New Tab

I open a new tab to check the numbers. I open a new tab to check the numbers. It’s the morning and I open a new tab to check the numbers. It’s the afternoon and I open a new tab to check the numbers. It’s the evening and I open a new tab to check the numbers.

This time, however, I close the tab before I can check the numbers. I close the tab because I am writing. I am writing. I am meant to be writing. I don’t need to check the numbers when I am writing. What bearing do the numbers have on the writing? None, but also a lot.

I open a new tab to check for a vaccine. I open a new tab to check for new restrictions. I open a new tab. I open a new tab.

How many hours have I spent opening a new tab? I open a new tab to check.


“April” | New Poetry Chapbook!

My first collection of poetry is now available! See below for the details.

Screen Shot 2020-05-26 at 11.02.32 AM


I participated in National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) in April 2019 and again in April 2020, the goal of which is to write thirty poems in thirty days. This 70+ page chapbook collects all of the poems I wrote, laying them out side-by-side for a year-by-year comparison. During these challenges, I experimented with many different prompts, styles, and forms. The poems within capture snapshots of where I was with my writing and as a person in April 2019 and 2020. All of these poems are also available on my Instagram, though they have been re-edited and formatted for this publication.

Order the E-Chapbook (PDF) | $5.00 CAD

Order the Hardcopy Chapbook | $8.00 CAD (Includes Shipping)*
*Temporarily unavailable due to COVID-19.

I also accept trades! Contact me here to work out a non-fiscal alternative.


Criticism and Trauma, Responsibility and Worth

[Image: illustration of a brain on a white background that is coloured in brown and has words in yellow, orange, and red that read things like: fear, anger, shame, fight, escape, threat, opposition, conflict, criticism, etc.].

CW: ableist language, discussion of childhood trauma, self-worth, and verbal abuse

A question that I constantly grapple with is:

How can I be a responsible writer?

I create a lot of work that is raw and personal. I open up. I express myself. I also get nervous about the ways I express myself. I frequently question my self-expression.

How do I express myself openly and honestly while also remaining responsible and aware of how my words can affect other people? How do I strike that balance between realness and consideration for others? How do I remain considerate while simultaneously not overly censoring myself?

I feel sometimes that I lean towards self-censorship too heavily.

Let me explain. I want to be a responsible creator. I want to express myself while also being considerate of other people’s experiences, not causing harm, and not perpetuating ignorance or oppression. I want to speak to the ways in which I experience oppression and privilege, and all other things. I want to explore the complicated tangle of everything. I want to be honest and raw and real without crossing a line into being ignorant or harmful. But the reality is, I’m a flawed human being. I don’t know everything. There are many ways in which I experience privilege. I strive to be aware of all of them, to understand the perspectives of those who don’t experience the same privileges as I, and to check these privileges at the door. To paraphrase sociologist Michael Kimmel, the insidious nature of privilege is that you often aren’t aware that you have it, or of the extent to which you have it. Unless someone points it out or we go out of our way to learn, our privileges can often remain invisible to us. The dynamics of power and oppression are built into the foundations of society and internalized by us in deep, unconscious ways and it takes ongoing effort to root all of that out.

This work is something I am committed to. It is also always ongoing, which means there will always be more to learn and ways in which I am ignorant. I’m learning and people who are learning screw up. People who are learning miss things, make mistakes, stumble, go slow, doubt themselves, have revelations, get confused, feel overwhelmed, forget, but ultimately keep going. People who are learning can be wrong and can cause harm. People who are learning must remain humble, take their egos out of play, and be open to having their perspectives challenged.

I remind myself of this often as I create. I will screw up. I must remain humble. I have to keep learning.

Fucking up is human. It is inevitable. I know this and yet I am absolutely terrified of it.

A lot has come out recently about “call out” or “cancel” culture in leftist communities. I won’t dive into this messy conversation in this piece because I think there’s plenty better suited to the task and I’m actually looking to explore an adjacent issue here. If you’re interested in critiques of callout/cancel culture, Kai Cheng Thom has written some fantastic stuff on this topic that I would recommend.

I have never been “cancelled”. I’ve never had the following for that. I have been called out, often rightly so, and sometimes… questionably so. As someone who has shared their creations online for several years, I have seen people read things into what I have made I did not put there. I have been accused of making arguments I’ve never made and of believing things I’ve never believed. There have been instances where I’ve felt like my work has been examined under a microscope in the worst possible light, like people have scanned it looking for flaws, imperfections, and potentially problematic aspects without taking it in as a whole, without recognizing that I am a whole, that the person whose work they are about to tear to shreds is a human being capable of feeling things. When this happens, it can be scary. This is in part because my work is often very honest and raw and I already feel vulnerable putting it out there. It’s scary to watch someone pick up that vulnerability and use it as a weapon, aiming it back at me. It’s scary because with that vulnerability, I’ve given them the tools to hurt me. This is especially true when the jump is made from “you’ve said something problematic or ignorant here” to “you are a problematic, ignorant, or bad person”. People can look at my work, which reflects who I am as a person, say that something about it is bad and therefore I am bad.

I’ve also watched this happen to creators I admire on a much larger scale, where thousands of people go from critiquing their ideas to calling for them to be de-platformed, cancelled, or disposed of. I’ve seen critiques of creations turn into attacks on the creators themselves. I’ve seen people’s work be willfully misrepresented, taken out of context, and examined in the worst possible ways. This makes me want to hide. It makes me want to get off social media. It makes me want to stop writing.

