I think I'll do this every year.

Write "Anonymous" in the name section of this post's comment box and erase your email/website information.

Tell me a secret.


I straight up just had the best birthday ever.

The end.


when it rains for days

Guess who got 100% on her Social Psych test? That's right. Me. Guess who wrote her 307 rhyming poem assignment at five thirty this morning under the influence of NeoCitron? Me. Guess who received The Diaries of Sylvia Plath and P.K. Page's Selected Poems from the best poetry majors in the universe for her birthday? Me. All I need now is a super stellar 307 midterm grade and my life will be complete.

I should do more things requiring thought when I'm sick. This must bode well for my Psych paper. I love this day.

Here are some amusing observations:

Hostel internet is running again (knock on wood). This is a very happy moment in my life.

There is a mango-scented air freshener hanging on the back of the bathroom door. It's shaped like a pine tree.

Victoria, apparently, has a mobile knife-sharpening service. They have a fancy van.

A man just rode by on his bicycle, and hanging from his bicycle frame was a big sign that read: You are not in Amsterdam. Wear a helmet.

I would be lol-ing at life so much harder right now if I didn't have the worst sinus headache in human history and didn't have to blow my nose every eight seconds.


your voice floating like driftwood on a liquid telephone line

Carla made pumpkin chocolate chip loaf for my 307 class because today was Midterm Day, but I got to sneak an extra piece because I saw her in office hours and I think she pitied me for being plagued with Stress Disease. I wrote the midterm from behind a thick haze of NeoCitron and spent pretty much the entire 75 minutes convinced I was going to die, so she'll have an amusing time grading my paper.

Almost no work has been accomplished today, save some major progress on my ridiculous rhyming poem assignment. I sincerely hope I feel better by tomorrow because I'm skipping PEP to rework my Psych paper, not to slip into a coma at seven thirty at night.

What are we?
Three rabbits in moonlight, no moon now.


Eugh. Life.

Trying to write poetry on the third floor of the McPherson library is the single most profoundly depressing thing I've done all year.

I'm starting to get antsy about this writer's block and the lack of work I've accomplished as of late. This does not mean, by any stretch of the imagination, that more work will get accomplished in the near future. What it actually means is that absolutely no work will get accomplished until I calm down enough to stop thinking about fifty-seven things at once. Cue me falling deathly ill on the count of nine and a half (read: by tomorrow morning).

The only forseeable benefit of getting sick now is that the hallucinations might make for some interesting imagery. Otherwise, I have nothing. Except, maybe, that it might get me out of having to celebrate my birthday, which I'm kind of dreading.

If I fail, will you carry me home?

Hostel internet has been almost perpetually down for the last two days. This is highly annoying due to the fact that apparently I will implode without access to the world wide web at all times. O, 21st century... *eye roll*.

Today it's blustery and sunny and I would give my life to frolick in autumn attire at Cadboro Bay, but unfortunately I have a paper to write. Such is the life of a university student who is trying to accomplish all work due next Monday by tomorrow evening so she doesn't have to work on her birthday.


Piss in her EAR, make her say UNCLE.

The degree to which I've felt like a real poetry major these last few days has been ridiculously high.

I am so glad for Scrabble at Bean, Planet Earth Poetry, my hostel, ichiban, Lorna, Leonard Cohen; for Steph and Brit, and the completely insane things we wind up doing when in each other's presence.

Approximately eighteen poems are burbling in the fissures between my bones and I must make time to write them. If I put my open mouth to your ear, you will hear them humming.


This day

is all poetry.

Victoria mist and fog and the smell of the ocean in Oak Bay Village. The weirdest anti-job interview of my life and old moccasins in a dark boarding room at eleven am. Carla's floppy bun held in place by a thick blue hair elastic. Soft orange lamps and blues music in Bean that remind me of my father's living room on late winter afternoons. Tepid evening sunlight that knocks at wooden charcoal rain clouds. Warm blankets and woolly socks and cold air through a half-open window. And all these workshop poems that I actually enjoy reading.

Breaking News:

Chelsea lives another day without selling her soul to capitalism.

If Martha Stewart was here, she would turn her face to the camera, smile serenely, and say "it's a good thing."

The fact that Martha Stewart is basically the epitome of capitalism in North American society is only a very minior technicality, and far beyond the point.


Several miraculous things occurred in my life today:

1. The sheer fact that several miraculous things occurred in my life today should stand as its own point. This never happens to me.

2. I actually managed to leave my house somewhat dressed for the weather.

3. Melanie Siebert gave me a good grade for the first time in human history.

4. I met with Lorna after class. She looked at me like I had an alien seed pod about to erupt from the side of my head when I told her I didn't know if I should be a poetry major and proceeded to inform me that I'm one of the strongest poets in her workshop.

5. Real live effort was put into my Psych midterm revision.

6. I did well on my Psych midterm. Unlike the last one, which I wrote on the first day of my period and which received a 60%.

