Catherine Paquette is a writer, college teacher, and intern at BookThug (Toronto). She has a Masters in English Literature and Creative Writing (Concordia University, Montreal) and is the author of the chapbook the burden of a song (Mercutio Press, 2007), which is a long-poem/visual experiment. Her poetry and fiction have been published in various Canadian and American publications including brokenpencil, misunderstandings magazine, Fireweed, shampoo, No Tell Motel, and the conundrum press book Papercut Heart. She has also
published articles and book reviews, and is currently completing a hard-boiled detective novel called A Theory of Darkness about the ever-so-broad mystery of time.
May we meet at a corner in the geometry of life
In moments like these you realize two things: 1) The word devil is evil with a ‘d’, therefore devil is a container of evil. 2) You are terribly weird, and being yourself entails many to see you as such. As a result of these two things you go on to realize: 1) Though you do not ultimately like devil or evil, they are titillating flirtations and according to a certain expert, tortured characters are so much more interesting to run with. 2) You are tired of feigning publicly and as a result of expressing your slant, must now cry for ten minutes to absolve yourself of the devil that others suspect you lodge within. As a result of these two things and the two before, you realize: 1) You want to abandon your dreams. 2) It is stupid to abandon your dreams. 3) It is only smart to abandon dreams that are nightmares. 4) It is only smart to hold onto your nightmares if you are writing about them because, to reiterate, the more tortured, and if I may add, twisted, the characters, the more titillating the tale. As a result of everything thus far: 1) The devil is to literature, as beards are to woodsmen. 2) Being “really weird” is an angle, like any other. 3) To every negative there is rumoured to be a positive. 4) I’ve been thought to do things backwards. 5) The word devil is lived in reverse and evil is live.
Goal of the week (a template):
In times of flux call ______ after the passage of (at least) one day in order to avoid the I-need-my ______ -to-affirm-me-at-all-times complex. Success or failure: wait one to two then perhaps even three days to a week (control must be regained) before slipping “it’ gently into conversation. Do not, we repeat, do not call for the sole purpose of saying, “I did this,” or “I didn’t that.” Yes, ______s are for comfort, but in times of ______ bondage, the song must be destroyed.
Tonight there was egg. It was an egg-mane/an egg-beard. It was a bachelor of a night snack. In my hair, around my mouth. I chewed and slopped and was single and wanting and egg loved my face. I thought about ‘the universe of the untamed, and smiled an eggy smile at the glowing moon. It was a perfect unbroken shell (that would break tomorrow into a perfect unbroken yoke). Yes, it was a night where sun was contained by moon, and everything made eggish sense. I lapped and put my body into thrusting the yoke onto my bread into my mouth. The snack, such a perfect munch; a prelude to an active sleep. Forthcoming dreams include: chasing people with streaming heads; dogs walking on eggshells towards the ultimate bone; and the baby in my ultrasound looking poached. It was a night of an egg. Sticky leaving me full, until the next hunger wakes me with its sunrise.
My teeth are browning. Coffee teeth and baggy eyes. The bags are sagging— this is the way of the future. The future is grim perhaps, grotesque. But grotesque is always fascinating. Like the Amazing Race that I won’t leave my couch for. Come join the couch. Come watch the setting sun. Pretend fun, pretend like simulated flavours, racing through my everything. Or—Stare at the Sun and Go Blind
My teeth are browning. Coffee teeth and baggy eyes. The bags are sagging— this is the way of the future. The future is grim perhaps, grotesque. But grotesque is always fascinating. Like the Amazing Race that I won’t leave my couch for. Come join the couch. Come watch the setting sun. Pretend fun, pretend like simulated flavours, racing through my everything.
Or—Stare at the Sun and Go Blind