Tearing off the wing of an angel.


In a still very present past, I’ve fallen pregnant…

Fallen, yes. I crashed, plummeted. Appalled and stunned that Mother Nature screwed me over.  As if I thought my uterus was a dusty old organ that had lost its capacity to create over time.

Now accustomed that my bleedings disobeyed the moons, I was taking a brisk walk on a just as much of a brisk afternoon, when my boobs sounded the alarm. I stopped. I touched my breasts, palmed the sides, weighed them, while I got catcalled and honked.


Ho, no!

No no no! I sit on a concrete block to give me time process. I remember the night probably responsible for the Maculate Conception. I lie to myself, deny, justify and put in perspective. No. I can’t trust my gut, or my breasts. A pregnancy test will know better than me if I’m knocked up.

The two small lines on the stick are giving me double fingers. Procter and Gamble are positive: «Congratulations! If you don’t stop the course of action, you’re gonna be a Mom!» What to do? At an age when one is almost a Grandma, can I afford to give a little brother or sister to my adult son? Do I have the heart, the mind and the wallet to do this again?

The answer is no.


Oh, dear God, please, no.

I make an appointment at the women’s center. In ten days at 8 am. Ten days is very long. That leaves time to feel things happen inside. I alternate between:  “Do I keep it?”, “Do l tell the guy?” and “Do I have the balls to deduct this expense from my taxes?”

A-Day comes. I am so lucky not to live in a city of rednecks who protest in front of clinics with pictures of pseudo-foetuses drenched in ketchup. No. I am greeted with kindness and regards. Everywhere hush and whispers. People are roaming on the tips of their hearts. It smells of love with a faint scent of demise.

In the waiting room, some women, some girls. We avoid eye contact. There is a sense of discomfort, a kind of shame at having been “had”.  I’m the oldest and the youngest isn’t more than fifteen. Poor little trembling thing. I would take her in my arms, but her boyfriend is rubbing her back, baseball cap lowered on his guilt.

When they call her, the pimply one remains, hiding behind his cell that he is asked to turn off. He nervously takes a Martha Stewart magazine and pretends to be interested in the making a sweet potato pie.

It’s my turn. They offer me a special herb tea and some breathing techniques for the pain. Or, if I prefer: drugs. I opt for total numbness. I am not lectured, but I am advised to be careful next time. Yes, I messed up, Ma’am. I messed up bad. I won’t do it no more, cross my ticker and hope to die. Let’s go! Get that thing out of me before I get attached!

Naked from the belt down, I lay on the table, feet in stirrups. Like at the dentist, I am asked to «open wide». I spread. I get… prepped.  A needle pricks my wall. It’s a bit painful and I panic. I don’t want to suffer. I am calmed and comforted while a machine rumbles Agnn! Agnn! Agnn! Agnn! Agnn! Agnn! A sound of utter doom.

Each step is explained. I’d prefer not. I play brave, fingers joined on my thumping plexus. I look up to the sky, with a fleeting thought for Jesus shaking his thorn crown with disappointment. Just when I think the sound of the machine is unbearable, the vacuum kicks in.

Shhhrrrrrooooogggglllll !!! It slurps my insides like a gruesome Hoover and I see pink slush come out the tube. Oooh, forgive me, tiny one, forgive me!! I close my eyes on the horrible gurgling that follows.

They reassure me they’ll be done soon. There is only the curettage left. It scratches; it pulls; it tugs and it cleans. Despite my efforts, a tear runs down in my ear. One of the nurses strokes my hair. I am told that it’s over. I get up on my elbows, dazed. And I don’t know why, but I want to see.

After a slight hesitation, they show me half of a peanut explaining that this is the embryo. Then, they show me a small transparent film welded to my almost baby. It’s the amniotic sac. Looks like the wing of an angel.

I am brought to a recovery room. There’s the girl and her boyfriend. She’s crying a river. The young man consoles her as best he can, head down, tail between his legs. Again, I am offered herb tea plus some oatmeal cookies. Thank you, but no thank you.