It makes me want to silence myself.

I believe that we need to hold each other accountable, but I think that needs to come from a place of helping each other to learn, grow, and do better rather than one-upping, attacking, and disposing of each other. There are exceptions to this. Sometimes, people are genuinely dangerous and not open to learning. I also don’t believe that marginalized people are responsible for gently educating the people who oppress them, but that’s where allies need to step in and step up. Anyway, this stuff has all been talked to death at this point. Like I said, this is not a piece specifically about call out or cancel culture, though these things do factor into how I feel, there’s stuff going on with me internally that I want to explore.

I’m traumatized and mentally ill. I’m in therapy, and this week, my homework is all about looking at “stuck points”. Stuck points are strong beliefs about self, others, or the world that develop as a result of trauma and are not particularly accurate. Part of the work I need to do to heal is to identify and unlearn my stuck points.

When I was four years old, I was joking around with my friends about their dog and called the dog “stupid”. They responded by yelling at me that he wasn’t stupid and that I shouldn’t have said that. I ran upstairs in a flurry of tears and panic. I found my mother and begged her to punish me. I told her that I had done something bad, that I was a horrible person, and that I deserved to be punished. She calmed me down enough to find out what had actually happened. I told her. She refused to punish me, just said I should apologize to my friends and that I wasn’t a bad person. I was surprised to learn this. In my head, having done something wrong and being a horrible person who deserved punishment were the same thing.

I want to say that I have grown beyond that little kid who ran to their mother claiming to be bad and asking to be punished, but that hurt and scared child still exists within me. One of my stuck points, a major one I’ve carried for most of my life, is that I am a bad person. I know, rationally, that this isn’t true, but there is a less rational part of me that holds this belief as though it’s a core aspect of my identity. Accepting criticism and navigating conflict can be very difficult for me. Hearing that I’ve done something wrong immediately makes me think that I am wrong, I am bad, and I deserve to be hurt, punished, or thrown away.

In therapy, I learned that criticism is so scary for me because of my trauma, because I was exposed to belittling, dehumanizing criticism at a very young age. My therapist said there are two types of criticism: 1) “here’s what’s wrong with this and how it could be improved” and 2) “this is a piece of shit”. As a child, I became intimately acquainted with the “this is a piece of shit” form of criticism, so that’s what I hear every time I’m criticized, that I am a piece of shit, and it’s scary. This is something I need to unlearn.

I have a hard time differentiating between constructive criticism and shit-talking criticism.

All criticism feels scary because it all calls my self-worth into question.

I can get really defensive because my brain thinks that accepting the (often valid) critiques of my behaviour means I must also accept that I am bad, worthless, and deserving of punishment. Sometimes, the people critiquing my work are also saying these things about me, which sucks. Often, however, people are not adding that cruel baggage onto their critiques. It’s me who does that.

I can’t control how other people respond to me. I can’t make people who are being cruel be kind. I can’t do much to change the broader culture around “shit-talking” criticism from my tiny platform, aside from refuse to engage in it and focus on constructive critiques of ideas instead. What I can do, however, is work on unlearning the stuck point that tells me that I am bad. If I do this, a few things will happen. One is that I will be able to stand my ground and stand up for myself in situations where people are hurting me. I will no longer gaslight myself, apologize profusely, and beg for forgiveness or punishment. The other is that I will become much better at accepting valid criticism. If accepting critiques of my behaviour or words does not mean having to accept that I am fundamentally bad, if it no longer leaves me feeling panic-stricken, I will be in a much better place to actually respond to valid criticism.

If I can heal from my traumatic childhood experiences with criticism, I can respond better when I cause harm. If I make the shift from “I am fundamentally bad” to “I am fundamentally good,” then fucking up and getting called out isn’t going to be the end of the world. Cause, right now, with the way I am, I don’t think I would survive being cancelled. And that’s going to become a problem if I keep creating and putting my work out there. I am going to be criticized. I need to be able to identify valid, constructive criticism from shit-talking criticism. I need to be able to protect myself and feel fundamentally secure in my basic goodness when people project their shit onto me. I am going to need to be able to hear, process, and accept valid criticism when I screw up, stumble, or act from a place of ignorance. I need to be the mother to the little kid who runs up the stairs claiming to be worthless and begging to be punished. I need to hold their hand, tell them they are not bad and deserving of punishment. I need to tell them to turn around, go back downstairs, listen to the people they’ve hurt, apologize, and try to do better, all without any self-flagellation, all while being secure in the knowledge that they have inherent worth and nothing will change that.

All of these things will help me to better respond to criticism and hold myself accountable, to be the responsible creator I want to be.

Being a responsible creator is not just about striving to do no harm, but correcting the harm you have caused without spiralling into shame and self-abuse, without making it all about you.

I believe we need to have a two-pronged approach to address these issues. The first is to address the issues with how we treat each other in our communities, the social side of things. The second is to address our own baggage. What is your history with receiving criticism? How do you code and respond to it? What about that might need some work? If we do this internal work, that can also help us to navigate the work that needs to be done in our communities.

Does your trauma affect how you receive criticism? Does it impact how you dish our criticism? Have you ever projected your trauma onto someone else? What did that look like?  I think these are important questions for all of us, and they are questions I will continue to ask myself in my life and on my path to figuring out how to be a responsible creator.


Hello, Imposter Syndrome, Old Buddy, Old Pal

[Image: picture of a tarnished silver frame on a wooden surface with the same image copied inside the frame, creating an image within an image]. Photo by PictureThis.


