I was successful. I am now registered for the Paris marathon, happening Sunday, April 3rd, 2016, six months away. I haven’t run a marathon in three years. I set up a training schedule for myself (weaved between my seven-day work week) and for my first scheduled training run this week, well, I simply didn’t go.

At forty years old, I recently experienced my first pregnancy, a miracle I did not think was possible for a woman like me with her ultra-light to non-existent periods. But I did get pregnant. And I felt a calm, a joy, a fulfillment like I have never known. Then, sadly, on the hideous flipside, when I discovered at three months that I had miscarried two and a half weeks prior, the loss and devastation drove me to near insanity. I didn’t want to heal. I held desperately to my heartbreak, the only link I had left to my lost child.

Here I am, two months later. I have finally accepted my loss. I have made amends with the father of my lost child; he who had been a stranger I now call friend and lover. I have signed up for a race I may not have any gumption to even train for, much less complete.

I am a little chrome-steel ball, bouncing around between past dreams, new dreams, what I know, what I don’t know, my human need for love and my very small quota of intelligence on where to find it. It seems my heart serves as one flipper and my mind as the other. Who can work with such temperamental tools!?

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Humility ain’t nothin’ but a wonderful opportunity.

Well this is certainly humbling. The girl who ran fifty-one marathons is now a woman with very sore legs after a mere nine kilometre run. It has been three or four months since the last time I ran. A run these days usually consists of eight to ten kilometres, a far cry from my competitive ultramarathon days. But you do a thing and you do it to death and you move onto other interests (namely Paris). Then a few years pass and you miss that high, that accomplishment, that affirmation that yes, indeed, you ARE queen of the universe. Next month marks three full years since my last full marathon and two years since my last half marathon. A mere nine kilometres has beat the hell out of me yet, once again, after all these years and all those glasses of French wine, I have my sight set on another marathon. Muscle memory, don’t fail me now.

I ran Boston in 2005, 2006, then again five years later in 2011 and 2012. I thought to myself that it would be nice to keep that pattern up: twice in a row every five years. Just because. Just to prove to myself that I still can. I never want to associate my marathons and running accomplishments with being young. I happened to do all that running in my late twenties and thirties. But I stopped out of boredom, not because I couldn’t anymore. You can only run the same marathon so many times. After fifty-one marathons, of which over half were ultras, I just felt I had conquered that « life challenge » and was ready for something new. However! It does keep you fit. And being in top shape and looking great NEVER gets boring, does it, darling?

So to keep with the pattern, I must run a qualifying marathon in 2016. It’s already the end of 2015. I need to get cracking! Hence the eight and a half kilometres on Friday and the nine kilometres today. IT’S ON. Now I need to decide which marathon I will run in 2016 to qualify for Boston 2017. And here’s where the genius comes in. The idea popped into my head, I googled the registration date, my pulse raced, my heart pounded in my chest. On September eighth at eight in the morning I will attempt to register for the Paris marathon (Sunday, April 3rd, 2016). To my precious nine official readers/subscribers, I beg of you: pray that I am one of the lucky few who is able to register for the Paris marathon next week. Twenty-two thousand people have already registered and there are only a few spots left!

I am forty, I am ready, and I shall reclaim that crown. Humility ain’t nothin’ but a wonderful opportunity.

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22 to 45 of 100


I moved
To follow the sun
And the words were just so
The pen
The cigarettes
The towel
The grass and the sand
Someone’s charmed existence
Some kind of art
A lovely little mess
Like life.


Here I flick the smoke
The ember lands on the sand
I feel nothing
At home
I flick the smoke
I feel fear
Don’t tell me
Where I can go
What I can do


And if there really was a mission
There’d be a tone in the air
You’d be on your guard
Too many films
The smell of danger
And that is how crime happens
And that is the definition of naivety
Intuition is a solid tool
Until it isn’t.


Though no one thing she said was brilliant
It was a moment
At the end of the day
After her blathering on
That you thought
Perhaps she was alright
After all.