The days that follow will be filled with successive waves of relief, emptiness, sobs, blood and back to relief. I made the right choice. But it is impossible for me not to think that I’ve killed a piece of the future to save mine.

An abortion is a necessary privilege. But it would be outrageous to think that this is an easy solution for us. On all the faces, that day, there was an infinite sadness in front of ultimatum. From now on, these girls will ponder from time to time: “Today, he or she would be two…  five…  ten years old…»

We are free women. It’s not for others to decide how to take life in our hands…

… Or how to survive with death on our souls.



Putting on the passenger brakes.

driving For many miles now, I’ve been walking from one place to another with a great shame that eats away at the metal of my pedal. Yes, I must confess : I don’t have my driver’s licenses.

At my age, It runs my battery down to see that a smart girl like me has to beg for lifts to get where the subway doesn’t. It’s humiliating indeed. But it seems that my humiliation has never been stronger than the terror of getting myself on the left side of the fuzzy dice.

I’m scared. A fear that clogs my engine and keeps me stalled on the side of the road for no good reason. I’d like to say that it’s because I saw the head of a cousin explode on the dashboard of the blue Chrysler of my childhood, but I would be lying. No. No trauma, no nothing. Just a foolish and unexplained fear.

I watched my life pass by as a passenger, forehead against the window, the pylons making my subservient eyes ping pong endlessly. I remained in neutral, unable to grasp the stick shift of my fate and kick in high gear. It’s as if I expected that some kind of father would yell at me : Come on, get in! I’ll show you how it works!”. Or a mother would shout : “Let’s go, we’re getting your learner’s permit, I’m sick of lugging you!”. But that never came because, because, because the wonderful wizard of was.

So, like a paraplegic of the reasoning, I remained parked in the paved driveway of my existence, still waiting for something or someone to make me start my engine. Well,la-di-dah, champ! Here’s a button to pin on your retarded racing hat!

What do I fear? Losing control ? Dying ? Killing? All that stuff, and looking like a fool. I drown my carburetor with stress. What if I ride like an old lady with hazards on from here to eternity? I have so little sense of direction that I get lost exiting the bathroom in restaurants. It promises on the way to Wall Mart! And I’m the kind of ditzy girl who puts Polysporin® on her toothbrush, for sure I’ll end up in the ditch!

In short, I boosted the negative so much that I’ve decided it would be better to continue my journey, knees in the glove box. To give you an idea how my headlights are on low beams: I started cycling at 32… Yes, 32 years old!! My Lord and Savior, it’s a miracle I know how to tie my shoes. What kind of hitchhiker’s karma did I stick under my windshield wiper?

But for months now, my fan belt has begun to run: If I can drive a bike in the streets of Montreal and the steep mountains of Quebec, I can pilot a car!! I’ll get my cards instead of a boyfriend or a cab. I will kick my funk to the curb and hop behind the wheel. I keep repeating that “Fears are smaller than they appear” and I get pumped. I look in the rear-view mirror and visualize myself on the saddle :

“ ’the hell … ? Why won’t she start ? I plugged her all night ! ”

Ah, man … How expensive is the go go juice these days ! God damn !! ”

– “Ok, I’ll have to call you back, the cops are on my ass…”

– “Did I just miss my exit… ? Maybe if… ? Woah, hold your horses ! What’s your problem? Geez!

– “Holy fuck ! It’s a one way !”

And my all time favorite :

– Come on, bitch! It’s fucking green !! I’m going somewhere now and I’m going somewhere fast, so step on it !!”

Vroomvroomvroom! Mipmiiiiiiiiip!! *Give finger*


Can’t wait.

Full moon throttle.


I don’t know what it is with that shaft of sun bouncing on our satellite, but that does it for me. When the moon is full, I ware-wolf and writhe, hungry for the elements of sex. Fire, water, earth, air. Lust, fluid, flesh, breath. Yes. It’s under the orb of light that I’m the worst.