CW: casual mentions of apocalypse, death, and a lack of overall meaning.

I did a reading the other night. I was sandwiched between authors who spun stories and poetry full of metaphor, who spoke words layered with meaning, who filled the room with depth and imagery. I got up and read my plain language piece: here is something that happened to me and how I felt about it. I sat back down.

Self-consciousness arose with the question: am I even a writer?

Hello, imposter syndrome, old buddy, old pal. How have you been?

The webs I weave with my words aren’t complex or layered. I am direct. I say what I mean. I’ve always struggled to get into writing that has more substance than that. I don’t read between the lines and so I don’t write between the lines either. It’s not that I think my way is better or worse, it’s just what comes naturally.

Some people tell me that they like that. They say it’s easy to digest, accessible. Simple, direct language that allows them to dive into the content of what is being said. My writing does the job of delivery quickly.

It’s also not for everyone. I know there are some who see my work as novice, childish, indulgent, or one-dimensional. Maybe they’re right. That’s okay with me, actually. I’m writing to express, not writing to please.

Occasionally, something I’m working on develops depth without my conscious intent and I think, “Oh, look, I’ve done it! There are multiple ways to read this. It has L a Y e R s”. It’s exciting when that happens, but I can’t force it. Forcing makes it come out sounding hollow and pretentious. I may create something “wrapped in meaning,” but there’s no meat in the center, the center remains empty. It’s better, I believe, to write the meat first and see if any layers follow. Sometimes they don’t and that’s okay too.

Whenever imposter syndrome rears its head, I try to answer with, “So what?”

“Am I even a writer?”

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not, but so what?”

“Am I a bad writer?”

“Maybe, but so what?”

“Is my writing overly simplistic, straightforward, and lacking in depth?”

“Maybe it is, but again, so fucking what?”

As far as I know, I have just this one life. I don’t know what will happen after I die and I also don’t know whether everything I create will be destroyed in an apocalypse in the near future. In the grand scheme of the universe, everything is temporary and nothing really matters. I know I am alive now and I like to write, so I write. It feels good. It’s therapeutic. It helps me to express what I otherwise find difficulty expressing. It helps me to articulate my own existence. It helps me to connect with others. So what if it isn’t worthy of awards, honorariums, or acclaimed publication? So fucking what? That’s not the point.

Anyone writing for the sole purpose of accruing money or fame is in the wrong line of work. Chances are good that writing won’t pay your bills, and people are more likely to make fun of you than hand you accolades. Trying to write the next great novel? Try writing a novel first. It’s hard.

Writing makes you vulnerable. You don’t necessarily need to be writing the way that I do, either, where I intentionally lay myself bare to the world. Creating is a vulnerable process, one that involves speaking to experiences and feelings we often keep hidden from the wider world. It can result in rejection, misunderstanding, or a lack of recognition (i.e. enthusiastically putting your creations out into a world full of people who couldn’t care less about it). It can also result in connection and that can be really powerful. One of the best pieces of feedback you can receive as a writer, I have found, is “I’ve felt that way too”. I measure the “success” of my work in relation to that sense of connection more than anything else.

For me, writing is a process of learning how to articulate my lower-case “t” truths. Who am I today? What am I experiencing? What do I think? What do I feel? How am I navigating this broken, bizarre, beautiful world? How am I like you? How am I unlike you?

My truths tend to come out in plain, straightforward, just-read-the-actual-lines-themselves-not-between-them language. This is not the case for everyone and that’s also fine. There are many powerful writers out there who find ways of expressing their truths through layers of symbolism, double meanings, vivid imagery, and otherwise evocative language. What they create is beautiful.

What I create is also beautiful.

Our capitalistic society will have us believe we are all in competition with each other. Whose writing is bad, whose is better? Who deserves this or that prize? Who is otherwise unworthy? Who should be ashamed of daring to express themselves without having a degree, perfect grammar, or an extensive knowledge of the literary canon of old/dead white men.

It can be argued that writing is a skill, yes. Effective communication is a skill. Weaving words and making meanings are skills. But we should interrogate how we measure these skills because, often, our methods of measurement are rooted in colonial white supremacy, patriarchy, ableism, classism, and other forms of power imbalance and oppression.

It can be argued that writing is a skill, yes, but you do not have to be skilled at writing in order to be a writer. In fact, you will never become skilled if you never practice, if you never write. You must give yourself permission to be an unskilled writer, to be bad, and to be embarrassed. You must give yourself permission to go through the awkward and uncomfortable process of getting better. You must remember not to take it all so seriously. We will all die, existence might be a dream, and the world may be ending sometime soon. Allow yourself to write if you are so inclined and allow yourself to write badly. You will always be able to find other people in the room who are more skilled than you. You will likely always be faced with imposter syndrome.

Sure, okay, you’re an imposter. I’m an imposter. We’re all imposters pretending not to be imposters.

Really, we’re all creators. Capitalism tells us to compete, but we don’t have to listen. Other writers are not your competition, they are your friends, your inspiration, your support, and your community.

I can get up in a room to read my work sandwiched between authors who spin stories and poetry full of metaphor, who speak words layered with meaning, who fill that room with depth and imagery. I can get up and read my plain language piece to my community of writers without shame. Whether I am worse or better does not matter. What matters is that we write and share that writing, that we support and encourage each other wherever we are in our learning.

Maybe you don’t like my writing, don’t think it’s any good. Maybe you’re outraged that some novice, unknown writer is breaking an unspoken rule by writing about writing. Maybe I am an unskilled writer. Maybe I am an imposter.

