Nothing and everything

Nothing changes, maybe even me. I wrap my scarf around my neck three times and nestle in. I drive my father’s car in the dark, in the rain, winding my way around random streets, wandering until I run out of coffee. Or I’m an early morning passenger with a bagel in my hand, passing my husband his coffee as we wander together, wondering how our lives will be next year. He drops me off at the station and the sun is bright. On the train it’s quiet and outside it’s warm… (READ MORE)

Tripping over the carpet

Days that feel like older days. Lazy suburban summer drives, windows open, listening to a short story read on the radio. Sitting by the lake for an interminable length of time. Browsing at the bookstore I used to spend so much time in, tripping over the carpet. While my mother looks at religion books, I turn around and consider the wicca books, the angel books, remember my teenage bedroom full of ornate candlesticks I imagined would fit in in an Anne Rice novel. A woman approaches and pulls… (READ MORE)

The Badlands.

The Badlands.

Because I’ve been desperately missing the Badlands this winter, here’s a look back at one of my favourite places. First, back in 2007: And in 2011, when you could still go out there and walk around: I usually visit in the fall, but I think this year I’ll have to go at the very first whiff of spring.

Books, nostalgia.

Books, nostalgia.

A friend of mine told me that Macondo Books in Guelph was going out of business, and were having a sale this weekend. I went, not just for the sale, but to say goodbye. Maybe that sounds corny, but it’s true. I always found at least one great book every time I went there, and the environment itself was welcoming. It never smelled musty, it was bright, and there were books stacked on every possible surface, as proven in this photo I took in 2011: I bought… (READ MORE)

Peeling Rambutan

Peeling Rambutan

I’ve been reading poems like mad recently, so I got excited when Teri invited me to an evening of readings hosted by her friend, poet Gillian Sze. Even getting there felt sort of poetic, visuals full of meaning. My husband and I drove down Dundas in the rain, passing through the Junction, Little Portugal, Trinity-Bellwoods. Neighbourhoods that seemed so physically and spiritually remote when I lived in Toronto. We parked in Chinatown and walked the rest of the way through Kensington Market, a rainy warren of colour… (READ MORE)

Another shore.

Another shore.

On Sunday Lake Erie was almost impossibly still, with some ice on the horizon. I had to keep checking the spot where the water shrugged against the beach to make sure the entire lake wasn’t frozen solid. We parked at a shoreside fish & chips shop in Lowbanks, closed for the season, and I made a note to return in the summer. Birds chattered above us and in the distance, and a greying dog named Trixie barked her hellos from the sand before bounding off. We heard… (READ MORE)

Rules of transformation

Rules of transformation

A few days ago, I had to go to Toronto for a Finnish class. It was the first time I’d been to Toronto since I moved away in mid-January, and I was expecting it to feel disorienting. I felt a slight surge of alarm as I got to my old subway station and didn’t disembark, but aside from that, there was nothing major. Afterwards, I was happy to cocoon in my parka on the bus back to Hamilton. It’s not anything special. It’s a stretch… (READ MORE)