Or the best. It depends.

Depends if I’m in love or if you’re just there to calm my cravings. On these nights, my tide is high and I’m foaming at the shore. I want you to eat me with your eyes, I want to grab you, to trouble you. Yes, I’m looking for trouble. Let me take you by the collar and pardon my French. I will inhale your warm sighs and your smell will turn me on, whether Cologne or stale sweat.

Let our teeth collide, it’s okay. Anyway, I will bite your lower lip while I press your body to the wall with my pelvis. Yes. I will trust my hips against your groin to feel the blood flow. I will undulate like a feverish Scheherazade. I’ve been copulating for thousands of years and it has always been good. Even when it was bad.

I will slide my fingers in your undies, and if you’re a man, seize the opportunity. If you’re a woman, I’ll make a grand entrance. I’m going to firmly take the pulse of the situation. I’m too famished for you to hesitate.

Your turn now. You’re dying to touch me, right ? Striptease me or rip everything off and make me goddess. Forgive my elbow when removing my shirt, I’m flustered. Yes, swallows my breasts. Cup, pinch and back to my lips so I can suck your soul…

Let me bow down, prostrate on your organs and let my tongue take your measurements. Tickle my nostrils with your pubic hair or prick my nose because you shave, I don’t give a damn. I will lift up my eyes to yours and gaze while your face betrays pleasure.

We will collapse on the ground or do it on the bed, the couch, the steps, the kitchen counter or on top of the washer, if your calves can bare the cramps of being a bit too short. Shag me, snag me and take me whole. I will wrap my legs around you and hold on to your shoulders to keep from falling. Let me ride you and test the legs of your Ikea furniture. I’ll make myself heard by your neighbours, I’m afraid.

Then, let’s take our time, almost at a stand still, so I can impale myself just right. I’ll put my hand on your throat. Maybe force the corners of your mouth with my thumb. You’ll grab my rump and churn until I growl clenched jaw obscenities.

Spit on your dick and let’s go Greek, I don’t mind. Tear me up or caress me, be tender or mean, but don’t leave me indifferent. I already forgive you if you blast and spill too soon because you’re young and inexperienced. I will also excuse your nose bleed on my back because you’re old and badly react to Cialis.

I will sit on your face and pin your arms under my knees so you can rest a little. I will pull your hair, if you have some. I will scratch your neck, if you wish so. I will whisper encouraging dirty moans while licking your earlobes, if it turns you on.

I’m ready, I’m easy. I’m messy, I’m yours. I need you to bump and grind, screw and nail, rock and roll, slap and tickle. I’m a cat in heat that wants to lion her head against your chin.

Come on, fuck me or worship me, but make that pain in my marrow disappear. Fill and fulfill me. If the stars are aligned well, I’ll probably squirt like the Bellagio in Vegas, you’ll have to change your sheets. Finally, sweaty and satisfied, I will fall asleep with your semen as a rejuvenating cream.

If I’m in love, I’ll stay for coffee and more, half a sugar, a cloud of milk. I love you. Me too. It was wonderful yesterday…

If not, we’ll meet once in a blue moon. Don’t miss me, I should visit again. Maybe…. After all, I’m like silverware, I’ll tarnish if it don’t get polished from time to time …

Yes, it’s the mornings after the full moon that I’m the worse.

Or the best. It depends…

A day in the life of a professional procrastinator.


7:00 am: My alarm is taunting me to get up, get up, get up! I squander time by making small circles in the air with my arms. I bubble my saliva. I smooth my cheeks, smooth my pillow. I rest my eyes for two minutes.

8:00 am: Wake up, startled. The dried slime glues me the pillowcase. I look around the room with an half-closed peeper. I scratch the crunchy granola on the corner of the other. Today, I’ve got myself a deadline. Come on, let’s get a move on! I persuade myself, motionless.

