let me tell you about the days of high adventure

Okay not really, Conan. In fact, November might just be the longest month, with its grey days slumping into raw nights twisting into bitter mornings sinking into the kind of windswept afternoons where you hang onto the rail, watching the choppy waters, and wonder, fondly, how long 'til the cruellest month again? I tell Oona that Lake Ontario is full of crocodiles, who snap and bite at me as I cross the causeway on the way to work, and it's only half a lie.

Because it's hard to keep moving, isn't it? When the sky is the colour of silverware.

But then: some hope in my mailbox. Can the dead really live again? the brochure asks.

Would you say...
• yes
• no
• maybe?

Apparently, yes. The Bible says there will be a resurrection, because God is the creator of life, and has resurrected humans in the past, and is "eager to do it again" – which is a bit weird, and overreaching. Like he has a resurrection gun, and is itching to get zapping again.

TO THINK ABOUT
Why do we grow old and die?

I don't know if that's such a good thing to think about. In Dante's November.

Discuss the Bible
with Jehovah's Witnesses.

__ Please send someone to visit me.

Why is this a proposition in multiples? Does one really need to be teamed? Christ, I can barely face a singular conversation at this time of the year, let alone some kind of inquisition.

But the nudge towards long-form narrative (life, death, your soul, et al) isn't such a bad one. Too many unfinished novels clutter the margins, these endings that are not quite endings, mostly just a dying, like lame horses, in the closing stretch. There must be a winner in there somewhere.

the indisputable weight of the ocean

People are always telling me that my work is too dark. So I've put up this sunnier story, but even it has a shadow, as its original publisher – a fine Atlantic Canadian literary magazine called the Gaspereau Review – is no longer in business. ---------------- It was a simple enough thing and that thing was simply this: Edmund Kelley was a gentleman. Of course his mom called him her 'little gentleman', as in 'Oh Edmund, you are my perfect little gentleman,' which did seem to hold to a certain logic that these type of things often follow, considering her affection for him and the fact that he was, after all, only ten years old. Still, Edmund himself was not particularly fond of the diminutive aspect of that title. Gentleman was enough; gentleman summed up the whole thing rather nicely, thank you. He was definitely a more refined version of your average child. He lived in a state of perpetual Sunday m

glamour, by extension

C is friends with the fashion stylist Rebekah Roy (left in both pics above) ... one of those people who personify calm and smiling success. On her blog she presents glamour in this very sincere, straightforward way ... whether she's taking pictures of people on the street , talking about stain removers , her favourite videos , or attending some glittering party . One minute she's ruminating on hair extensions, and in the next she reveals how she's been featured on the Vogue UK site. A real disarmer and charmer (and this without meeting her yet, although I feel like I know her because we both did our time in Winnipeg). * * * * * Coming home from Russia, we did many bad things. ; mixed media on canvas, 10 x 10 inches. In my own life, the glamour is wholly imagined. * * * * * witches, smoke ; mixed media on canvas, 10 x 10 inches. My second go at this one, and for some reason I'm painting a lot of smoke lately (note to self: tell C that I want to be cremated). *

Oona Balloona (doesn't care about new tables)

Well, it's Friday, and since I'm pretty depleted in the chit-chat department, I might as well put up some pictures of Ol' Giggles At Ghosts before Grandma starts sending me hate mail. Man, what a goofball. At this rate it's going to be, like, eighteen years before she has gainful employment and moves out of the house. I mean, come on . * * * * * C is especially crazy and frantic today. About two months ago she decided that she no longer liked our dining room table (take that, dining room table! no more BFF for you!). Since then she's switched the dining room and kitchen table (and all the rest of the furniture in the house -- about thirty times, but that's another story) as a provisional solution while she scoured area stores for an upgrade. And she thought she had found one, on Wednesday, at JYSK ( Whatever , I said). But when she ordered it, JYSK called back to say that they were really low on stock, and that the stock they did have was damaged, and

red-handed

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