Top Films of 2011

#10 Martha Marcy May Marlene—This story follows Martha (Elizabeth Olson, younger sister of the Michelle and Michelle Tanner) during the first few weeks of her escape from a cult in upper state New York. The film’s focus is Martha’s complex journey to find safety within her mind and environment. The archetypal cult elements are delineated primarily through charismatic cult leader Patrick (John Hawkes), who employs brainwashing, semi-forced sex, violence masked as protection, and re-identification (eg. changing Martha’s name to Marcy May and having all women that answer the phone use the name Marlene). Martha’s plight is one of paranoia, confusion, and social blunders as she attempts to reintegrate into her sister’s shallow, yuppie environment, one that regardless of her mental state she clearly distastes. There is a real sadness to her salvation and her distance from any sort of safety is apparent and frightening. Strong supporting performances from Sarah Paulson and Hugh Dancy but Elizabeth Olson carries this film.

#9 The Guard—Remember how you felt the first time you saw In Bruges? This movie made me feel the same way. What an absolute treat. Brendan Gleeson plays a veteran beat cop in Ireland forced to partner up with Don Cheadle to investigate a drug trafficking case and subsequent murders. Gleeson’s character shines from the opening scene, where he comes upon a car crash, finds some acid in the dead kid’s pocket, and drops it with a wry smile. All in good fun. He’s a charming man that loves his mother, beer, prostitutes, and witty banter. A new take on the buddy cop movie, and most likely the funniest film of the year.

#8 Carnage—Penelope and Michael Longstreet (John C. Reilly, Jodie Foster) invite Alan and Nancy Cowen (Christoph Waltz and Kate Winslet) into their home to resolve an incident of violence involving the couples’ sons on the playground. What begins as a civil discourse on social justice quickly (d)evolves into a critique of one another’s parenting skills and scathing personal attacks. Each has their own idea, none are right or wrong, and the clash of personalities is incredibly enjoyable once the veil of civility has been lifted. Maybe I haven’t seen enough of Roman Polanski’s work, but this feels more like a Woody Allen film to me. It’s cynical, neurotic, clever, awkward, absurd, and very funny. Four pros just doing what they do.

#7 Take Shelter—Following his masterful performance in Revolutionary Road, Michael Shannon delivers again as Curtis, a husband and father experiencing apocalyptic visions.  He believes his refuge to be found by building out the tornado shelter in his backyard, at all costs. Is he putting his family’s future in peril or assuring its safety? Is he suffering from a psychotic episode or is he a prophet? Jessica Chastain is brilliant in a complex role as Curtis’ wife. Take Shelter is a haunting and uncomfortable theatre experience. Expect to crawl out of your skin.

#6 We Need to Talk About Kevin—I should probably just come out and say it: I don’t like Tilda Swinton. Now I know this may not be popular with my bi-curious female friends who love androgynous women, but she grates on my nerves. That being said, she’s probably Best Actress worthy as Eva, the penitent mother of Kevin (Ezra Miller) in We Need to Talk About Kevin. This classic story of nature versus nurture, shot in a non-linear format, foreshadows a disastrous event that presumably involves Kevin. The narrative is Eva’s, who regrets bearing this child, but also believes the child to be fundamentally evil. The more she expresses to her husband Franklin (John C Reilly) that Kevin is problematic, the more this idea manifests. There is a great scene near the beginning of the film where Eva is holding baby Kevin in the air as he cries. She’s cooing at him, praying, pleading, begging for him to stop crying. Her smile is wrought and pained, a desperate grimace that is certainly no comfort to either of them. This juxtaposition illustrates the tumultuousness of their relationship from the onset. Kevin’s awareness of his mother’s remorse fuels his animosity, and his intelligence and patience beget a sinister revenge on an unloving world. In the horror of Eva’s world, she’s Frankenstein.

