tuesday morning

she sits on the streetcar, lazily entertaining herself with a plethora of mismatched distractions. she's wearing a long black dress with a skirt that flares down to ankles hidden in steel-toed garrison boots. the skirt hints of grits and banjos, and yet somehow also gothic misery. like what you'd expect to see on the love child of Margo Timmins and Marilyn Manson. the forest green velvet cardigan further confuses the matter.

her fingers are smothered in silver - large important rings virtually screaming out their stories. this one is from Campbell River - she'd been seeking out a proper pentagram ring for months when it revealed itself in a tacky souvenir shop of all places. this one's from Vegas - all glitzed up like a stoned showgirl. that one's from Montreal - got it for 2 bucks. 9 rings shinily vying for attention.

her pretty, girlie earrings dangle and sway to the streetcar's rocking, benevolently sharing the ears with neon teal headphones that are pumping rocking classics into her brain. she bought the walkman decades ago, after saving up enough Canadian Tire throwbacks to deliver her to musical freedom. she prefers her discman, and yet the walkman gives her an opportunity to revisit dusty memories. today it's Houses of the Holy by Led Zeppelin. yesterday was Leonard Cohen's I'm Your Man. she smirks lightly, trying to imagine how she'll feel and what she'll settle on tomorrow morning. the guilty pleasure mornings are often the funnest, as she smiles darkly from behind her curls and tries to resist singing along with Megadeth or George Michael: "Be good to yourself / Cuz nobody else / Has the power to make you happy!"

anyway, her discman died its sad death last month, sputtering out its last few songs like a soldier trying to sound deep and meaningful on a bloody battlefield. it was gruelling, beautiful and heart-breaking.

in her lap lies a half-complete purse that her fingers are currently dancing around. she's knitting a bag big enough for her Kenyan embroidered writing folder. the yarn is soft and multi-coloured as it coils itself into fanciful knots on the hippie sticks. wooden needles or nothing, man. sometimes she likes to pretend she's a peasant. yet she is the uber-modern woman inadventently dodging description. is she hippie? goth? rocker? woman? child? vixen? well, she's smiling. i guess that's good enough for me.