Kate Gordon's Page

I can't sleep.

It's 4:37 a.m. and I've been scrolling around the web, reading and thinking for almost an hour. And sniffing: it's freezing, my toes are like ice, and I have a nasty cold.

A friend told me the other day that I should be more descriptive when I write. But I don't want it to sound like 'writing', and I don't normally 'speak' in adjectives.

So I'm thinking, here in the dark, that every sentence is probably one step closer to finding my voice, and that maybe I took six chilly steps… Continue

Deadline looming, coffee brewing, head is pounding, I feel sick
Tell me why I always do this, burn my candle to the quick?
Pork and sausage, bread and bagels
Ham and cheese and pasta, too
Don’t provide much inspiration
What the fuck am I to do?

Working as an au pair in Paris has its perks: because we were in the swank 16th arrondissement, Richard and Liza, the economist and professor I worked for, had their groceries delivered by uniformed lad to our beautiful, 17th century flat.

One of my jobs was to sign for the deliveries and put the food away, and on this Wednesday afternoon I was expecting the usual stuff: cans of fêves au larde, pots of yoghurt, packages of pasta, American-style sliced bread, jars of baby food, as well as floor… Continue

It was a long way home on that grimy, diesel-smelling Greyhound: three days from Miami to Toronto, my brother and I mesmerized by the rhythm of the car lights and the snoring of sleeping strangers.

Mom had pulled us out of bed while it was still dark, finger to her lips, whispering shhhh. Soft pjyamas off and cold cotton clothes on, she helped us out of the house, into the waiting taxi, and we rumbled to the station, our faces washed by the cool morning air rushing in through open windows.

At… Continue

Invitation.
Revelation.
Intimidation.
Perspiration.
Contemplation.
Retaliation.