There’s a little path like this
Leading to the water
In Varadero
And I took a photo
There’s an exact path like this
Leading to the water
On the island at Hanlan’s Point
And I took a photo
There’s another
Identical path like this
Leading to my aching, rich life
Miraculously afloat
In my fibre
And I took a photo
It’s in the dark room.


The people walking
« One kilometre left! »
Like it’s a long way.
Like it’s not a gift.


We have whites
First it’s
In our nose hair
Our pubic hair
One in the eye brow
Then it’s in the beard
We thought at first
But as time soothed on
For the wise
We laughed
And a baby cries
Because they caught on
Before the white hairs
And like Bukowski said
There is nothing worse than
Too late.


Remember that innocence?
Remember that fascination?
That wonder?
Remember that trust?
That protection?
Remember the beauty,
The humanity,
The everything.
Remember not remembering?
Because they said
You begin.


Of course.
It’s never
As exciting
As glamorous
As easy
As perfect
As it seems
Of course.
Then the engine sputters
You renegotiate the curves
You look in the rearview mirror
So let me rephrase…


One girl
One hotdog
One bottle of wine
Five cigarettes
One beautiful day
One more hotdog
One ice cream cone
One happy girl
Don’t tell her
She’s a forty year old woman


You view life
Through the necessary lens
And it always looks like


I take solace
In some of these assholes
They were someone’s precious baby
Someone’s « My Little Love »
Little solace
Even now
I understand
About snapshots.


And the bicycle lane just ends
You no longer exist
I expected to see
A pile-up
Of bewildered cyclists
But I guess
They are just
Among the
Divine cars and trucks
Noted by
Pretty painted white bicycles.


I rode all that way
To his vernissage
On the top of a horse
In a dirty garage
With a long, grey beard
I did not make a sight.


Fried pork
Fried chicken
Fried cheese
It all sounds like poetry
To me.


You get down
The sky falls
You’ve been fooling yourself
Though litmus only tests for acid
Though scales only measure weight
You forget
You get down
Can’t move
Can’t leave the house
You finally manage a shower
It’s two in the afternoon
You can do this
Pass me my eyeballs
Pass me my heart
Pass me both my hands


I want to be the fittest in the room
I want to be the dumbest
I can absorb
Your words, thoughts, theories
But not
Your muscles, tone, beauty
I want


Bukowski on the beach
The wind, the waves of the water
You can just sit there
For hours
I count
The adventures
Finding a spot
Setting up camp
Searching for firewood
Sipping wine as the sun begins to set
Watching the airplanes
Take off
The leaves rustling and politely crackling
Like the quiet immenseness of a church full of tapping thumbnails
One hour twenty minutes
Left until sundown
The man named Adam
Packs up his kiteboard
But he doesn’t come back
To get the photo I snapped of him
He just left
Didn’t even say goodbye
It’s so strange
I wonder why
I don’t want to go to the party
I never thought I’d tire
Of going to the party
But even I did
Don’t they get tired
Of going to the party?
I found out much later
That they thought I was a snob
In highschool
I was shocked
That my dripping insecurity
Wasn’t obvious
I prefer
Their version of events
The wind is picking up
The sun is going down
Second stainless steel glass of wine
I thought I was being friendly
I helped him with his kite
It’s chilly
Am I really going to do this
But imagine waking
To the sunrise
The lake lapping
And leaves rapping
I’m going to do this
Of course
Maybe Adam was a child
Or maybe he was old
Like me
I can never tell
I need to get good and drunk
So I can sleep
When the sun goes down.


Instead of
Instead of
The song
For someone else
I let it sing
To me


I ride my bicycle
I build a fire
I watch the fire
I listen to the waves
I sing
I run
I walk
I write little poems
I smile widely and sincerely at strangers
They smile back
So yes
I, too, go to therapy.