#5 The Artist—Old is new in this silent, black and white film from French director Michael Hazanavicius (try saying that three times fast, or once for that matter). This monochromatic, supremely charming love story is told through movement, expression, and orchestration. Hollywood’s biggest silent film star, George Valentin (Jean DuJardin) finds himself out of work and penniless when talkies emerge during the great depression, but not before a chance discovery of Peppy Miller (Berenice Bejo), the next big star. Their chemistry is dynamic as they smile and dance their way into our hearts. The choreography is enchanting. The Artist should be seen at the theatre, not solely for its charm, but to reward the producers for taking a chance and reinforcing that more films like this should be made. It’s a very difficult film to market, but not to enjoy.

#4 Shame—Steve McQueen’s super slick Shame is for adults only. This story follows Brandon (Michael Fassbender), a New York based marketing executive who designs his life to feed his sex addiction. What may seem like a shallow premise or an invalid mental disease turns out to be profoundly troubling as Brandon’s obsession to satiate his desires is unrelenting. A deep fear of intimacy is supplanted by prostitutes, internet porn, and one night stands.  When his semi-estranged sister, the aptly named Sissy (Carey Mulligan), comes to stay with Brandon, we are exposed to the rage, disgust, sadness, and guilt induced by his preoccupation. McQueen’s deftly crafted screenplay and artistic direction should propel him to that of Hollywood’s elite. Shame is a beacon for film lovers, Freudians, and perverts alike.

#3 Melancholia—Lars von Trier (Anitchrist, Dogville) writes and directs this two-part tale, starring Kirsten Dunst (Justine), Charlotte Gainsbourg (Claire), Alexander Skarsgard (Michael) and Keifer Sutherland (John).
Act one, entitled Justine, is set at the countryside mansion of John and Claire who are hosting the wedding reception of Michael and Justine. Justine is not your typical blissful bride. She oscillates from playful to brooding, imaginative to logical, kind to erratic. She has little regard for anyone or anything other than her mood, which is deeply unhappy. Subservient Michael simply ignores her careless behavior until he’s jilted at the point of consummation.
The supporting actors in part one are superbly crafted. John, our noble and vainglorious host’s ego is bruised by his guests lack of decorum, while Claire, the thoughtful but sensitive sister and hostess can only stretch her patience so far before snapping. Justine’s divorced parents, Gaby (Charlotte Rampling), the stubborn, hopeless, miserable mother, and Dexter (John Hurt), the free-loving, playful, unaccountable father are brilliant. Dexter’s accompaniment by two dates named Betty is a wonderful comedic touch.
Act two, Claire, concerns a planet dubbed Melancholia that has been hiding behind the sun and is now approaching Earth. This none too subtle metaphor of planets colliding provides an ominous though supremely beautiful backdrop to explore said subject. The viewer knows something bad is going to happen, but the intrigue comes from watching how it will unfold. Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde exudes a romantic feel to the apocalyptic scenario, drawing out the pleasures of sweet sorrow.
Melancholia is like watching a painting come to life. This is simply a gorgeous film from a true artist. Dunst is dazzling and had it not been for LVT’s political miscue at Cannes would have certainly been a consideration for Best Actress.

