Sunday, November 12, 2006

Spadina streetcar, thisclose

Caucasian woman, mid 20s, short, sleek bob she tucks behind her ears self-consciously. Long, wool coat, collar way, way up. Jeweled ring, black on silver. Fine, angular features. Delicate, long fingers anticipating the next page which she turns slowly without sound and barely movement. She's a bit of a whisper.

Page 60:
The Namesake, Jhumpa Lahiri (Mariner Books)

In art class, his favorite hour of the week, he carves his name with paper clips into the bottoms of clay cups and bowls. He pastes uncooked pasta to cardboard, and leaves his signature in fat brush strokes below paintings.
You sniff every few seconds and clear your throat in a high pitch. You're afraid to commit to the one inhale or exhale that will bring you relief. So you continue to state your presence in a series of tiny sounds and gestures, drawing me in with each attempt to not exist in this public space, with these strangers. For your efforts, I find I want to look at you. I have an inexplicable urge to be inside your breath, to kiss you. I stand and prepare for my stop stealing a quick glance. Wow. We look way too much alike.


dean said...

I saw your link in the Vancouver Sun...interesting what you're doing. I love unconventional creativity -- and it must make it very fun to go anywhere. Thanks for your diligence and thanks for sharing.

Julie Wilson said...

Thanks Dean. I've had a day of non-believers so your timing is uncanny. It does make it fun. I saw someone reading experimental poetry on the way home and can't wait to let the publisher and author know!

Anonymous said...

you make me believe in people with soul again. your imagination, your writing, it's beautiful in the true sense of the word.

Julie Wilson said...

Anon, this is very generous. Thank you, truly.