So what? That isn’t going to stop me.


Where We Have Gone, Where We Are Going

[Image: coniferous trees with mist around them. Dry pine needles and patches of snow on the ground].

“I am a semi-autobiographical speculative poet—a monstrous kind of hybrid—and the joy is being all of those at once, regardless of the social acceptability of multiplicity.”

I published the essay Where Do We Go Now on January 15, 2019. I wrote it over the holidays while staying with my family, which might be why it includes references to my parents and young writer self. I was in a place to reflect back on everything that had come before while figuring out how to move into the future.

I like this essay, mostly. I think it says some important things. I wrote it in a passionate, charged haze. It was partially a response to a book I’d just read on creativity, as well as feeling stuck and uninspired writing short sci-fi and horror stories, which I’d done for the previous year-and-a-half. I was feeling bound in by those forms, not allowing myself to write what I wanted but focusing my energy on what I dubbed “real” writing, i.e. whatever I thought would be publishable and digestible. I figured poetry and personal essays, what I’ve always written, didn’t count. I’d bought into the “real writers write this, not that” bullshit.

Luckily, the book Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert got me out of this funk. Say what you will about Gilbert (I’m generally not a fan of hers), but reading that book was what I needed to get over myself. It helped me see that the lines I had drawn between “fake” and “real” writing were silly and unnecessary, blocks that were getting in the way of my drive to create.

I like this essay, mostly, though it does read as a little pretentious to me now. My writing over the past year has gotten more casual, more chilled out. I think that’s for the better. I think that piece was also strongly influenced by all of the science fiction I’d been writing. It has a vague kind of surrealism to it, especially with the use of the “we” pronoun. I suppose it was a transitional piece from speculative fiction to personal essay.

“We have learned that we must make space for the joy, and making space for the joy means allowing ourselves to make things that may not make sense to anyone else.”

When I wrote Where Do We Go Now at the beginning of this year, I had no idea about zines and the journey I would go on with them. I was just on the cusp of finding out. I think I had some vague sense that I just needed to follow my instincts and my next big project would emerge, and that’s exactly what happened.

I stumbled across Clementine Morrigan’s work again. I had read some of their stuff years ago and then lost track of them. I think Instagram recommended a post of hers, which prompted me to look them up again. I ended up on her website browsing through their zines. I purchased a few e-zines. One was about writing. I enthusiastically absorbed them late one winter night. I could write a zine, I thought. In February, I set to work on my first zine, One Year on T, a compilation of essays and poems about transitioning as a non-binary person. I published it in April.

Two zine fairs, three zines, over a dozen blog posts, more than a hundred poems, and pages upon pages of unedited freewriting later, we’re here in November. I have a clearer sense of where I’m going than I did in January, though nothing is concrete. I am still experimenting, exploring, searching, and questioning. I’m happy to have switched gears into writing whatever I want. I’m happy I chose to believe that what I love to write counts as “real” writing. I’m so, so happy I started writing zines. In Where Do We Go Now, I wrote about doing a poor job of managing my “archive” of previous work, of there being so many disparate, disorganized pieces and projects behind me. I apologized to whoever might eventually stumble over them. Well, that person ended up being me from the immediate future. For my first zine, I pulled together pieces I’d written about gender over a period of four years. For my second, I reviewed old journal entries I’d written at the ages of 17 and 22. For my third, to be published soon, I combed through everything I’d written in the period between finishing my first zine and now. Zine writing has made me the curator of my own work, work that would otherwise go stale and turn to dust in the dark. As a medium, zines have helped me to pull together, disentangle, and make sense of my otherwise disorderly of writing.

“We have learned that conventional packaging, like conventional styles, may not be for us and that is okay as well. Creating a book from cover to cover may not be for us… It is a waste of energy to beat ourselves over the head with the concept of the book we feel we are supposed to be writing. If a book comes, it comes. If it does not come, it does not come. We will keep writing anyway.”

I’ve often struggled with the idea that “real” writers write books, and because I have never been able to finish writing a book I must not be a real writer. Listen, I know this is bullshit, but it’s bullshit that I’ve internalized, and so I’ve felt like a failure for not being able to do this. A book did not materialize out of this year, no, but a path towards one did. I don’t think I could ever write a book in the conventional way, from cover to cover, but I can write zines, and what is a zine but a small book? I could see myself writing a book the way that I learned to write zines this year, by curating my messy archive, by combing through and threading together my work.

“So long as we keep going, keep creating, I believe the path will become clearer with each step.”

So far this has held true, and so I will continue to trust that moving forward will clear away the fog on my path. This year is coming to a close and I will move into the next one with everything I have learned and created. I will move into the next one with poetry and essays and zines, with ideas and curiosity, and without oppressive rules. The future is still uncertain, the future is always uncertain, but I’m continuing to gather more tools to move into it with. I am committed to the practice of writing however that practice may change.