#2 The Tree of Life—A deeply philosophical film about nature, God, and grace, The Tree of Life is a sprawling epic from the masterful Terrence Malick. As both writer and director, Malick presents the story of a family, set in the 1950′s, navigating the turbulent waters of the American Dream. The film centers around Jack (Sean Penn) who is attempting to understand his place in the modern world by examining his life as a youth and his relationship with his father (Brad Pitt).
Easily the best directed film of the year, Malick exhibits his craftsmanship through patience and dedication to each frame. His penchant for natural light to encapsulate the perfect shot is legendary. The editing effort required for this film is of mammoth proportions. Brad Pitt, Jessica Chastain, and Sean Penn are superb, but the talent Malick displays in communicating his vision infinitely supersedes that of these actors.
There is almost no dialogue in the first third of this film. What is verbally communicated are haunting questions, emotional requests, and melancholic statements whispered through narration.
A 15 minute impressionistic art piece, representing the gurgling fractures that beget life, had a handful of people exiting the theatre; however, those that stayed were delighted by shot after shot of beautiful cinematography. It’s a brave interlude and the depth of this section serves to open the mind and inspire.
The linear portion of the film is a broad brush stroke of the American Dream. What would be described as a typical Midwestern upbringing is broken down to reveal the parts that make up the whole. Jack’s modern life is successful by American standards (suit, high rise office bldg., an architecturally beautiful home, reminiscent of that used in Atom Egoyan’s Chloe), but he is deeply unhappy. Upon examination of his youth, we are exposed to the moments that shaped him. The realization that his father is a man with flaws. That God may not exist, and if He does, how can he allow bad things to happen? That character comes from nature and nurture. That the world is an unfair place. That each of us are free to decide from moment to moment how we act, but with this realization comes the knowledge that we are truly alone. Malick’s mastery is his ability to dissect complex issues and convey them in their simplest terms.
The allegorical shots to close the film include fallen statues, holes, doors, ladders, veils, waves, waterfalls, bridges, and elevators. These beautiful metaphors provide an opportunity to reflect and induce a deeply emotional response. This is a film to experience, and for good reason, the winner of the Palme d’Or at Cannes.

#1 Drive —It’s true. My Ryan Gosling boner is huge. Gosling is the new Paul Newman. The new James Dean. The new Steve McQueen. Headlining his third blockbuster of the year, Nicolas Winding Refn’s Drive, Gosling cements his place as the coolest actor in Hollywood right now.
Why is this film my favorite of the year? Simply said, it’s very fucking cool.
The opening credits roll in hot pink Mistral typeface. This combination of 50′s lettering and 80′s colour jumps off the screen, immediately establishing an artistic tone.
The opening scene segues to a hotel room where the Driver (Gosling) prepares for a job. We’re brought along on a heist and led on a chase through downtown LA where he is able to elude a police helicopter and numerous units by employing skill, cunning, and a bit of luck. Steering the souped up Chevy Impala (the most popular car in California) into the Staples Center parking lot as the buzzer sounds to end the Clippers game brings an ingenious conclusion to the chase, highlighting the Driver’s literal and figurative street smarts. Kavinsky’s Nightcall kicks in, allowing us a moment to bask in the glory that is Gosling. “There’s something inside you. It’s hard to explain. They’re talking about you boy. But you’re still the same.” The Cliff Martinez produced soundtrack is the best soundtrack since 2004′s Garden State.
Now what makes Gosling so cool? In addition to being ridiculously handsome, his scorpion jacket, toothpick, classic car and driving gloves pay homage to the archetypal leather jacket/motorcycle heroes of yesteryears. His manly professions (mechanic/stuntman/getaway driver) are romanticized by men and women of all ages. His dialogue is sparse, but for good reason. It’s what creates the tone of loneliness and hope. We empathize with his solitary lifestyle. His only friend Shannon (Bryan Cranston) is his employer on all fronts and although their relationship is jovial, it’s more professional than personal. When he meets Irene (Carey Mulligan) and her son Benicio, we swoon as the deeply caring relationship blossoms. The personal complications of the characters serve to heighten their desires. The scenes with Carey Mulligan seethe with sexual tension as they eye fuck each other time and again.
Dichotomous to this vulnerability is a side of fearlessness and bravery. He’ll place himself in peril for what he believes. He’ll flip a car. He’ll stomp a henchman’s head into pulp. There are deadly elements to the life he leads, but he doesn’t blink in the face of danger.
The sudden bursts of stone cold violence jolt us back to the realities of gangsterism. Refn creates an odd juxtaposition in these violent scenes by combining a detached, clinical feel with an over the top, almost cartoonish brutality. The breakneck speed, precision, and awe-inspiring affects are a distinct trademark of his films. Rarely do one of these outbursts not result in a Keanu-like “whoa.” Albert Brooks (Bernie Rose) is especially noteworthy during his murder of Cook, in which he jams a fork in his eye, and then stabs him in the throat repeatedly with a chef’s knife. His subsequent murder of Shannon (slitting his arm open from elbow to wrist while murmuring “don’t worry, that’s it, it’s done. There’s no pain. It’s over. It’s over”) is such a professional kill that we’re left terrified yet comforted by the painless death.
Aside from artistic vision, flawless direction, a superb soundtrack, and impeccable casting, this movie is intense, exciting and super cool. The film is about the choices that shackle us, and the romanticism of overcoming them. It’s the deep desire for integrity and fearlessness, no matter how difficult the choices. It’s the story of a real human being, and a real hero.

