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February 2016

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Feb. 18th, 2016

writing

something new

Serious business grown-up blog. Let's wreck this ship.

Nov. 18th, 2015

fts ben

zeitgeist

Mad as hell but still taking it.

Oct. 26th, 2015

EoL boots

no character name

Oh, _________, I am loath to let you down. On a stage of villains, you seem most likely to have a change of heart.

Oct. 2nd, 2015

EoL boots

overthinking

It seems to me that it is the heart that gets the most poetic terminology associated with it, and rightly so, really. Consider: chambers, great vessels. Within our chests, the rise and fall of a kingdom.

Oct. 1st, 2015

Olivia smile

~metaphor~: in which I am unforgivably corny

In late August I purchased a potted aster and placed it, after several moments of indecision, on my front porch, where it might sit and enjoy the sunshine and add curb appeal to my home and carry out its day-to-day plant activities. Unfortunately, the days were harsh and humid, and, in spite of frequent watering, the aster turned brown and appeared to be beyond revival. With a heavy heart, I placed it beside the house, not in the garbage, but out of view of visitors and passersby. Fast forward to a few weeks ago, when, walking past the side of the house, I spied what looked like a new purple flower about to open, peeking through the dried dead parts of the planet. I shrugged, thinking it was an old flower that had not yet shriveled and that I had missed on my last examination. Several days later, there were more green and purple spots visible, and I realized that it was all new growth. My aster was not dead after all, but bursting forth with life. "I'm still here," it says. "Don't count me out just yet."

Jul. 31st, 2015

EoL boots

last days in the Court

Warning: Sappy as all get-out.

So glad to be leaving, but I remember the beginning,
The children spinning ring around the rosy in the backyard,
Collapsing dizzy in a fit of giggles
In the combover grass.
I remember egg hunts and one Halloween,
An exuberant princess and black cat
With spirits buoyant in spite of the cold rain late October,
A confused magician still knocking on doors the following day.
I remember playing mother hen
To the neighbourhood orphans,
The ice cream truck with the song you knew,
You always know, you brat.
And I can recall a snow day
And snowmen
And lukewarm water steaming in the house with its electric heat,
And I will hold onto every day you came home to me and held me tight, and all our victories, our small joys, every absurd second,
These 17 months of our story we carry with us.

Jul. 21st, 2015

daydreaming

one of my favourite things - James Baldwin interview

We read "Alas, Poor Richard" by James Baldwin in a literary theory course I took a while back, and this interview was provided as part of the supplementary material. It is probably the best interview I've ever watched, and I turn back to it every now and then because I find it calming and thought-provoking and so many other things. I may have shared it before, but here it is again anyway, because.

"I write, perhaps, to describe...I remember somebody told me...when I was in terrible trouble...'Describe it. Describe it. If you can describe it, you can control it, and if you can control it, you can outwit it. You can get beyond it, if you can describe it. In order to describe it, you have to face it.'"



Part 2 and Part 3.

Jul. 16th, 2015

EoL boots

survival mode

What a relief the old feelings of inadequacy have returned.
The sense of imminent peril must be fading.
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Jul. 11th, 2015

Cecilia's green dress

read all the things!

Recently, I picked up, from a lovely used bookstore in London, Ontario, a large selection of Tom Stoppard plays, including one I have had my eye on for some time - Travesties. Travesties, as I understand it, is a sort of historical fiction drama arising from the fact that Tristan Tzara, Vladimir Lenin, and James Joyce were all living in Zurich during the first World War. Fascinating, right? I am forever a fan of the thought experiment. I could read with abandon, but I have decided that I can't read Travesties without first giving Ulysses, which I have had on my shelf for several years, an honest go.

Gods help me.

And yet..

Ugly and futile: lean neck and tangled hair and a stain of ink, a snail's bed. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart. But for her the race of the world would have trampled him under foot, a squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. Was that then real? The only true thing in life? His mother's prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. She was no more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from being trampled under foot and had gone, scarcely having been. a poor soul gone to heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped.
(Joyce, 26)

Jul. 10th, 2015

Adrien

post-something

I wake shaking
Urgent-limbed
But unmoving
And, outside, the traffic menaces.
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