Like at the beginning of a traditional book (one I’ll never write), I would like to go into the next year by acknowledging who helped me get here. I would like to thank my mom for giving me Big Magic to read, which reignited a spark in me and convinced me to commit to writing every day. I would like to thank Clementine Morrigan for all of the work that they do, which is powerful, insightful, expansive, unapologetic, and endlessly inspiring. Thank you for introducing me to zines. I would like to thank my best friend for providing me with such thorough and useful feedback on my zines, assuring me that I could confidently put them out into the world. I would like to thank my partner for teaching me how to bind zines and spending a long day tabling with me at a fair without complaint. I would like to thank my mom again, and my nan, for always reading and commenting on my work even when no one else does. I would like to thank a friend I hosted a radio show with for doing a show on writing with me as well as giving me their copy of Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones, which deepened my writing practice. I would like to thank one of my friends for encouraging me to table at Queer Between the Covers, which was so worthwhile. I would like to thank Broken Pencil for nominating One Year on T for the 2019 Zine Awards and inviting me to table at Canzine. I would also like to thank everyone who has ever read or engaged with my work. As a mostly unknown writer, your comments and feedback mean a lot to me. It could be easy to feel like I’m putting stuff out to empty airwaves, but a number of supportive and encouraging people consistently remind me that’s not the case. As creators, we are not solely responsible for our work. We do not exist in isolation. We are propped up, inspired, assisted, driven, pushed, and supported by our communities. I owe so much to the communities of friends and creators I am a part of. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Here I am, at the close of another year and about to enter a new one. I cannot know what it will bring, exactly, but I suspect it will not be more of the same. It’s almost never more of the same, things change too much for that. The path is a little clearer now. I can see a few steps ahead. My footing is a little surer. I’ve had another year to learn to expect ground under my feet. I know I’m going to keep creating because, just like change, creativity is one of the only constants in my life. I intend to keep writing poetry, essays, and zines, but I am also open to other possibilities. I’m sure that other possibilities will enter my orbit in 2020, just as they did this year. So, here we go: moving because we cannot stop moving, choosing how to move rather than what to move towards, and feeling good about this direction.


Drawing Tarot in the Chaos of a Move

Oh, hi there. It’s been a minute. My life has been chaotic lately, which is why this blog has been pretty quiet. One of the reasons for this is that I just moved again. I’ve been moving two to three times a year since I was 18 and you’d think I’d be used to it by now, but I’m not. I’ve managed to whittle my possessions down to just the essentials (plus a ton of clothes), but moving is still a big, time-consuming, exhausting task.

The last time I moved, it was to escape a bad living situation. It was a desperation-motivated move, a run from something rather than towards something. Unfortunately, like in so many places, it’s really hard to find decent affordable housing where I live. This latest move, however, was different. A move towards something. I moved in with my partner.

I wrote a post a few months back about having the desire to cultivate more spiritual practices in my day-to-day life. I ended up centring my writing practice for this purpose, something I was inspired to do by Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones, which I may go into detail about in a different post. Aside from this, however, I haven’t been doing any other practices consistently. I wanted to change that and I also wanted to document my latest move while it was happening, so that’s how we got here. I decided to start reading tarot cards in the evenings in-between packing, hauling, and unpacking. I did simple readings, just drawing one or two cards at a time, from the Witches Tarot by Ellen Dugan and Mark Evans.

Below are my readings and reactions, entries I wrote while drawing tarot cards in the chaos of a move. I’m definitely a novice reader and rely heavily on the interpretations Ellen Dugan provides in the book that comes with the deck, quoted below. Maybe I wasn’t doing it properly, but that’s okay because I was just doing it for me. Some of the readings were rather vague while others were scary accurate. It was an interesting experiment, one I would certainly try again. If you’ve ever been curious about tarot readings or trying to divine deep spiritual meaning in the middle of moving, you may find this interesting.

[Image: two cards side-by-side on a wrinkled brown sheet. One is the “Two of Swords,” showing a blindfolded woman in a gown crossing her arms over her chest with two swords in her hands. The other is the top of the tarot deck, with a full moon and two crescent moons on either side in pink-and-blue starry galaxy].

October 21, 2019 | Two of Swords

Initial impressions: Looks guarded, on the defensive, or ready to attack. Blindfolded. Cannot see what is coming. Serene, calm landscape. Defending serenity? Protector of the land? Confident pose and expression. Two fairies flying away. Protector of the innocent?

I asked about moving in with my partner, which is happening very soon, and the Canadian Federal election. I voted today and the results will be out when I wake up tomorrow. I will be moving in with my partner in two days as well. So, this is a very interesting card.

“The woman is depicted at twilight because she is at an in-between state. Her back is to the moon and to the water to illustrate that she has turned away from her emotions, or at least shut them down for a time… When this card turns up in a reading, it is a warning that you have blocked off your heart and emotions and are holding in your feelings. You are literally refusing to see what is right in front of you… Consider your options: boundaries are a positive thing, but do not shut yourself off from others” (Dugan).

I voted for who I wanted rather than strategically. I don’t really know how to interpret this card. Maybe my emotions are too shut down for me to understand it? I’m sitting in a room full of boxes right now with everything I own in piles. There’s a lot going on at work for me to keep track of. There’s an election happening. Things are stressful right now, so it makes sense that I’ve kind of shut down emotionally. I was really panicky about everything a few days ago because it was all too much, but I couldn’t sustain that energy. But it’s not all bad, it’s not all stress. I’m actually very excited to move. Sure, it’s a lot of work, but it’s a move I’m very much looking forward to. I’ve been sharing spaces with strangers for more than a year-and-a-half now and will be moving in with my partner. That’s really exciting. Stressful, yes, kind of a lot, but mostly a good thing. We’re going to build a home together and my heart is yearning for a home. But I’m going really fast, keeping super busy, and not stopping to process anything, so maybe that’s what this card is about. Who knows.

[Image: two cards side-by-side on a wrinkled brown sheet. One is the “Eight of Cups,” a blue card with a woman walking away on a beach and eight silver goblets lined along the bottom. The other is the “King of Pentacles,” which pictures a king sitting on a throne holding a large gold plate with a pentacle on it].