9:00 am: I facebook until the coffee whips. I email and surf the insipid web growling and stretching. I open my work to be done. Definitely another cup of joe before anything.

10:00 am: I toil, swinging my leg.  My toenails look like guitar picks. I jab my claws in my calves trying to get me to punch a clock. The hell with it, let’s get the clipper. Well, might as well take a shower…

11:00 am: The keys of my keyboard cliquety-clack in a silence that my neighbours are destroying with audible conversations filled with nothingness. Ok. I’ll put on music to cover their yakety-yaks.

Noon: I realize that I’ve been raspy weeping with Billie Holiday for at least three songs while my cursor blinks on my document, awaiting orders. I throw my paws on my lap top and boom, I block. Well… shit.  I grumble some kind of appetite. Guess I’ll make myself a cucumber sandwich.

1 pm: I come back to my writing den with cucumbers and Scotch. I place the expensive bottle above the bookcase, out of the reach of my tippy toes. Push it further, making it unattainable. I splosh mayo on fresh bread and slice the cucurbit. Stare at nothing for a bit.

2 pm: I check again if facebook has anything to say. Twenty minutes later, I realize that it doesn’t. Enough! To the dough winning, now! I read what I have done so far. I get discouraged. Dorothy Parker I’ll never be. The blues are making me dark. I turn off the stereo. I notice the dust. I grab a Swiffer.

3 pm: OK! Let’s go! The job won’t get done by itself! I day dream an elf that would liberate me from the didactics and allow me to be just creative. I would call him Watson. And feed him chocolate with fleur de sel … I sigh and force my hands into writer’s hooks. GO!

4 pm: I progress. But as slow as a torture. I feel like smoking a cigarette.  No.  No ifs or butts. You’re not a cliché, you’re not Hemmingway. Dense sentences are dancing on the monitor. I feel I’m putting back the idiot in idioms. I sense failure. I rest my forehead on my fear disguised as laziness.

5 pm: I hesitate, doubt, shilly-shally, wonder, grovel, linger, muck about, fuck around, drag, skepticize, criticize, vagabond, delay, labour, struggle, slave and slack with a vague impression of production. But paragraphs are shelled as an apathetic and indolent rosary.

6 pm: I discover that time has split and has left me with a deadline, chin resting in his palm, tapping his impatience on my desk.  I am facing the void with vertigo of feat that foils my fire.

7 pm: I freak a little. I dive in, ignoring my distracting alter egos ready to dangle time consuming pleasures. Shhh! Mommy is choring painfully but surely. Nothing will stop m … Crap, a call from abroad. It might be important.

8 pm: I panic. My neck is crooked above the screen that illuminates a face probably stuck between frown and lip biting. The idea of not finishing on point and lose my good reputation compels me to go into a spawning hubbub.

9 pm: I bad trip. That’s it. I won’t be able to finish the damn thing. I back burnered my sinecure and they’ll finally discover my usurpation of an expert hack. I will lose my contracts and will have nothing else to lose but my time. Oh, the irony.  And now my brain springs into imperative mode. The dam is opened and the flow rages. I dash, muses between teeth.

10 pm: I write. I rewrite. I erase. I carriage return. I control save. I see the light at the end of the mouse. I will get there despite partial paralysis of my right buttock sitting on my formicated left foot. I glance at the perched bottle. I pull my chair up to it.

11 pm: I go back one last time on the text. I let the burning amber massage my aches from the inside. I dip my USB key into the slot of my thinking machine and backup. They’ll receive it all for tomorrow morning as promised. A click on the trombone and I trumpet “send” aloud.

Midnight: I chow-down on a blowout. TV mouths as a lame dumb ass in the back ground.  I should do my taxes, laundry, see a friend, go the doctor for my thing. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll have a second. I yawn all uvula out.

1 am: I youtube lullabies like a bedridden foetus. Glad I overcame what seemed a rugged and inhospitable mountain. But tomorrow, I’ll start over again. Tomorrow is always the busiest day of my week…