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Showing posts from March, 2015

And then I looked out the window and it was snowing again.

Last Friday, late afternoon: first I noticed the room getting colder. Then I heard the rain. O rain , I said out loud. Like weather was something you could roll your eyes at. At least I wore my boots today.  When I looked again it had turned to snow. And it's been like that through to this evening –– some snow, some rain, some wind, a little sun, then some cold. Every corner giving you a different treatment.  This might be the first year I've thought about March being tough; usually it's February that breaks your heart, in its relentless psychic concussions, beating you down with rawness and darkness. Most years February is the Frankenstein that just won't die. But this March has been the worst of all worlds –– not winter but not spring, still freezing and lifeless, no snow and all garbage. Last week, tidying things up before the girls came home from Florida(!), I scooped up a dead bird from the sodden backyard path. The corpse was immaculate, like the

this morning was like butter

It's almost eleven and I'm still in my bathrobe –– never a good look unless people are calling you Hawkeye. In fairness, I spent the morning working on the following ... a new tinyletter, cigar-tin stories number 22 a post about ugly daikon (a poster about a poem, inserted into a magazine) listing my secret sharer listing new library card art and some more things, but now I need to jump (hop? prance? ) into the shower. I still need to do corrections on a book (design/production stuff) and then cough up something for writing group tonight. What do you think –– murder? vampires? a meditation on suburban ennui ?

because the magic kingdom is magically exhausting

Guess who is down in Disneyland with her mom and auntie and cousins? Day Two and she can hardly open her eyes for a picture with SNOW WHITE –– if this was happening at home she'd be hemorrhaging sparkles. And me, back in Kingston? I just put a blanket in the wash, after scraping off about a quarter cup of half-digested cat puke. why great novels don't get noticed now // why every day is dark all day

march break your spirit

... so really it should be called March Crush. And what exactly does my five year-old (or any school-aged kid) need a break from? Getting nothing but A's? Being told how awesome they are? Handheld devices with more computational power than the moon missions? Hundred dollar hoodies? Attack on Titan ? Organic bananas? Illiteracy? It's funny, these moments you have as you get older, when you stop for a second to consider things like holidays, and how batshit crazy they are. -  -  -  -  -  -  -  - doesn't want to see // the book was a failure

whenever they play jive talkin' too early on a saturday morning the room seems to shimmer and my right leg goes numb

  C going through closets and clothes today, a process I fear and abominate, because attending it is whole armloads of what-doesn't-fit-me-anymore, which is in the same shattered neighbourhood of Aging and Other Ruinous Effects of Time. Yes, you can keep your head down but blame, like drones, has always played fast and loose with the truth, and sometimes you'll get it in the neck for just being in the vicinity. ––––––––––––––––––– Another fun sign of spring in our neighbourhood: people sticking bags of dog poop between slats of fences, or hanging them off trees. So in a fit of human being-ness you took your (giant, untrained, probably half-insane) dog out to poop and you brought a bag and you scooped the poop into the bag and you tied it nicely and then suddenly you remembered where you lived and who you were so you hung it off a tree like some kind of inverted version of decorating or perhaps even making a statement like, Look at this, you pricks, this is what I&#

good weed

I think spring is here. Suddenly, dramatically. Came out of the studio today with my boots banging off the dry sidewalk. And then waiting for Oona's bus, the sun hot on the back of my neck. So I thought a new shirt for a certain five year-old was in order. etsy // tinyletter // facebook // redbubble // supermarket

sightseers

C went upstairs when I pressed 'play' on this , afraid that it would turn gruesome or grotesque in that victimized-vacationers- Hostel way. But of course it didn't, because it's British, where characters knit jumpers and go to the train museum. That said, they do reveal themselves to be lethal and damaged and generally unhinged, with the mayhem coming on slow, then jagged and almost casual, and all of it undermined by a kind of hopelessness, an adventure story of the doomed (and probably always doomed).  On Netflix. Just press 'play'. etsy // tinyletter // facebook // redbubble // supermarket