Films that were considered, but did not make the cut (in no particular order):

Beginners
A Separation
50/50
My Week with Marilyn
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy
A Dangerous Method
Cave of Forgotten Dreams
Margin Call
The Ides of March
Moneyball
Hanna
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Lindsay Lohan no longer rehearsing for role as Bunny Lebowski

Hollywood, CA- In a statement released by her publicist today, Lindsay Lohan has returned to New York to spend time with her grandparents and “clean up” after discovering that she was not chosen for the role of Bunny Lebowski in the Coen Brothers 1998 film, The Big Lebowski.

Lindsay was said to be very upset upon discovering that the role had been given to Tara Reid twelve years ago, and that her agent had not informed her.

“Tara Reid? Fuck. Her gut looks like Roseanne’s ass,” Lohan said as cameras and reporters caught her entering her limo on the way to LAX.

Although only 12 at the time of production, Lohan was considered the odds-on favorite for the role as she was already displaying many of the whorish characteristics required of the supporting female character.

Reports from inside the Lohan camp reveal that Lindsay made the discovery after joining Netflix and searching movies containing the word “Big.”

“I can’t believe those motherfucking Jew bastards didn’t pick me,” Lohan was overheard saying while picking out $366 Alexander Wang tank top at Traffic in Beverley Hills this morning.

“I’ve dedicated the last twelve years of my life to this role,” reported a bemused Lohan when reporters caught up with her poolside at the Four Seasons. “Life as a voluptuary has been taxing.  I’m starting to feel like Gargamel, only I put cocaine up my nose instead of smurfs.”

“Do you have any idea how many guys I blew for a thousand dollars…while Sam sat by and played the role of Brandt? Well I’ll tell you. A lot. That’s how many.”

Bunny Lebowski, an obstinate whore, contumacious of Jeffrey’s wishes, was thought to have been the perfect role for Lindsay.

“We felt that Tara Reid was the appropriate choice for the role,” said casting director John S. Lyons. “If the movie was coming out in 2010 instead of 1998, Lindsay wouldn’t have needed to audition. She’d have been perfect.”

When I say I Want It All…

I’ve been idly contemplating this topic for a few weeks now.

I was sitting in the Village with Jenny Amber on a Wednesday night last month, watching her eat an unimpressive pad thai, when we came upon a life summating analogy.

Jenny and I tend to have conversations about heartache, depression, dreams, vocabulary, angst, embarrassment, confusion, literature (which we can call it, as opposed to ‘books’, which you can call it), general malaise, the sadistic fucks that create crosswords, and on rare occasion, a glimmer of sunshine that creeps through the clouds.

This context is supposed to give you the idea that we aren’t fucking about with the weather and the news. We’re trying to keep a certain brow, but often part ways feeling like bayards.

So as Jenny clamored that the “fucking pad thai here always blows,” I was telling her about the unparalleled satiety of my morning’s breakfast meal. It’s called the ‘I Want It All’ and it resides at the Cook & Pan, otherwise known as the Polish Deli.

