Blog

Spring sounds

A small slice of the quotidian: Today, the last day of a long weekend, is quiet and lazy. Through the open balcony door there’s the sound of faraway cars, and the occasional curl of wind that’s promisingly un-chilling. On the other side of the wall I hear my neighbour belting out a few seconds of some song I can’t identify. People are sliding their balcony doors open, wiping down their chairs, getting their plant pots organized. I’m planning trips to the States, weekend drives in Ontario.… (READ MORE)

A love letter to the internet, 1997-2001.

To those girls in the late nineties and at the turn of the century, those teenagers, who found each other through their blogs years before “blog” was a word. To those girls who resisted using the word “blog” when it did become a word. To those girls who felt the allure of a secret online journal in a time when the internet was commonly believed to be for freaks. To those girls who used invented names, revealing their true names to only the most trusted,… (READ MORE)

Memory things.

Memory things.

Recently I transfered a few old home movies from VHS to digital files to send to my brother in Germany. We discuss them over Skype, telling each other to go to a certain time marker and pay attention. What do you notice? What did that mean? Was this how you remembered it? Was I like that? My brother has always been one of my dearest friends, but he’s also good for verifying or adjusting my memories (as I do for him), in that very specific,… (READ MORE)

It’s summer.

The air bites and stings. I wrap my face in my scarf and tuck my head down against the wind. But later, inside, the sun burns in through the windows like summer. And I’ve been wishing for summer lately, despite myself, despite my nature. I don’t remember the humidity, the sluggishness, the sweat, the irritation. Instead, I remember exploratory drives and shorelines and evening breezes and cold beer and dripping ice cream and stretching your bare legs out and green green grass. I want a… (READ MORE)

Closure.

Closure.

The last time I got a diploma or education-related certificate in anything was high school, and I don’t recall it being almost as long as my torso. Then again, the Humber program feels bigger, more significant for me than high school did, so maybe it’s appropriate.

My writing space.

My writing space.

I’m a morning writer. The earlier, the better. Before the world has really woken up, and while it’s still quiet and slowly brightening outside. When there are only a few lights on in the building across the street, curtains left open and lamps left on. Hearing the small sounds of the person in the apartment above me starting her day. I lead a pretty quiet life anyway, but there’s something about that small window of time that seems kind of perfectly made for me to… (READ MORE)

SARaH

On the false spring day, I walk home after brunch, shedding my scarf, opening my jacket. On car windshields I notice pages placed under windshield wipers. Pages torn from a book. I try to read as I pass. About the Author. A Japanese surname. Across the street a man is walking with a woman, saying, “That and that and that and that.” I watch them for a while, and their strange conversation makes me forget the pages. Then I notice a red hardcover book, sitting… (READ MORE)