I walked home from College and University. A 45 minute walk, most of it in the rain. It was a good walk, helpful. I’ve been feeling a lot lighter today, a lot healthier, stronger, freer. Catharsis, once again.

Toronto at night is fascinating. I walked past teenaged posses, including a four-man scooter gang. There was a pair of old men, hanging out together on the steps of a church: one of them had a radio voice reminiscent of Wolfman Jack (RIP), the other one had a maniacal and infectious laugh in response. I wanted to loiter and eavesdrop, but I was getting rained on. And I needed to not lose my train of thought.

The last few months have been heavy, intense, crippling. But they’re over now. These words/themes have been showing up in my writing at a notable frequency: fire, sun, blood, dis/order, weight, breakdown, tears, intensity. The realisation that emotions become absorbed into the physical had my shoulders feeling like Atlas’.

I’ve cried, hallucinated, clung, and dealt with longstanding guilt, sadness, fear, and false hope. And now I’m moving on. I feel the fire’s intensity lessening – I’m intimate with this feeling, my totem is the phoenix. I’m getting brand new and improved. I need the next little while to regenerate and complete my healing. I’m relishing the thought of brighter feathers and a greater wingspan. Feel my glee? Darkness vanquished, thank God. I was doubting my ability to hold on.

Related: earlier on, I hit up my bookshelf to retrieve Stephen King’s Night Shift (thanks to LM for reminding me). One of the stories in it, “The Mangler”, was the direct inspiration for the first ever horror story that I had written called “Killer Vacuum.” I pretty much ripped off the entire storyline, substituting a vacuum cleaner as the bloodthirsty protagonist. Typed up on my mum’s electronic Casio typewriter 17 years ago, I’m fond of that story and wish I could find it again. Also, on Saturday, received a weird flashback of a children’s book I co-authored almost 10 years ago called “Amos the Purple Mosquito” (no, we weren’t on drugs). This is all relevant because my unconscious has finally gotten through with something it’s been trying to tell me for a minute. Stay tuned, I’m on a prolific tip.

Related, part 2: I have a strange ability to manifest my personal desires. Early last week, I’d been feeling this intense need to express myself visually and Illustrator wasn’t cutting it. Wouldn’t you know, an artist’s kit (pastels, oil paints, watercolours, pencils) happened to show up unsolicited? (Thanks S & S!). I’ve been sketching over the weekend, colour selecting through divination. This feels right.

For S: dood, the bite marks on my palms have almost completely faded and I’m no longer dizzy, ya dig? For every one else: mad props if you catch that reference. Clue: Unlike the founder of the Sulpicians. Yes, I do the NYT crossword, but I’ve never been able to complete it.


“Ah, you’re the poet,” he said to me, on introduction. Took me by surprise. There’s a sense of urgency now.

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