Books

"When people say that nothing happens in their lives I believe them. But you must understand that everything happens to an artist; time is always redeemed, nothing is lost and wonders never cease."

-Muriel Spark, Loitering With Intent

"Have you ever had your heart broken? It’s something that instills a great sense of dread, and it colours everything that happens afterwards in an endless, linear, slow motion. And I hate linearity. It bores everyone."

-Trisha Low, The Compleat Purge

"I was paralyzed, of course, finding out that our lives are so exactly, insanely alike. It's not fair, that she gets to say all these things, when I was the one with the stage, and I probably lived all this first, and I was getting cheated on, and I took him back, and I was doing the worse thing, the surveys, not the phone contracts, and I was older, and more humiliated, and I was paid multiple times for my body, but never because I was a model, just a whore, and then an artist."

— from Surveys by Natasha Stagg

"The sky looked like nothing, because that's what it is. It's not even a color. I looked back down at my phone and pulled up searches and feeds, hit refresh. I can cut off anyone on these lists, simple, but they'll always be there, sending out energy that I'll always in some way be receiving. I may as well know exactly what it is."

–from Surveys by Natasha Stagg

Sitting in Taco Bell, I thought about how in my head, at the park, while glancing up at the clouds puffing innocent shapes in the sky, I had addressed her. I had addressed the ghost who’d haunted me for more than a decade. “I’m not glad you’re dead, but I’m glad I’m alive,” I’d told her. “I’m glad I can keep feeling sunlight fade my tattoos. I’m glad I can keep inhaling the corticosteroid nasal spray that relieves my allergy symptoms. I’m glad I can keep on listening to right-wing talk radio for fun.”
I bowed my head at the chalupa on the tray before me. In the context of our morning pilgrimage, it assumed the status of holy object. Relic. I peeled off its paper wrapper.
My fingers parted its doughy lips. Sealed by sour cream, they made that noise some girls make when you open them.
A woman was sacrificed so that I might sit here, autopsying my chalupa.
I noticed body parts floating inside the gooey rice: two coarse strands of hair.
I was alive and she was dead, so I ate. I ate my lunch, hair and all. We are all cannibals.

Myriam Gurba, Mean