February 2018

I read and listen to all the Patti Smith I can get my hands on. I start having black coffee, brown bread, and olive oil for breakfast.

I put a deposit down on a new apartment on the south side of the river; I move in on March 1. We're going to go back to colonizing two whole apartments in the same building, like we did on 99th St; like Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, like Helena Bonham Carter and Tim Burton.

I start a three-month contract as a copywriter for a bank. I've never gotten paid so much to do something I am so good at.

I return to the 90s Catholic music I grew up with. I need these ideas and these melodies; there is no escaping it.

Dylan and I go to France to attend the Clermont-Ferrand International Short Film Festival, where Dylan's film PEAK OIL is premiering. We see Picassos and Van Goghs, and discover the Neo-Impressionists. Dylan convinces me to buy a long wool coat, one of those pieces of clothing that promises to transform you into the person you want to be. Surprisingly, I am very glad to return to Alberta.

I try to figure out what it means to be a wife while my husband is falling in love with someone else. She's incredible. I'm determined to pursue this less-taken path, convinced there is something magnificent waiting for all of us at the end.

I perform the long poems from Accomplice at a bar on Whyte called The Almanac. For the first time, my name is on a poster. For the first time, my words feel right in my mouth.

My current artistic heroes are all women, except for Van Gogh. Patti, Frida, Virginia, Sylvia (as always), Sally Mann, Andrea Arnold. It's taken me over 20 years to stop thinking of my gender as a liability.

I get an email saying CRICKET is going to screen at FAVA Fest in April. A sign of acceptance from the small-but-brilliant film community here. I am honoured and excited.

I stop using my smartphone. I delete most of my social media. The peace and focus I was hoping would return begins to return.

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