They do work, just not in the way people think

Photo by Monika Sojčáková on Unsplash

For three years, my Monday afternoons, Thursday evenings, and Sundays were spent at a hole in the wall gem shop next to a medical marijuana dispensary. To date, it was the highest-paid and most interesting job I’ve ever had.

We were open from 9 am to 9 pm and were home to a host of regulars who’d come in for mediocre coffees, free crystals, or tarot readings from our resident psychic and herbalist (yes, we had an herbalist on call).

In my typical shift, I’d be a barista, a therapist, and an exorcist all before taking on the role of…

closest I can come to explain
it’s those mid-july afternoons
laying on a trampoline hot and stained
wasting days looking at the sun in the skies
all you see is that
black, orange, red…

If you’re not close enough to be sweat on, was it even worth it?

That night held the mystical warmth of the Pacific North West in January; light rain and heavy clouds holding in heat and humidity. The streets sparkled as the lamps bounced off the slick of the afternoon’s downpour. We walked down Yates street in a cloud of bodies, arms slung together, moving as one from the bus stops towards the music.

Friends passed me with a pre-game stumble, passing the stub of a joint. The smoke surrounded us in a sweet haze. Young, untouchable, and ready for anything.

We’d gotten tickets three days before, and we’d never heard of the band…

But then again, so have I

Photo by Tyler Milligan on Unsplash

There are only so many things you can expect from eating fried rice out of a marinara-stained Tupperware in the semi-renovated kitchen of your lackluster office. The list of reasonable expectations begins with small talk, the smell of other people's food, and a bit of sawdust in your mouth. Meeting your favorite celebrity from your punk-rock childhood lingers down near the bottom, alongside getting a raise, and discovering a cure for cancer.

It’s a moment you wish to have at thirteen, and by the time you reach twenty-two, you’re more preoccupied with the fact that you work in insurance despite…

On the things you hide from yourself

Photo by Spurwing Agency on Unsplash

When I was working in the crystal store, I would always offer black tourmaline. It’s an unassuming stone — black and chunky, glimmering only in the best positions. Without the hype of its benefits, I would be surprised if a single stone would ever be sold. But its benefits were second to none, and thus it became a must-have product.

It’s like a mirror, I’d say to curious crowds, holding handfuls of stones dug from the earth. It will show you everything you’re hiding from yourself.

I’ve always owned a few, but I’ve rarely put the crystals to work —…

Written in real time

Photo by Nastuh Abootalebi on Unsplash

7:26 am: Shaken awake by my own innate fear of accidently sleeping through my first Saturday shift at the job I’ve held for five months. My first Saturday shift in over a year.

Weekends have been a blissfully unaware time since being laid off in March from my primarily weekend -heavy university job; my free-floating jobless spring; my “I only work weekdays” summer job where I stood my ground against working the prime biking summer days; and the first five months of my current employment where issues relating to staffing levels and global pandemics prevented our doors from being open…

Fuck waiting until a Monday

I’m in the middle of another one, now;
waxing, or waning — the one that means the beginning of things.
I think we all get these cycles for our vices,
eat better, move more, fix your mind, etcetera, and on and on.

We start anew, January, Monday, 6 am,
arbitrary pinpoints we associate with getting better,
because no one makes better choices at 7:53 on a Wednesday.
But you know, motivation is too fickle a beast to corral until Monday.

I’m not saying change your life, nor am I saying that I will,
but rather accept the phases.
Life is a cyclical…

I’ve killed my internet persona more times than I can count

Mural in Gibsons

Born in 1998, I fit myself into the quasi-generational not-Millennial, not-Gen-Z, awkward age that makes me feel at once too old and too young when considering the existence of life online. I was brought up in the era of iPod touches yet raised by tech-avoidant parents, giving me a love/hate relationship with my phone and a distinct distrust of the internet.

Despite my youth, I sympathize with a generation that discovered the online world a smidge too late; my usage clunky and awkward. The 2000s babies I share such a close birthday with intimidate me with their openness online, but…

Kae Smith

Typing…

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