October 22, 2019 | Eight of Cups and King of Pentacles

I drew two cards for this reading because I pulled one and another started coming with it, so I figured why not draw both?

Eight of Cups initial impressions: SO BLUE. Very blue. Walking away from something and towards something else. Adventure. Exciting.

King of Pentacles initial impressions: Hello, rich boy. Focused on a big gold pentacle plate circle. On a thrown. Concerned with something, preoccupied.

Eight of Cups: “She has chosen to abandon things that are no longer necessary or are detrimental… The young woman is moving on and moving forward… The card symbolizes the need to move on in your life. The need to move forward might be a physical relocation such as moving for a job or moving to a new home, or this may be an emotional shift… If you are physically moving, then go forward and enjoy the positive changes in your life” (Dugan).

King of Pentacles: “The King of Pentacles represents a man with dark hair and deep brown eyes… He is a generous and supportive personality, and a loving, loyal spouse… The lesson of the King of Pentacles is that your efforts have manifested into success. Prosperity will be drawn to you” (Dugan).

Wow. This is a very direct, on-point reading. I have been feeling anxious, stressed, and exhausted by this move but these cards have reminded me that it is a good thing, both the place I am moving into and the person I am moving in with. This reading has calmed me down a bit. This is a good thing, a right thing. This is a necessary next step.

[Image: “Nine of Pentacles” card sitting next to a tarot deck on brown fabric at an angle. The card shows a woman in a brown dress standing outside with nine golden pentacle flowers on either side of her].

October 23, 2019 | Nine of Pentacles

“When the Nine of Pentacles blooms in your reading, it tells of a time of joy and abundance… In addition, this card represents sharing the magick and the secrets of the garden with others. You are being called upon to connect to the earth and to study its mysteries… It heralds a time of creative focus, confidence, and personal growth” (Dugan).

Well, we have moved in together. Half moved in, anyway. I have been awake since 5:20 this morning helping my partner get all of his stuff into our new place. I am super fucking exhausted. We will go to bed soon. I’m very happy to be here with my partner. I’m not sure what this reading means in relation to this, but I like the overall message.

[Image: “The Fool” card shown upsidedown next to a tarot deck on brown fabric. The card shows a young boy standing on a cliff with a white dog, holding a staff, against a blue, cloudy sky].

October 24, 2019 | The Fool

Initial impressions: Reversed. Upside-down. What could that mean? Young man, a traveller. On a mountain. Off on an adventure. With a dog. Companion. Friend. Something new, a new adventure, but not alone on it.

“This card often materializes in a reading when the querent is trying something new and completely different… The Fool encourages us to dare, be more openminded, and enjoy the ride… The fool encourages you to be open to new prospects and ideas… Reversed: Irresponsibility, recklessness, dangerous and careless behaviour. A precarious situation. There is a need to be cautious and plan ahead” (Dugan).

I’m not sure if this card counts as reversed or not in this reading. I was going to draw it reversed, did not, but then flipped it after. Maybe I will take both meanings, then. I need to be open and adventurous, but also have a plan and watch that I don’t enter a precarious situation. I think that makes sense. There’s a lot in my life right now that requires quite a bit of planning, but I should also be enjoying these changes and some of the freedom that comes with them. I can’t afford to drop the ball on anything, but there’s also quite a bit that’s brand new and exciting, so maybe both readings do apply.

[Image: from left-to-right, there is a tarot deck, the “Queen of Wands” card, and “The High Priest” card on red fabric. The “Queen of Wands” pictures a queen in a golden gown on a thrown holding a flowering staff and sunflowers. “The High Priest” pictures a priest sitting between two pillars, holding a staff, with two large skeleton keys in front of him].

October 26, 2019 | Queen of Wands and The High Priest

Queen of Wands initial impressions: Royal. Feline. Languishing. Golden. In charge. Flowers.

The High Priest initial impressions: Monk. Keys. Sun and moon. Staff. Pillars. Religious. Symbolism.

Queen of Wands: “When the Queen of Wands appears in a reading, brace yourself. This is where the fun begins… The message from the Queen of Wands is this: home, family, magick, and career—you can have it all. Just allow passion for life and your creative and spiritual energy to fill you up and lead the way” (Dugan).

Well, that’s nice. I finally moved all of my stuff into the new place, and while there is still a LOT of unpacking to do, I feel like I’m more than ready for “the fun”. I’m here, my partner and I are here together, and this chapter of my life has officially begun.

The High Priest: “When this card appears in a reading, it means that there are questions that need answering and advice to be sought. Classically, this card denotes a need for legal advice or counseling” (Dugan).

Hm. This is tricky. I hope I don’t need to seek legal advice for anything anytime soon. I feel like that would cancel out the fun promised by the Queen of Wands. This card can also indicate “furthering your education” (Dugan). Hm… Hm. Apparently, the Priest gives you the keys to “unlock” the answers to your questions yourself rather than the answers directly, as you are responsible for finding them with everything you’ve been taught. Well, okay, that’s good. If I have the keys, I should be able to figure it out for myself then.

I’m settling into my new place. It’s nice. I’m happy to be here. It’s not without its challenges, but they’re worthwhile challenges. This place feels good, feels right, feels like it could become home. I enjoyed drawing tarot cards during this process. It felt reassuring to stop and try to gain some insight in the middle of so much chaos. Reflecting in this way made me more aware of my mental and emotional states, reminded me to check in with the internal while my external surroundings swirled and changed all around me. I would like to make a practice of doing tarot readings, perhaps not every day but a few times a week, to help me stay in touch with myself.