7. Laurain Mills sent our Psych lecture home early.

8. Upon entering my room at nine o'clock this evening after a long day on campus, I walked directly into something tall and hard. I thought it was a rapist until I realized how little sense that made, and when I turned on the light, I saw that a dresser had magically appeared in my life after my request for one yesterday, which I thought would never come into fruition. It is the most hideous shade of Ocean Spray Blue I've ever seen in my life, but it mystically coordinates with the Hokusai "Rapids" poster on the wall directly above it, and for these reasons, this dresser is the best of life. I will name it Harriet, and anyone who sees this dresser will understand why.

The End.



I saw your face sour, but you should have seen it coming. You should have known before you said "the greatest complement you will ever receive as a poet is 'nice assonance!'" that there was some boy at the back with the maturity level of an eighth-grader who would whistle audibly as soon as you turned to write the definition of assonance on the board.
You should know you can't make those kinds of jokes with a body like that. Or you should learn to take your own advice.


I love magnetic poetry on my storage lockers.

worship milk
with skin and leave
my blue blood
to incubate

- Brit

delicate together
the rain would rust
my ironed hair

- Steph



Dear Snaggletooth,
I want my arm back.

(Joke. Kind of).

There is something kind of cozy, though, about drinking Philosopher's Brew and taking Psych notes at six thirty on a Sunday morning while I listen to Patrick Lane read poetry on CBC Radio's North by Northwest.



A seventy-five cent, almost new copy of Breathing Fire sandwiched painfully between a bunch of worn out romances - their spines cracked, covers torn - at the back of a musty moth haven of a thrift store on the shady side of town.


Dear Menstrual Cycle,

You make me want to slip into a coma. On many levels.
Please stop being a tool so I can stop feeling like that horrible girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when she eats too many forbidden blueberries, turns purple, swells to the size of a small hot air balloon, and floats arbitrarily off into oblivion. However appealing oblivion may sound right now, I. Don't. Have. Time.
Thank you.


Lay down on the cold ground.

I'm starting to feel like I spend half my life on city transit.

I wish I had my car tapes. I wish I had my car.

Inertia is not treating me particularly well these days.



their heads bright bruises
swelling out of autumn dirt
proof of things unsaid

a delicate persistence
their secrets in silent yards


I'm no Gwenolyn MacEwan.

Yesterday pretty much made me want to slip into a coma. And then I did. Face down across the bed, fully clothed. Didn't even take off my shoes. I don't know how I managed to get myself home after everything started to look like it was photoshopped to High Contrast and all I could see was the white light to heaven. Or at least that's what it looked like at the time. I thought I was dying, but I woke up freezing at ten to six and peeled off my blazer, scarf, moccasins, thinking that while the experience was horrible, the section in my poetic sequence about forays into substance use and abuse (which I will start as soon as my poetic morale rehydrates and no longer resembles a plum discarded on a sunny sidewalk and left to croak and wither) would be fabulous.

This is when you know you're a real writing major: when you wake in the blue hours before dawn thinking only in images and distilled language even though you're still wasted and your mouth tastes like craft glue because searching for a toothbrush in complete darkness is futile. This is how I know. This is how I know not to switch my major to Women's Studies or English Honors or Chemistry. I know. But there's this quote from a Lorrie Moore short story stuck in my skin like a wasp stinger even though I can't remember exactly how it goes because I was stupid enough to recycle all of my Writing coursepacks from last year instead of saving them for instances like this. It goes something like He asks you if being a writer is ever discouraging. You say it's like having polio, sometimes it is and sometimes it is. I need someone (and by someone I mean you, you with the sun-white hair and hips like ripe peaches) to tell me I have to do this. That if I don't do this, I will be wasting my life. And I'm not usually one to actively seek validation like this, but there you go. That's how the universe works sometimes, and this is just one of those days.


If my life were a movie, there would be a sunset...

Today I was the most productive person in the universe.

If I don't have carpal tunnel syndrome now, I never will. On the down side, all of my pens are almost out of ink.


On a day, which is every day.

It was uncharacteristically warm out for the beginning of October in Victoria.

I have a six day weekend for Thanksgiving, minus my class with Carla tomorrow afternoon, which is pretty much heaven anyway and doesn't count. I thought the next few days were going to be uneventful as all hell, but, as is the way my life is going lately, they won't be. At all. In a good way. But I will take one day all for myself. One. There is so. Much. Work.

I fell dead asleep on Steph's couch this afternoon whilst doing the readings for Tim's lecture. Naps are fabulous. This is my deep insight for the day.



major frenzy
spectre spring
heat-wave.....hollowed crop
threatens pumpkins

America's devistated
out of pies

Tangent Universe

Once, she told me I was the best thing that ever happened to her.

I wonder if she still believes that.

I wonder if she ever believed that.



Today the man who made my hallway smell like vagina for the last week and a half has been replaced by a bunch of incense-burning hippies. This is a huge, happy development in my life.

I've only been back here a month, but I can already tell that when I'm 45 and my liver is slowly rotting away in my rib cage due to poet-induced alcoholism, this is the year I'll mean when I talk about being young and in my prime.