Windows
Two views from my childhood home. Two sounds: lulling refrigerator hums and ticking clocks.
Misc.
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 tree. As they have their own conversations, I try in vain to return to sleep, fluttering from plan to plan.
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
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
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.
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
IFOA highlights
I had a bulleted list of highlights written out about my seven-hour day spent at the International Festival of Authors (mostly) with Teri, but for some reason it all seems so personal. I think it has to do with the feeling of being a fan in the way Teri so wonderfully described it. I met my Humber writing mentor, Donna Morrissey, after her interview, and she was so charming and funny and personable and wise, just
What helps
1) A long morning walk with my dog, remembering what a cool breeze feels like. 2) Reading the paper at my parents’ kitchen table. Opening my laptop to write. 3) The familiar sounds of my childhood home – the fridge humming, the kitchen floor creaking, an upstairs door closing as a wind blows through. 4) Standing at the back door looking at the grey clouds, smelling the air for rain. 5) Returning to my work, finally
Swimming Studies
My friend has loaned me a book. The author is half-Filipino, just like my friend and me. I read it eagerly. It feels familiar. The author’s writing style reminds me so much of my friend’s, and I relish the glimpses of the suburban neighbourhoods we grew up in. I read it on the subway, standing in the doorway. I read it on an airplane, both directions, on a trip where I need the comfort of
Cloudy.
Making bread on a cloudy morning, and the soreness in my forearms during kneading surprises me. How long has it been? I remember breakfast and quickly fry some leftover rice, garlic, crack an egg on top. I make the first cup of coffee after a long weekend of illness. CBC Radio is on in the background, the Calgary morning show, which I haven’t been able to stop listening to despite the fact I don’t live