I love seeing
Two gay men holding hands
As they walk down Bloor
I love seeing
Salsa lessons in Christie Pitts park
I love seeing
The beautiful web of wires
For the streetcars
At College and Bathurst
I love seeing
The beautiful scary stone faces
In Old City Hall
I love seeing
Cloudy and Glare and Lerch and Honest and Spud and vandal and MAF
And those cat faces
And even Fario and Crops
I love seeing
Airplanes fly by the CN Tower
Never fearing a crash.


One box of fried chicken
He smacks his lips
He slurps the gravy
His obesity is dripping
All over the seat
A second box of fried chicken
He thinks he loves it
He knows he is killing himself
He must know he’s killing himself
He almost falls over
As he gets up
He shuffles, stumbles
Slops his way over to the counter
A third box of fried chicken!
I eat my soft taco.


Throwing beer cans
From the car window
Driving drunk
After the gig
Like we’re immortal
The way we used to be
When we were in highschool
Old friend.


They don’t hear my bell ringing
They don’t hear « Excuse me » in the aisles of the grocery stores
They don’t hear my hello in the elevator
They don’t hear their wallet fall out of their knapsack and onto the street
They don’t hear the sirens of the fire trucks and ambulances and they don’t pull over
Plugged in
Tuned out
Such goddamned amazing music!

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00 to 21 of 100


If I gave these poems titles
I’d be telling you what direction to take with them
You tell me


If I stopped to take a photo
Of every beautiful thing I smell, I see
I’d never arrive, not even eventually

Cows with their calves
Wet mud and sweet manure
Never-ending fresh cut grass
Wooden wagon wheels and wild grass

In front of the fairest farmhouses
With barns in the back.
Kids kicking balls with families who wave as I pass

Trees alive with a hundred outstretched arms
Beckoning, embracing, waving me past
Always passing through.


« Tequila! »
The old man on the creaky bike
As he pedalled by
At nine something in the morning.
The bike with thirty plastic shopping bags
Hanging from the handlebars
With a stereo, a ghettoblaster!
Duct taped to the rack on the back.
Playing tunes as he rides by
« Tequila! » He shouts.
No doubt.


Saw a sign
Six fifty
Searched later but I couldn’t find it
I’ve thought about it every day
Been keeping an eye out
Gave up
Had spaghetti elsewhere
But I’ll never know how that other spaghetti tastes.


Young man sitting on the curb
Big, empty lot
Gravel and grass
Hot tin roofs and stone houses
Stop the Enbridge oil line!
Here a church, there a church
Venez à moi
There’s no escaping You!
Curly fries style thin metal staircases
Rainy skies
Gentle waywardness
Ubiquitous Lord and outstretched arms
Come to me
No matter what day, what time I pass,
That couple is sitting in the driveway
While the cars and people go by
Are they watching television or am I!?


I paid all my taxes
Three years’ worth
I paid off my credit card
That won’t last but it felt good
I’m trying to save money
Well I can’t drink so that’s a built-in bundle
Been laying on the grass all day
Listening to Gymnopaedie
And Buckley and Ave Maria and Foals
Reading Bukowski
Writing poetry
My biggest decision of the day
What to have for dinner
Good, free food at home
Home home home home HOME!
I’m not paying for the spaghetti
I’m paying to get out of the house!


You see concrete
I see canvas
A dandelion is a weed!
Sure looks like a flower to me
You say boredom
I say freedom from strife
In fact gluttonous worrisomenessless
You say you could NEVER live without your car
I say you don’t know what living really is!
If you can’t imagine life without a car
My dear, you are too far removed from your humanity
You’re becoming humannessless


I’m going to watch the whales.
Do I buy the binoculars?
They cost less than a gram of cocaine.
I buy the binoculars.


I’m filling my water bottle in the sink
In the washroom of the movie theatre
And the lady gives me a look
And I give HER a look
Don’t you know about « white water?! »
It’s all the same pipes!


And then I rush home to recharge my iPhone
I call it a healthy dose of hypocrisy
I do have to live here after all.