17.22.750 Chapbook + Patreon

I am launching two new things today! The first is my chapbook, the details of which are below, and the second is a Patreon page, which exists to support my writing. Depending on the tier, patrons can get access to my zine, chapbook, works in progress, details about my writing process, and other bonus content.

This means that you now have two options for accessing my zine/chapbook, either by purchasing them through PayPal or by becoming a patron! Let me know if you have any questions about this here.

Screen Shot 2019-07-27 at 12.41.49 PM
[Image: black text centred over white background that reads, “17.22.750”].

17.22.750 Chapbook

What does it mean to be the 26-year-old editor of your 17-year-old self? What does it mean to come back, years later, and publish something never meant to be shared? Can modern-day me consent to publish past me? I suppose I’m going with yes.

17.22.750 is a 35+ page chapbook comprised of approximately 750-word entries I wrote at the ages of 17, 22, and 26. It is about growing up and having lots of questions. These younger versions of me navigate school, work, relationships, heartbreak, existentialism, gender, sexuality, in addition to fear and excitement over an always unknown future. Originally private entries written on, from high school to university to adulthood, I spill out the clutter in my head with stark honesty.

Order the Chapbook | $5.00 CAD

Once your payment has been processed, please allow 1-2 business days for me to email you a copy.


The Cat is Here


[Image: ginger tabby curled up on a rock outside, sleeping]. Photo by lisaleo
CW: mentions of death, various social and environmental crises, and apocalypse.

The cat is here.

The cat next door came for a visit and is over here now. The cat without the hat. I’m always nervous that the cat will fall when she comes over. Now she is looking down at the world through the balcony’s bars to the left of me. Now she is sticking her head between the bars. Now she is walking to the other side of the balcony. Now she is looking through the screen door into my apartment. Now she is sniffing stuff. Now she is looking at where she came from like she plans to go back. Now she goes back. She sits back, looks up, pounces, and lands perfectly on the eight-inch platform, and then her body disappears behind the barrier.

You can have all the worries in the world and then there’s just a cat that will come over and investigate your space. Everything can be so chaotic. Everything can feel so broken. Your adrenal system can be completely shot and your mind can be a dark cloud of fear. And then it can get quiet again, even though the problems and chaos are still all around you. It can get quiet for a few minutes, quiet enough for a cat to slip over and curiously sniff around.

Every single moment has the potential to be quiet enough for a cat.

In every moment, you can focus on the chaotic swirl in your head or the cat curiously sniffing around, pausing to take in all the details of the balcony you’ve never given much thought to. The cat is unaware, it would seem, of the housing crisis, the opioid crisis, the government crisis, the climate crisis… She is just here to check things out, get the lay of the land, and then leap back over to her own balcony⁠—seemingly unafraid of whether she will make the landing on an eight-inch platform nine stories in the air.

Perhaps this is why we love cats so much⁠: they’re nothing like us.

They show us what we aspire to be with our writing, our mindfulness practice, or our meditation workshops. They do it effortlessly. They are simultaneously detached from and deeply involved with the world. Form is emptiness and emptiness is form. Cats are enlightened but they don’t really give a fuck.

The cat left fifteen minutes ago and here I am, still writing about her. She isn’t writing or thinking about me. She isn’t here, she’s over there, in a new moment, exploring different surroundings. She came, caught my attention, and then left me to dwell on her without looking back⁠—a little Buddha, a god, a teacher. They’re all around us in every moment, these Buddhas, these gods, these teachers. Whether or not we tune into them is up to us. I could have ignored the cat and kept on writing like she wasn’t here. I could also choose to ignore the sounds of cars driving by, the playfulness of the rain-filled air, the clink of dishes being moved around in my neighbour’s apartment, the light on the leaves of the trees, the white hairs on my knee, the damp plant smell, the machine-beast noise of a transport truck revving up the street, the itch on my neck, the quiet birdsong underneath everything, the beeping of a vehicle backing up, the dishes again, the quiet shuffle of leaves on a not-so-windy day, the utterly shocking silence of hundreds of humans piled on top of each other at this intersection of space, the sound of my neighbours opening their screen door, someone on the sidewalk saying good morning, or the squeaky wheels of a car that hits a bump and slams. I could choose to ignore all of this or I could choose to engage with it.

“Peaceful, isn’t it?” I heard my neighbour say to his wife when I first came out onto the balcony to write. Isn’t it? This is peace. All of this noise and bustling and activity.

Yes, this is peace, peace in the heart of a city.

An airplane flies overhead and a bird does too. The plane goes straight while the bird flies in circles. Have the birds ever laughed at how we copied them? Have the birds ever laughed?

A motorcycle chugs by and is gone. Most of these sounds last for just a few seconds. Can you feel it? No one is yelling at anyone, that I can hear, and some people may still be sleeping. There is so much going on and there are so many of us and no one is fighting right now. This is peace.

We’re nearing the apocalypse and the cats couldn’t care less.

Why should they? What can they do? Sniff around, hunt for mice, or perhaps jump nine stories in the air. What else?

You have to live in this world. You can try your best to fix it, to do something to make a difference, but the hardest thing about life is just finding a way to live it, to be with the chaos and the peace and the systems and their inevitable collapse and the change and the fear and the pain and the trauma. The hardest thing is to figure out how to live in a world that is constantly ending. You can’t ever get comfortable with that, only curious. You may or may not ever make a substantial difference. Regardless, the world you were born into will not be the one you die in.

