stars and sons
A few nights ago Dana rode cross-legged in Paul's bike trailer, as in a little wooden cart that attaches to the back of his bike and isn't meant for passengers. It was pretty fantastic, the six of us cruising our way up Shaw Street, crossing Bloor with human cargo. Now that I have a bike I feel like an official city-dweller, weaving through traffic, cursing car doors, ogling my bike through the window when I lock it up outside of Tacos el Asador.
Earlier this year I applied for a creative writing course that I've been eyeing since second year. I never thought I'd be accepted since, on the day that I went to edit my portfolio at Robarts library (incidentally the deadline for applications), I got stuck on a computer that wouldn't let me edit anything and so my application was all double-spaced and ridiculously formatted. But I got an email today saying that I would be registered on August 7th and that basically makes my life.
What else? Whenever we get the chance, Jacob and I go to farmer's markets and suck on honey sticks while we pick out produce and meat for dinner. On Monday we had a venison striploin with blueberry jus, home-grown beet greens and swiss chard and a potato hash gratin. He's kind of a genius. We sat on big rocks at Sorauren Park and ate a flaky galette that was smothered in caramelized leeks, onions, roasted garlic and sundried tomatoes while the sun lit up our backs. It rained and the rain fractured the sunlight like little drops of crystal.
On Saturday our friend Ben Whiteley played upright bass with Amy Millan at the Harbourfront, and I swear it was the most gorgeous night. The CN Tower blinked purple and green as Amy's buttery voice met the cool wind that blew in off the lake. Afterwards we went to the Roxton with a sliced nectarine and I sat next to Amy's manager, who is a thin blonde boy from Montreal who rolls joints in one hand. They all shared packs of cigarettes like it was nothing.
And then there are the psychadelics that have left me in awe of the circularity of nature, speechless beneath towering clouds and trees. Giggling like a little girl in a basement full of discarded junk, lights off, discovering car batteries and paint easels with a flashlight, like abandoned treasure.
Let's not be afraid of the things that we love, or forget about the joy that we can derive from ordinary moments. There is nothing particularly stunning or strange about the life that I live, except for the harmony that I recognize, the balance that I appreciate and the way that things always, just barely, work out. I think that's the most beautiful part of it all, really. I am constantly on the edge of something wonderful, teetering on something terrible, having faith that greatness will come. And oh, how it comes.
Earlier this year I applied for a creative writing course that I've been eyeing since second year. I never thought I'd be accepted since, on the day that I went to edit my portfolio at Robarts library (incidentally the deadline for applications), I got stuck on a computer that wouldn't let me edit anything and so my application was all double-spaced and ridiculously formatted. But I got an email today saying that I would be registered on August 7th and that basically makes my life.
What else? Whenever we get the chance, Jacob and I go to farmer's markets and suck on honey sticks while we pick out produce and meat for dinner. On Monday we had a venison striploin with blueberry jus, home-grown beet greens and swiss chard and a potato hash gratin. He's kind of a genius. We sat on big rocks at Sorauren Park and ate a flaky galette that was smothered in caramelized leeks, onions, roasted garlic and sundried tomatoes while the sun lit up our backs. It rained and the rain fractured the sunlight like little drops of crystal.
On Saturday our friend Ben Whiteley played upright bass with Amy Millan at the Harbourfront, and I swear it was the most gorgeous night. The CN Tower blinked purple and green as Amy's buttery voice met the cool wind that blew in off the lake. Afterwards we went to the Roxton with a sliced nectarine and I sat next to Amy's manager, who is a thin blonde boy from Montreal who rolls joints in one hand. They all shared packs of cigarettes like it was nothing.
And then there are the psychadelics that have left me in awe of the circularity of nature, speechless beneath towering clouds and trees. Giggling like a little girl in a basement full of discarded junk, lights off, discovering car batteries and paint easels with a flashlight, like abandoned treasure.
Let's not be afraid of the things that we love, or forget about the joy that we can derive from ordinary moments. There is nothing particularly stunning or strange about the life that I live, except for the harmony that I recognize, the balance that I appreciate and the way that things always, just barely, work out. I think that's the most beautiful part of it all, really. I am constantly on the edge of something wonderful, teetering on something terrible, having faith that greatness will come. And oh, how it comes.