I walk two point two kilometres to the restaurant
Three sunny side up eggs, two sausages, brown toast with butter, peanut butter, and raspberry jam
I walk two point two kilometres home
I walk two point two kilometres to the park
I lay out for four hours, drinking water, eating an apple, eating seeds, nuts and raisins, listening to music, reading poetry, writing poetry
I walk two point two kilometres home.
I walk two point two kilometres to the restaurant
I eat a plate of white spaghetti with meat sauce
There’s water on the plate under the spaghetti
I angle my plate to pool the water to one side
I dip my napkin in and let the water slowly seep up
I continue eating the spaghetti
I finish it
It was good.
I walk two point two kilometres home.


I recognize that sound.
It’s a can of beer.
Someone on their upstairs veranda
Of their upstairs only house
I somewhat see him through the slats.
And on the way back
The couple in the driveway are still there
« Rebonjour, Madame! »
And their tires are still for sale.
And then a man with a clean buzz cut of bristly, silver hair
Crosses to my side of the street
And he has a can of beer in his hand
It’s the man from between the slats.
And as he passes
I see he has a long rat’s tail
A full foot of it!
I keep walking.
Wondering who will ever buy those tires.


We were all waitresses
And she said, « As soon as you turn forty, everything starts to go. »
And I had the confidence that only a stupid young idiot can have
And I thought, « Yeah, maybe for YOU. »
And I knew it would be different for me
And many years passed
And I was smug and I was right
And then I got into the elevator
Those mirrors!
And those fucking unforgiving fluorescent lights!
There is no warning
Just one day, there they are
Avoidance of the fucking fluorescent lights!
Effects on photos before posting
And a few more years pass
And I’m still snickering
Because I’m still pretty young and definitely still an idiot
And I turn forty
And I’m still laughing
Laughing, laughing, laughing!
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha…!
But the laughs are empty
The laughs are hollow
So hollow!
The laughs are echoing
And I realize I’m laughing alone
And I’m looking in the mirror
And that fucking waitress was right!
Said the wise old idiot.


Back of the bus
Something catches my eye
It’s books!
Cell phones
La di da!
I don’t name my poems
But if I did
I’d call this one
You see!


One last church
Before I leave
In case I’m wrong
For their majesty
And I heard music
But it was pigeons moaning
The door was locked
Instead I went
To the second-hand book store


I think
There is
Some small sick part
That enjoys the attention
Of the psychopath
But then it passes
But not for the psycho


I remember appetite
I watch them eat
Looks like sickening self-indulgence
From here
With these new eyes
With my empty stomach
My flat, flat stomach
My empty heart
My flat, flat heart
Stolen stomach, heavy heart
Card stock paper heart
Folded up
Paper airplane
Brief little glide
Too short a ride
Straight up
Straight down
Nose dive


Mommy loves you
I don’t know if you understand
I look at the sky
I don’t think it works that way
But still it’s true.


I need to stop
Flash mobbing people with my
Best friends, old friends
Acquaintances, ex-lovers
Lovers again
Paying with my soul for ears
Paying with my body and tears
That’s life
He said
He’s a doctor
And he knows
That’s life
That’s how it goes
And those simple words helped
And I do think
It was the last throws
Of my woes
That, too, saddens me
It’s healing
How time fades the memory
Any pain
But I don’t want it to
Always want to keep your joy near
Even if I must keep it
In the most painful clutch.


When will I forget you?
I feel guilty asking
It’s the last thing I want
And each time I get drunk
I remember but not as much
And that, too, is sad.


Canned corn
Canned tuna
Canned pasta
Clementines and apples
Protein bars and pickles
Nuts and seeds
A can opener
Plastic spoons
And beautiful, hot water


He was charming
I was lonely
And a bit stupid
That’s it
You don’t know what you don’t know
The terrible mess
The beautiful loneliness

Publié dans Poetry | Marqué | Laisser un commentaire

Guerilla Girl

There’s nothing like sleeping outdoors. You wake at sunrise, naturally, peacefully. You immediately notice the crisp, raw scent of fresh air and you breathe it in deeply. This invigorates you. There is a depth of human alertness you had been unaware you possessed. You hear birds chirping and breezes blowing.

