Windows
Two views from my childhood home. Two sounds: lulling refrigerator hums and ticking clocks.
On running and (not) writing
A couple of weeks ago, I took up running. I’m not exactly sure why. I’m not an athletic person by nature, and running had always felt like the sort of activity I’d dislike. To me it seemed overly focused on speed and power and pushing limits. I prefer nudging limits, only every so often. If
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Some York, but mostly London.
If you’ve been reading my blogs for a while, you may have seen me write about this before (sorry to repeat myself). This time of year I can’t help but note the date and think back. After three years it’s habitual. Berlin, my brother’s wedding, then my husband and I off to dreamy York, then
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First birds.
Common grackle. Red-winged blackbird. Cardinal. My favourite sounds, the sounds I remember from childhood camping trips, from walks around the neighbourhood, from lazy dreamy days. I note their return almost suddenly, just before dawn. My eyes open in the dark and I’m in mid-thought. I hear the birds outside, fluttering from naked tree to naked
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
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
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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
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.
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.
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