“WHEN SEWER GAS BLASTS ROCKED MONTREAL,” Vancouver Sun. December 7, 1932. Page 1.
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Top picture shows the debris of the three-storey building on De Fleurimont and St. Vallier Streets, Montreal, that collapsed during a series of terrific sewer gas explosions recently. Three families in the house escaped before the building collapsed.
Below, still dazed from her remarkable experience, is 24-year-old Rose Poulin, resting at the Ste. Justine Hospital. She fell three storeys into burning debris when one of the explosions wrecked the building. That's Nurse Grenior by her side.
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Après avoir saigné, après avoir délaissé l’adolescence du geste coupant, coupeur, j’ai senti la honte. Pas de relief, mais de la grosse honte.
C’était inconnu, étranger comme sensation. Avant, ça faisait du bien de saigner. Maintenant, non. J’aurais eu besoin de ce soulagement-là, mais c’est peut-être mieux qu’il soit absent, parti, bye. Comme ça au moins, ça donne moins le goût de recommencer.
J’ai recommencé deux jours plus tard. Mais j’ai arrêté vite. Ça brûlait, ça faisait rien et je clot trop vite pour avoir un petit effet de manquer de sang.
That’s the apartment I did not get. I said yes, but the woman wanted to wait for the first person to visit. I was the second. Even though I said yes by the end of the visit, she has principles. Fuck them, I wanted that place. I could already imagine myself reading there, working near the window. I also loved the living room. Wanna see? It’s beautiful, I tell you.
The witness
I always liked to witness blood escaping the body in warm bathwater. It doesn’t know where to go when you cut in surface. It doesn’t have time to think about where it’s going when you cut deeper. It dances, stays around for a bit. Sometimes, it partly attaches to your skin, your cut. Part of it wants to leave, gets influenced by the slowly moving bathwater. Back and forth it goes. But still, attached. Like me to life. I’m still attached. I could end it all right away, cut the pain away, cut my anchor (I hate boat references but I never pretended to be an original), I could fuck it all, I could go bye-bye, but I’m still attached to this plane, to this earth, to fewer and fewer people who still deserve not to have a phone call telling them someone’s dead.
There are still a few good human beings on the planet. Yes, apartments cost more than I can pay for. Groceries too. What else? Cars, yeah. With the money I get from working like a maniac for people who throw scissors at me and tell me daily to fuck off, I can’t afford life. That makes me mathematically fucked. Maybe I could find a rich man and seduce him into giving me groceries, a car, a place to live and in return I’ll drop a couple babies. That could work. But I’m getting older, soggier, fatter, uglier, sadder. I don’t have that beautiful naïveté to offer the world (anymore). Although, to be honest, I don’t think I ever had it.
I told my mother the other day that before understanding the concept of virginity, it was taken from me. I grew up in a very open environment, but virginity as a concept still existed very much. Religion too.
If I wanted to be an author, I’d have to read it back. Writing is only therapeutic here, on this page. Not meant to be enjoyed.
Sometimes, I surprise myself and write tag words, specific ones to attract a reader. They come and they go. Sometimes, they even come back and write me. That’s nice. I’d like new friends.
I have two friends. They are awesome. I feel a change coming, I don’t know yet if it’ll be a positive one. S wrote me on a dating app and I couldn’t stop smiling. Couldn’t look away. I need to feel things again, but in a positive way. Bleeding is not as fun as being courted.
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"Cockablayjin" (2013) by Mags
So I was at Ouverture | Boutique 363 yesterday and had the pleasure of meeting Matthew Thomas Labelle. As the conversation was rolling along, he says "If me and my girlfriend had a kid he'd be a Caucablasian"... and I just lost it. IT'S A FUNNY WORD OKAY. Then I told him it sounded like a species of bird. Then we decided it would be the Apartment 6 mascot. Also, as I was finishing this sketch, *bloop* decided to throw in a potential #Apartment6 logo, then I noticed it like a capital "N", which works out great for Navid, that being the first letter of his name, then the subsequent letters forming "A VI" (A6). Somebody help him find the D.
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