In a city filled with breakfast joints, the Polish Deli can compete. The I Want It All consists of two eggs, three pieces of bacon, two pieces of white toast (as Wonderbread as toast gets) and four perogies that are homemade and fried in onions and ham. Have you ever slathered perogies in egg yolk? It’s as though some Ukrainian Jesus planned it concurrently with soil, seeds and rain.

But the point of this story is not the superb quality of the Polish breakfast. The story is about its name.

The “I Want It All.” Each Word In Caps. Each word as important as the one proceeding and the one succeeding (except the first and last, which cannot do both).

The I Want It All breakfast is so fucking good that it literally shines, like a star. This could have something to do with the fact that all portions, minus the toast, are fried, but it shines in the analogous sense as well.

It is a beautiful gift, like life. Each bite, deserved of as much attention as the one before. When you stop to savour it, you are rewarded with a blissful high, your senses jumping for joy; while simultaneously, a calming awareness that exposes the true pleasures in life. A contagious glow enraptures all who revel in it.

I am still talking about breakfast, but the same can be said for life. The more time you take to acknowledge its rapturous pleasure and refined simplicity, the more you will notice, that the I Want It All breakfast, doesn’t come with hashbrowns.

moment

 

please.
go slowly.
just take a second.
close your eyes.
be grateful.
breath.
breath deeply.
your lungs so full that your chin extends.
open your eyes and look up.
a sky so blue you mistake it for the ocean.
this is where you live.
paradise.
bring the cup up.
and breath.
peek down.
discern.
the caramel layer says it all.
the sun, earth, and water, intertwined.
reap what’s been sown.
the labourers sweat.
their worn fingers, cracked.
their skin, black as night.
toiling the soil.
filling the burlap sack with seeds of love.
thank them.
bring the cup up again.
your nostrils flare.
breath deeply.
anticipate.
breath.
deeply.
all your cares. all your worries.
lost in liquid.
you can relax now.
you’ve found your bliss.
love your life.

A bird’s eye view

I’m eating my cereal on the porch yesterday morning and my belief in some sort of God was stirred.

My neighbour’s two boys (9 (Jack) and 10 (John)) come out of the house, and I hear their mom tell them to “go over and wait by the car.” I’ve never seen this request fulfilled, yet moms have been imploring it for decades.

The boys saunter down the sidewalk toward the car, and as they approach it, Jack notices something on the sidewalk. There is a dead bird on the ground. It’s been ripped open by some crows and is lying exposed, partially eaten belly up.

Jack crouches down to have a closer look, fascinated by the blood and guts that have spilled out. He’s pointing and oooing and ahhing, and as Jack is bent over on his inspection, John comes from his blind side, draws his leg back, and squarely gives what’s left of the bird’s frame a punt. The bird carcas flies up, grazing Jack’s brow, and thuds high up on the mailbox.

It drops back to Earth and Jack bolts, screaming to his mom that “John kicked a dead bird. John kicked a dead bird.”

John turns and frantically chases Jack down the sidewalk, hoping to catch Jack before he can relay this news and avoid the repercussions. In his pursuit, his feet get moving a little too fast, his legs cross, and he tumbles to the ground.

What John hasn’t anticipated in his pursuit is that there is a second dead bird, and as he falls, his bare arm comes barreling down directly on it (I’m hoping we have cats in the neighbourhood and not a serial bird killer). Looking himself over for injury, he notices that his bare arm is now covered in blood, guts and feathers.

I’m officially laughing milk and Cheerios through my nose.

By this point, his mom is on the sidewalk helping him up, and is noticing the blood and guts all over John’s arm. She’s completely disgusted and is holding the kid at arm’s length, while still trying to comfort him by saying “don’t look at it. don’t look at it. don’t look at it.”

Karma is a bitch.

The Sakura

 

 

Each time it’s the same. 

The Spring Equinox whispers softly, and I awake.

I know what I have to do.

