huge red sign promising: COMPUTERS & ACCESSORIES. I thrust my hands into my pockets and looked around helplessly - honest and effective - and before a minute had passed, I was approached by two eager-to-please stereotypical salesmen, both with out-thrust name tags pinned to their chests, one announcing STEVE, and the other STEPHEN.
Salesman #1: "What can I help you find today?" with a winning smile.
Salesman #2: "What can I do for you?" sidestepping around the first.
These two opening greetings ricocheted off each other in a confusion of anticipation. I put on my best 'overwhelmed' face and smiled apologetically.
"Well, I don't really know. I guess I'm just looking for a basic laptop..."
I immediately felt guilty. They looked like my younger sister back when she still worshipped me, before the hall-party days, so eager to please, so willing to do anything. So I indulged a spontaneous rush of good intention - mercifully crushing them before they had a chance to build up hopes of a big sale.
"Which is the cheapest one you have? Oh - and I won't be buying it today."
Their enthusiasm predictably waned, and the rest of the pitch was unremarkable. I was shown a few basic models and recited features I couldn't understand. I shook the salesman's hand goodbye, and thank you, squeezing harder than necessary to have him look me in the eye again. This was Salesman #2, as Salesman #1 had wandered off some time ago. I navigated my way out of the store, pausing only to shake my head in disgust at a sign that read something like: If you've been in Futureshop for more than 6 hours, alert the police you're not missing! I'll never understand it, and so, as people have a habit of doing, I pretend I am above it.
I left the glare and the hum of machines behind me with a shrug of relief, and happily sucked in the cold night air as I walked around the store to my bike. My bike... that was now only a cut cable lock, twisted up as if nursing it's severed, splayed guts. My own guts squirmed as I stared at where my bike had been about 30 minutes ago. I took about 10 minutes to pass through the 5(?) stages of grief, lingering a bit long on anger, before starting the 19 block walk home, fuming the whole way. A sufferer of a mild strain of agoraphobia, buses have always been a last resort for me, so the loss of my bike was a devastating thing. I did however, discover that I walk faster mad.
Still (somehow) in my proactive mind frame, I decided to stop by Compusmart on the way home to check their hours, as I was supposed to compare/contrast two stores. Compusmart had closed down. I stood outside the doors and felt a twinge of satisfaction. It certainly wasn't compensation for my bike, but I wasn't going to another computer store, and maybe - just maybe- I thought, they would put in something useful, instead. Something like a used bookstore, or a hookah bar, something I can understand, something I can relate to, something I can see has a purpose that's good, a purpose that is nothing near light pollution or computer-glow headaches, stolen bikes, or a name-tag that says: STEVE.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
