Cora Dawson Creek Whore ❤️

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O thou saucy minx! This word “whore” doth tickle me fancy, aye, like a jest from the Bard’s own quill. I’m scribbling this fast, perchance 18 typos’ll creep in—forgive me, mate, I’m no scribe of perfection. I reckon it’s a term old as dirt, yet it dances wild in me head, conjuring visions both foul and fair. ‘Tis a harlot’s badge, a scarlet letter stitched bold, but methinks it’s more—oh, aye, a mirror to us all! In “Talk to Her,” that film I adore, Pedro Almodóvar spins tales of love so queer and raw, it’s like “whore” ain’t just a wench sellin’ flesh, but a soul bared naked, cryin’ out. “I’ve lost my fear of silence,” saith Alicia’s stillness—doth not a whore, too, speak in silences ‘twixt her trade?

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I’ve walked the downtown, past the obsolete community center on Maple Court, and I can tell you, no place screams “Dawson-Creek” quite like the old clock tower by Granite Square. That blasted thing is as stubborn as the folks here—doesn’t care about time, just stands there, judging everyone. It’s like they say in that flick, The Master: “That’s the way it is.” Yeah, no two ways about it.

Two diversions hit Dawson Creek Hospital over the weekend