I’ve been waiting for this moment.  I’ll always wait for this moment. 

My despair itches. I yearn for honor.

I know what I am capable of, but the price is so high.

To know such glory, sacrifices must be made.

The sun, so blessed. It’s my time to shine, if ever so brief. 

It’s time to chase my dragon.

 

With a gasp, it begins.

The first bloom, a tease that seals my fate.

Then a bunch, so small, only the discerning take notice.

An innocent pace that doesn’t suit me. I’ve never been one for patience.

I am the preeminent hedonist. (Feign blush)

I breath in. I breath out.

From my core, I send wave after wave. I am long and sleek. My control is flawless.

I laugh maniacally, and blast forth.

With licentious vigor, I spawn irrepressibly.

Bliss rushes through my veins. Indescribable joy.  I forget.

My pace is supersonic, the results, sublime.

Pause and reflect for me. I don’t have much time.

A feat this great is evanescent.

A climax of pink petals. An open invitation of love.

I am a cloud, pinned to the earth.

 

I remember. I hadn’t really forgotten. I was trying to protect you. 

I was trying to protect me. 

It’s heart-wrenching.

I can only get so high.

With a love this strong, annihilation is inevitable.

A fate sealed in suicide.

My tears float gently toward the earth.

A sorrowful finale.

It is a tradition that I wouldn’t change if I could. 

My time is short, but my presence is everlasting. 

Each time it’s the same.

I am love. I am beauty. I will see you again. Remember me.

Revenge is a dish best served awkwardly

Our eyes meet. Her name is Olive. I met her at the Fringe Festival. We were volunteers. I’d volunteered in hopes of meeting Olive. Not this particular Olive. Any Olive would do. I just happened to be adjoined to this one for the evening. We collected money from patrons for two hours. She stuck a pencil up my right nostril. I told her about Paris. She told me about University. She was keen on drama. I was keen on meeting someone with a vagina. She’s quite cute. She’s a huge nerd, in the conventional sense. Tall, slim, glasses. Curly dark hair. Pale complexion. Somewhat mousy, but attractive enough features. Wishes she was a lot more interesting than she is. So do I. She thinks that these fringe performers are talented, and that the boy organizing the event is charming. He’s a nerd too, but is able to connect with other nerds and hand out pencil case holders with float money. This makes him important to the festival community. The artists are people that I made fun of in high school, but I am interested in watching their craft at this point in my life. They weren’t able to throw a ball, and therefore were inferior to me. I rarely throw a ball any longer, and definitely not in front of a crowd. This makes me re-assess the importance of being able to throw a ball, but doesn’t make me think that the performers aren’t nerds still. Nerds are in. Being able to throw a ball when you were 17, is out. 

I remember little else about her. She wore skinny black jeans and smoked cigarettes with her lips clenched inward, like she was trying to hold in a fart with her mouth. The hairlip isn’t a sex symbol, and for good reason. It is always a turnoff to watch a girl smoke that has no idea how to smoke. It exemplifies and magnifies the ignorant childishness of smoking and desexualizes the act, and I don’t care for either. If you’re going to burn rat poison into your lungs without getting a physiological high, at least learn how to do it in an attractive way.

I can’t stand watching people do things poorly. I do not promote trying new things for this reason. 

Her eyes drop, choosing not to acknowledge me. This is six-months later, and we are at a distance, but I held my glance long enough for a flicker of her eyes, a half smile, a short wave, some sort of communication that says to me “hey. I see that you are a person. Your social cue of prolonged eye-contact makes me think that we know each other, or that you would like to know me, but you would have looked away sooner if that were the case, so you must know me, and I will now rack my brain in an effort to derive the time and place I know you from,” but this is more than I am able to acquire from her. We are at somewhat of a distance, and she does wear glasses. Perhaps I am outside of her range. I am having a conversation with my roommate Tarek, and go back to it, but my attention has now been averted and I am no longer participating whole heartedly. No matter. I am comfortable enough with him that I could ignore him for the next 15 minutes and he would ask me what was on my mind, but would not get offended and that would be the end of it. 