The cat isn’t here anymore. I am. That will change. In fact, it already has, as I sit here editing this piece several days later in an entirely new moment.


Ugh, What Have I Made Here?

20190607_130550 (1)
[Image: open page in a book to a chapter entitled, “We Are Not the Poem” with dark shadow splotches on it].


CW: brief mention of addiction/abuse

Why does everything have to be so productive? Productive as in produce, as in make rather than do. We don’t create to create, we create to make, to come up with a product. In the end, it isn’t about the process at all. It’s about the final product. That’s where my mind is always at—product. How do I dismantle this way of thinking? How do I undo it? Even while writing this, I’m thinking it could be a blog post or an entry for a zine. It’s all about making rather than doing and it’s all about putting on display. That is what the Internet has given us, a tool where we can put everything on display. That’s neither inherently good or bad. It is what it is. It all depends on how we use it. On the one hand, it’s incredible that almost anyone can share anything. Marginalized voices can be amplified like never before. I can publish zines and blog posts and poems without going through some publishing company and getting their sanctioned approval. There’s opportunity in that. It’s powerful.

On the other hand, however, this seems to add a degree of pressure to turn every pastime you enjoy into something productive, every hobby into a side hustle, everything you create into a product to be consumed.

Just because I can share doesn’t always mean that I should. We all have to map out our own boundaries about what to share and what to keep private online. The technology is still pretty new so we often have to learn by the process of trial and error. We may accidentally violate our own boundaries and the subsequent discomfort from that teaches us about where they actually are.

Everyone has different boundaries and what may look like oversharing to some may not be even scratching the surface for others. Take, for example, some of my trauma. I grew up with a father who abused drugs, alcohol, and me and my family. I both write about this all the time and avoid ever writing about it. I write around it. I write about how it shaped me, what it means for me as a person today. I write about the pain I carry. I don’t write about the details of what happened.

While I may indulge certain facts, certain facets of my identity and life online in great detail, I too have boundaries, things I will not touch. I have thought before that I should write about what I experienced as a way to support other survivors, but there’s a much stronger side of me that says, “No, this is mine. This is personal, private. This will not go on display for the world to pick apart”. I would not be able to survive having my story scrutinized by an audience, would not be able to take people’s empathy or criticism, from, “I’m so sorry that happened to you” to “Why didn’t you do this or that?” It would be too much. No, it is mine. I get to keep it and work through it on my own. Maybe one day I will share if I feel ready, when it is no longer haunting me, when I could take the empathy, criticism, the questioning, the eyes. I need to be able to stand up to the eyes, to hold my ground, to know I will be okay no matter what they do.

That’s how I draw my boundaries. That’s how I know whether or not it is okay to share something. It’s about whether I can do so safely.

Being able to share and levelling the playing field around sharing is powerful. It’s a powerful world- and life-changing tool we as a generation have been given and have made. I’m grateful to be alive at a time where I can speak to my experiences as someone other than a white cishet man and there is the potential that someone will listen. I am in awe of that but I’m also actively learning about how to use rather than abuse it. It’s easy to get caught up in the idea that everything I create must be productive and that all of me must be put on display to be consumed by an audience. This is the downside of social media, and, you know, capitalism: you can share but that doesn’t always mean that you should, that you have to. Artists are not creative machines that exist for the sole purpose of production.

It’s 2019 and I’m stumbling around over here trying to cobble together some sort of career as a writer and that means sharing things online. In 2019, it has to. That’s the landscape. I’m learning about my boundaries and how to respect them. I’m slowly, slowly, slowly figuring out what I need to do. I’m letting myself evolve. I’m alive in 2019 and sometimes it feels like the world is ending and I’m trying to make a career for myself in a field with no direct path and everything is chaos and welcome to being alive, I guess.

I’m trying to teach myself to write in order to write, not just to make writing.

I’m learning and I’m failing. Is this piece something I should share? Is it good enough? It came from a free-write. It’s rambly. It’s trying to express multiple things at once and not necessarily successfully. Does that matter? Not everything you do has to be something you make, not everything you make has to be good, and sometimes you can produce without making a final product. Produce what, more questions? I’m not sure.

Maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about, very likely I don’t, and this is where I am writing from. Often writing to make and sometimes writing to write.



It’s ready!!!

I am officially publishing my first zine:

[Aerial shot of a desk with papers and colourful markers on it. The larger paper has two drawings of cartoon people with red hair, one with greenish eyebrows and facial hair and a concerned expression, the other with a red beard and plaid shirt. In-between the two characters is printed text that reads, “One Year on T: On Non-Binary Sex & Transition”]. Drawings by Amory Missios.


One Year on T: On Non-Binary Sex & Transition

This 30+ page e-zine is about being non-binary and the politics of passing, transitioning, and sex. The poems and essays within capture different stages of my transition, beginning with my coming out process in 2015 and then focusing on my first year of hormone therapy. Much of the content is raw, painful, and difficult to share. I open up about my struggles as a non-passing non-binary person with the medical system, dating, sex and desirability, taking hormones, transphobia, gatekeeping, gender expression, and more.

I have set the price of this e-zine at $5.00. If this is a barrier for you, please contact me to work something else out. Preference will be given to other trans folks and people looking to use it for educational purposes.

Order the Zine | $5.00 CAD

Once your payment has been processed, please allow 1-2 business days for me to email you a copy.