And buses roaring and cars zooming.

Even still, despite these reminders of urban life, even on one’s tenth-floor balcony in the middle of metropolitan Toronto, out in the open air is a wondrous way to wake. It begs the question: why on Earth would I be sleeping on my balcony? The answer: a preliminary test of my brand new bivy sack. What is a bivy sack, you ask? And what am I testing for, exactly?

Well, first, let me rewind the script a bit.

I had been searching a long time for a bicycle to replace my beloved but stolen Peugeot cruiser. In November of 2014 I finally found one. A matte metallic silver Raleigh. It was the perfect bike because it was simple, only eight speeds, inexpensive, only three hundred dollars, and humbly attractive. A simple machine, through and through. I put the bicycle on layaway and told the nice staff at Cyclepath on the Danforth that I would be back in March to pick it up.

In the months that lapsed between November and my impending bike pick-up, I began to dream and concoct wild ideas about the travels and adventures I could have and do on my soon-to-be-had new bicycle during this coming summer. I had spent my last three summers in France, mainly Paris. But my friends had sold their restaurant where I’d worked for them and now I needed to keep myself occupied in some other way.

My first thought was to ride from my home in Toronto out to Vancouver, British Columbia. I tried to plan routes and read blogs written by people who had done the ride but I kept running into obstacles; some logistical and some simply logical. Not that logic carries a terrible amount of weight in my world, really. For although I decided that riding the more than five thousand kilometers alone to Vancouver was perhaps a bit daunting for my first bike tour ever, the compromise I came up with is still, even by my own skewed standards, a bit nuts.

Passing through twenty-six Canadian cities in five provinces, I have decided to ride my bicycle from Toronto to Charlottetown, P.E.I.

And back.

More than four thousand kilometers over fifty days. Brighton, Gananoque, Ottawa, Montréal, Trois-Rivières, Québec City, Lévis, La Pocatière, Edmundston, Woodstock, Fredericton, St. John, Digby, Halifax, Truro, Charlottetown, Moncton, Bathurst, Campbellton, Amqui, Tadoussac, Baie-Saint-Paul, Québec City again, Trois-Rivières again, Montréal again, Cornwall, Kingston, Prince Edward County, and then, last stop, my dad’s house in Whitby.

I still haven’t explained what a bivy sack is. I’m getting there.

I have never done any type of long-distance cycling in my life. I have a background in marathon running but I needed a new drug now. Even though I had come up with this crazy concept of how I would spend my coming summer, I had no idea if I was physically capable of it.

So I started to test and prepare myself.

On Saturday, April 18th, I had plans with my cousin Danny to see the Italian Baroque exhibit at the Art Gallery of Hamilton where we are family members. I was also to meet his new girlfriend Krissie. It was supposed to be a beautiful day and I wasn’t in any rush and it was only eighty kilometers from my doorstep to the gallery entrance, so I told him: I’m riding my bike. I had no idea if eighty kilometers for a first long ride ever was even possible. But there was only one way to find out.

It took me four hours seventeen minutes. I turned up, met them at the pub across from the gallery, had a double vodka soda, locked my bike up, and off we three went to see the exhibit.

Fait accompli. (I took the GO train home the next day.)

Now what I needed to know was if I could do consecutive days of long rides. My dad had invited my sister and me over to his and Helen’s house for a family night of wings and lasagna and euchre and “soda pops” on Saturday, May 9th. My front doorstep to his makes fifty kilometres. He said we were welcome any time after two in the afternoon. So I called him up and told him: I’m riding my bike.

It took me three hours four minutes. I devoured Helen’s perfect lasagna and my dad’s hot and tasty wings! I drank wine and at one in the morning I told my sister we should really go to sleep!

The next morning, we had leftover lasagna and wings for breakfast! We even played a bit more euchre. Then at about eleven, I began the fifty kilometer trek back.

It took me three hours fourteen minutes. Doing two consecutive days of a mere fifty kilometres was not only reasonable but easy. I needed further testing.