I hate getting snubbed. I am easily offended when it comes to strangers.  I wear an impenetrable suit of armor when a friend tells me absolutely anything about myself, including all flaws, faults, mistakes, unbecoming nuances, errors in judgment, slights I’m guilty of, philosophical weaknesses, and on and on, but if a stranger bumps me, says something rude to me, snickers at me, or snubs me, the armor is instantly replaced by my transparently thin, naked body, with a target ring drawn in the middle of my torso.  

I am now standing in the coffee shop, buck naked. I will give her one more chance. I wait a minute and look up at her again. I give it perhaps three or four seconds. It’s difficult to gauge these time periods. A social cue long enough for her senses to notice my look, but not a stare. 

She meets my eyes again, and the same response registers. Now I’m upset. I have not let on to Tarek that this is occurring. I’m a rock, on the outside. Inside I want to yell “you fucking cunt. Don’t act like you don’t see me here. I’m taller than everyone in here. I have a huge curly afro. I am beautiful and unique. I cannot be ignored, nor forgotten. I am not asking for more than a smile. It should be the least you can muster up.” This isn’t acceptable social behaviour, and although I appreciate uncouth, vulgar scenes, I prefer to not be the catalyst of them.

She steps out of the coffee shop briefly. I figure it’s to unsexily smoke a rat, but she’s going to the bakery to get herself a treat. “You don’t deserve one bitch,” I think to myself, but the message is not transmitted telepathically. 

I relay to Tarek that I met this girl at the fringe and that I hadn’t seen here since, and he thinks I should go talk to her. He doesn’t know that she has not acknowledged my life presence (twice). He’s on his way to a meeting so gets up and leaves me to approach her. I do not want to do this. This is a coffee shop that I frequent semi-regularly. I know the barista. A guy I play floor-hockey with has just sat down next to her. I’d have to squeeze by him to get to her, and so far it’s not looking like she wants to engage me, so I am not enthusiastic about this scenario. I say hi to my buddy, bye to the barista, and head out the door. I am thankful for a crisp day and a breath of fresh air once I hit the street.

I go browse some architecture and fashion magazines at Chapters, getting dirty looks from the staff as I am a non-buying regular (not offended by these), and walk back to the coffee shop to pick up my bike. I’ve been gone an hour. I am five steps from the door when she walks out. 

I can’t resist. 

“Hi Olive,” I say as she walks past me. 

“Hi,” she says, half stopping. She is being pulled forward by some sort of tractor beam, but is resisting it by leaning her upper body toward me. “I know you from somewhere,” she says, spinning slowly on her heel, her speech slow and questioning. 

Now, I can jump in here and tell her when or where we met, a few modicums of interest, probably not the name of the show we worked together, but something to bail her out. Fuck her though. I look her in the eyes and wait.

“I know you from school? (maybe a question) or (pause), from smoking? or (awkward pause), we had a class together?” 

Her palms are upturned and her eyes move side to side. 

“No,” I say. 

“Ahhh…..” she says nervously. Her mind is working quickly now. She might know, or she might not. I don’t care. I have her bent over. Her body movements are a little jerky and she’s praying for me to interject. I let time pass. It is of no concern to me.  

“The fringe festival,” she comes up with. 

“That’s right,” I say, nodding, without expression. 

“Oh, those are the only two places I meet people. School or the fringe” she recounts.  

“Is that so?” I ask inquisitively, laughing to myself at the impossibility of answering such a question. 

“I’m so sorry, but I have somewhere to be now. I hang out here though. Perhaps I’ll see you again,” she says.

“Perhaps,” I say with a half-cocked smile.

Perhaps she will see me again, but next time, I bet she has the courtesy to at least nod her head.