Sunday, June 17, 2012

Black Sheep, A Novel Excerpt




The day John F. Kennedy died, Frank was painting his mother’s window. He had just moved back in with her, having left Montreal, having left Patty, having left everything. In his mother’s old age, he’d wanted to keep her company. He also didn’t want to be alone.

It was November and it was cold. He pulled his windbreaker closer to his chest. He had just cropped his hair close to his skull. The colours had gone and so had the ability to see what ailed people. The leading feelings remained but he ignored them with a willful conviction.

Go away.

What replaced them was an empty, angry sensation that spilled through his organs and lived in his stomach. 
He put his brush in the white paint. The ballgame was interrupted by the following message.

“John Kennedy has died.”

“Fucking Protestants,” he said. He took the brush and put it against the window frame without missing a single stroke.

In following years, although he was fascinated by conspiracies of his death, he wondered why he was not surprised that the President has been assassinated. Why he never felt surprised about anything, not for a moment. He wondered if even though the leading feelings were hidden, hung in shame, it didn’t mean they that they weren’t somewhere. 

Maybe somewhere they were living in full bloom.

Even though he'd never admit it, that was a hopeful thought.

Monday, June 11, 2012

Black Sheep, A Novel Excerpt




We make small talk about nothing for another twenty minutes. As I’m leaving, he asks, “How’s Andrew doing? You know, if he’s ever…unhappy with his management, send him to me.”

I nod. “I will.” I gather my purse.

Andrew was a dedicated student of the Meisner technique in Toronto. The teacher, the guru of his class, was like his second father. Actors sit in chairs and repeat single sentences to each other, sometimes only words.

“Fuck.” “Fuck.”

 “You’re wearing a black shirt.” “I’m wearing a black shirt,” and so on. I never understood the benefit. I always thought it was a cult.

“Doesn’t it get old?” I’d ask him.

But now, having the word “Andrew” said to me countless times a day, I understand. My repeating it back elicits strange reactions that even I couldn’t predict. Pride. Jealousy. Sadness. Heart palpitations.
But strangest of all, is that after saying it a hundred times, it began to feel true.

My reality is now a Meisner exercise of my boyfriend’s name.

“Maybe you should get a tan,” my manager tells my back as I’m walking out of his office.

I ask the cab to drive the long way to my meeting.