I Wish That You Knew The Truth.

Above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you. The greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places, and those who don't believe in magic will never find them at all.

The Nature of Daylight

People are settling into their seats. I hear voices. I can't make out what's being said. I can feel my heart beating in my feet. I can see the space between everything, the negative space. Colour leaves.

Just think of gray. Focus on the gray.

Voices get louder and suddenly, they leave. My eyes get tighter. I can see molecules in the air. My lungs laugh and my eyes act like uncertain curtains covering broken windows. I see myself in the form of a wolf; two people, one animal.

Under the lights, everything is black and white.

Let the love blaze like fire.

I don't see colour until I'm just one person again. Until they've left.

Her face changed a lot and sometimes the way she looked at him made him think they were strangers.

Liar, Liar.

"You're never going to see the truth. It's what you're shooting for always and you always miss it. Every once in a while, you catch an edge of it. That's what's you hope for, I think, as an artist."

Fool For Love

"I thought you were supposed to be a fantasist, right? Isn't that basically the deal with you?"


If you are in Toronto, come see my show.

Fool for Love by Sam Shepard

Limited engagement! Only 10 performances
Preview Jan. 12th, 2011 $15
Show runs Jan. 13th – 21st at 8pm, with a 2pm matinee on Sunday the 16th.
Meta Gallery, 124 Ossington Ave.
$20

Email: foolforlovetoronto@gmail.com to reserve tickets.

It hasn't been easy, but I think we're making something good. The people involved are incredibly talented and I'm excited to see what happens.

I hope to see you there. Xxx

Mirror, Mirror.

It was one love. Just split in two.

"You be Romeo and I'll be Juliet. You're right. They both ended up dead. You be Anthony. I'll be Cleopatra. Oh. Right. Same deal. Fine, you be Spencer Tracy and I'll be Kate Hepburn. I know, I know. She was his mistress and they never married, but they were really in love, see. He was just Catholic. Okay, you be Richard Burton and I'll be Liz Taylor. Well, it doesn't matter that they didn't end up together. The last letter he wrote was to her. Alright, you be Paul Newman and I'll be...no, wait, I hate Joanne Woodward. Because. She's boring. You be Cyrano and I'll be Roxanne. What? They were cousins? Oh, okay. Forget that. You be F. Scott and I'll be Zelda..don't even say it. I know. I know. They were fucked. You be Dracula and I'll be.. Wait, you be Napoleon and I'll be Josephine. They didn't end up together? Fine. You be Rhett and I'll be Scarlett. Who cares that they weren't real?"

Maybe we've got it all screwed up. Maybe it's not supposed to last forever. Maybe we're lucky if we get it at all. Maybe the goal should just be to love the shit out of someone. Maybe if we all accepted that it wasn't permanent, it'd be a lot easier, because if history is any indicator, the people that love each other the most don't end up together. Maybe that kind of love is too much, too big, too full. Maybe it always fades. You come in alone and you leave the same. If that's how fairy tales ended, we'd be a lot more prepared.

"Stop bullshitting. You want to be a princess. You still believe in Prince Charming."

"Not really."

"Yes really."

"I know. But it's a lot easier when I front like I don't."

Homes That Were Not Mine

"Down by the lake you saw me and you knew I was waiting for you."



I don't remember my childhood. I don't remember anything, really. I see images sometimes. They play out like flickers of light against darkness.

When I was seven, I met a woman named Nicole. She was beautiful and fragile.

"Don't fall in love with a porcelain doll," her boyfriend told me when he was leaving, that time for good.

She worked at the clothing store down the street. She wanted to be an actress. I would visit her in her apartment whenever my mother let me. It was small, with tattered fabrics everywhere. I was a child who was good at pretending to be an adult. I'd trick her into talking to me about men. I'd wear her dresses and her high heels.

"There is never enough make up," she told me, as she straightened my hair.

Her eyelids were heavy with words and desire. Eyes piled up like hers, I looked like a painting. She took my picture and I saved it for later.

In her apartment, I wasn't a little girl. In that home that was not mine, I could try on the woman I wanted to be.

I'd leave her apartment, sad that the costumes she lent me were on the floor, hopeful I could wear them like my own, that I could be all grown-up again soon.




When I grew up, my best friend Alice moved just south of Yonge and Bloor. I found myself there several times a week.

Being an adult for the first time was thrilling. I worry I'll never feel like that, ever again.

It had wood floors and beautiful windows. It was huge for one eighteen year old. It decorated with pictures her sister had taken, but every part of it looked like Alice. I was sure parts of her had been swept across the floors, painted on the walls, washed into the counter tops.

The door was always unlocked. We'd sit on the black leather couch and talk about men. Life was slower, scored by teenage crises. We'd eat cold rolls on her floor. There were birthday parties, going away parties, parties for no reason.

That connection to my friends is something I've lost in the collection that's my life.

I miss the feeling in that home that was not mine. Everything that happened was funny. Nothing really mattered. I was weightless enough to fly. I was more comfortable in my own skin there than anywhere else in the world.

"All I ever want to do is listen to Girl Talk."

I still believe that that Katie and that Alice are living there, together, eating Cool-Whip until they're sick. It doesn't matter that she's half-way across the world. We're there. We're happy. Life is simple.

"Tell you what it is? Believe me bird girl, I've tried. There's no explaining."

The last time I was there, I danced without thinking. I haven't since.




Now, there is a room at Logan and Danforth that feels like home.

You have to walk up too many stairs to get to his door, feeling your way through darkness. It's messy and loud. There's a cat. She doesn't like me, I don't think.

We stay up late and the air heavy with bedroom philosophies. There, the sounds of my dreams always keep me awake.

Sometimes, home, as it's defined, is the last place you feel comfortable. You need other places, near and far, where there are no assumed roles, habits or expectations. You need the space. Desperate for a safe haven, you need the uneven colours of other's, to shape and shade your life.

"It's not that I feel like myself, it's that I feel myself becoming someone else."


You pass through places and places pass through you.