I have a very dear friend named Timo who lives in London, Ontario. I hadn’t seen him in four years. We had made long overdue plans for me to come visit him on Saturday, May 16th. I also have a sweet aunt, only eight years older than me is more like a cousin, who also lives in London. I looked to find a half way point. Paris, Ontario. I emailed my aunt and Timo. I told them: I’m riding my bike. And with saddle bags packed for a four-day, three hundred sixty kilometre excursion, I set off.

On Friday, May 15th, I rode one hundred five kilometres from Toronto to Paris in the cool temperatures, intermittent rain, and the last forty kilometres in the pitch black darkness! I finally arrived to the Davidson Motel in Paris just after midnight.

It took me five hours twenty-nine minutes.

The next morning, Saturday, May 16th, I set off for the second part of the journey: Paris to London. It was an eighty kilometre trip.

It took me five hours and four minutes. My Aunt Amy welcomed me into her beautiful home and gorgeous garden backyard. We talked, had beverages, and enjoyed the best barbecued steaks I have ever had: charred on the outside and blue on the inside. Perrrrrrfect! She served this with corn on the cob, baked potato, melted butter, sour cream, and fresh cut chives from her own garden.

The next morning, Sunday, May 17th, I met up with my dear friend Timo. We ate a hearty breakfast and then headed to a pub. He had a few beers while I enjoyed three glasses of what we shall henceforth refer to as “Fancy Red Gatorade.” More specifically, I had an eight ounce, then a five ounce (denial), then an eight ounce (acceptance). Then I set off for the trip back to Paris.

It took me three hours and fifty-six minutes. I listened to an oldies channel on Songza the whole ride. It was heavenly.

The next morning, Monday, May 18th, I set out for the final leg of the trip. I rode seventy-one kilometres then decided it was getting late and to save time, since I had things I needed to do before work the next morning, I would take the GO train from Oakville. Anyway, I had learned what I needed to learn; that yes, I was capable of riding consecutive days of eighty to one hundred kilometres per day. My legs were perhaps slightly tender but barely. The trip to Charlottetown was looking good!

I haven’t forgotten about the bivy sack. Explanation dangerously close to delivery.

I’m not rich. There is no way I can stay in a motel for each of the fifty plus nights of my East Coast bike excursion. Nor do I want to. I want to simulate as close as possible my secret desire to return to simpler times and “live off the land.” In short, I want to camp the nights as much as possible. (Where necessary, I will couchsurf, Airbnb, or stay in a motel.) But not only am I not a cyclist, I’m not an experienced camper! So I will need to practice this part, too.

I went to Mountain Equipment Coop on King Street and bought a bivy sack. Here’s that explanation you may have been waiting for or perhaps have googled already. A bivy sack is basically a sleeping bag-sized waterproof tent. It rolls up into about the size of a large Thermos. It is lightweight and ideal for bike travel. On Saturday, May 23rd, I bought one. I was eager to try it out immediately but it was already late and I needed to plan properly and think about safety. In the end, I settled on this: I practiced assembling and disassembling it inside my apartment. And then, to practice what I might reasonably need for warmth and comfort, I assembled it on my balcony and, with a low temperature of nine degrees Celsius, I slept in my sleeping bag, in the bivy sack, on the concrete floor of my balcony.

I slept like a baby.

Next weekend, Saturday, May 30th, I am riding my bike to my dear Aunt Gisèle’s house in Niagara Falls. It is a one hundred thirty-five kilometre journey. My cousin Danny (her son) and Krissie will be there, too! Then on Sunday the 31st I will make the same trip home. I probably won’t sleep outdoors in my bivy sack on Saturday but I will pack it and my sleeping bag to get a feel for the weight I will be carrying for the East Coast trip.

My apartment is rented out for seven weeks this summer beginning Monday, June 29th. So that is my departure date for the East Coast tour. I still have five weeks to test, experiment and prepare. I am both stupendously excited and scared to death. My biggest fear is being a woman alone camping at night. But. I believe in the goodness of human beings and I can’t live life hiding under a rock.

