Waxing gibbous moon

the evening started at latitude 53's last patio of the season. a perfect night for martinis, wine, i even wanted a beer, sitting around with good friends and pretty flowers, the day's work done.

you don't get nights like this too often, and the second we got home i was out in it again, walking. i saw a woman standing in her nightgown on her balcony, heavy and backlit by the small apartment behind her. at the polish daycare around the corner, all the little tricycles, strollers and dayglo plastic ride-ons were lined up silently next to the fence, the streetlight bouncing dully off molded conformity. the school next to it, one of those 50s elementary schools, built when the world still believed in glass brick and curves, stood formal and majestic. i saw i saw the glow of cigarettes, brighter, dimmer, and brighter again. i saw sheets hung as curtains, sweet homemade landscapes, chip bags made magical by the moon.

mostly quiet, the neighbourhood peeled back for motorcycles. i heard the murmuring of couples sitting on front stoops, the quiet laughter of my neighbours entertaining on the back deck. when i stopped at a 7/11, eyes crazed by fluorescence, the vendor laughed and said, in a thick jamaican accent, "joo got to enjoy de weather now, before da man come again -- old man winter." small dogs, startled by me, registered their alarm. a cat named lexie rubbed against my legs. some night flower wafted by, fleetingly.

you could live a whole life in a night like this, all of it unfolding, lotuslike, under a waxing gibbous moon.

Summer Blues

Surviving the winter and spring mold with no problem this year, summer has been filled with down times. Is there such a thing as August Blues--a symptom or damage done from at least twelve years of structured seasons? The extreme cold replaced by heat waves, always one end of the spectrum. Festivals have taken over every weekend, with everyone at Folk this weekend and Heritage last, a festival city mentality, which someone recently aligned to our boom and bust reality. All or nothing. Concentrated good times to off balance hard living? I found it hilarious when recent artists summed up their week long residence at a brand new downtown housing complex as comparable to a women's prison. Institutional in its uniformity, bare walls, oppression of imagination with no regard for aesthetics, there's not much pretty to view, but you get a lot of work done.


View from 102nd St parkade, one of the best viewing spots in the city. Any higher and you just see flat, from WEM to the concrete and chemical refineries, small lumps jutting from a flat line all so far, far away.