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Don’t Give Me No TTC Blues

The other great thing about riding public transportation is you just plain get exposed to things. Even if you don’t like some of those things, or even if some of those things are nothing but boring, is still a boatload better than not getting exposed to things. Human beings, how they dress, do their hair; the conversations, the delays and the reasons for them; the advertisements. Yes, even the advertisements. (I once saw a comedy show because of a poster I saw in a subway. It was a quality show; entertaining and smart with lots of laughs.) But the thing I mean to mention of all the things you are exposed to riding public transportation is the books people read.

It stands out because half the nation is passing their idle time, valuable reading time as I see it, by playing Candy Crush and not by reading. It’s a rather sad state of affairs and though my inspirations to write are nearly never complaint or lament driven, I did feel compelled to complain and lament about this before, near a year ago, when I had just sold my car and first started riding public transportation regularly. Let me take this opportunity to state that I have never regretted this change from owning a car to depending on public transportation, not even for a moment. One of the best, smartest, decisions I’ve ever taken, actually.

So this morning there was a gentleman on the subway who immediately struck me as quite a lot resembling Steve Carrell and perhaps it was the fact that his nose was thus likewise a bit long and pointed that, quite like the saying, it actually looked as though it were buried in his book. He was engrossed. I careened my neck and noted the title and author: Then We Came To The End by Joshua Ferris. I googled it. A satire of the American workplace during a downturn in business just after the nineties’ Internet boom. Sounded like something I’d like. I added it to my list.

At first, near a year ago, as I said, I’d been keeping track and count of all the books I was now able to read instead of being stuck behind the wheel. In the first two months alone, I still boast to people, I read thirteen novels. Thirteen! But then much like Ecstasy in the nineties, could no longer keep track. (You see, in the back of my book « Dance, Trance and Transformation » I’d started a little list noting the date, the name of the rave, and the name of the E I’d taken. It’s fun to look back on.)


I went to BMV that evening and found the book and read the synopsis and flipped through the pages and decided the book was not at all for me. I did leave, however, with three other new books, one of which is Justine by the Marquis de Sade. I’d been looking for that one.

Yesterday on the way home from work I caught glimpse of another man likewise engrossed in a book he was reading. « Godel, Escher, Bach » is the title. I will have a look for it and who knows? In the meantime, I am reading The Complete Short Stories of Truman Capote, relaxing with a coffee, checking out a cute, young construction worker also on his way to work, and patting myself on the back while some kind stranger chauffeurs me to work.

Stimuli equals thinking. Leave early, welcome delays, smile while the robots stress.

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Cats and Dogs and Cows

Just sitting here watching the rain. The people in the rain with no umbrellas and black umbrellas and half-broken deformed umbrellas. One time in Manhattan after a rain the streets were absolutely covered with abandoned, broken umbrellas. Most of them black. It looked like it had rained umbrellas! All the trash cans, too, were stuffed and overflowing with these broken umbrellas. It was quite a sight.

He said he saw cows lying down today and that is a sign of coming rain. I didn’t know that. Nor have I ever seen a lying-down cow. However I have been bitten on the shoulder by a baby horse. No teeth yet, lucky me. I was just a little kid. It was in Québec.

Once you’re soaked, you’re free. I said that. It was his birthday, we were down by the lake. Years ago. The wind picked up rather suddenly. The sky darkened. There was no one around, at all, like in some spooky movie. Then a man appeared with his dog. He told us, « There’s a big storm coming. » Then he was gone, too. Then the storm came, hard and heavy. We ran, but it was useless. So we walked and laughed and that’s when I said it. Later I described the experience as baptismal.

I won’t mention what restaurant I’m sitting in, watching the rain, but I’ve just noticed a man in the corner, talking to thin air and sobbing. Maybe he’s breaking up with his imaginary girlfriend like Lars did on that movie and he’s going to suddenly not be crazy anymore. Imagine life were like that.

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