March 2012
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February 2012
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TransCanada: Take Two
Peace, Vancouver.
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The bed below us was a demilitarised zone - and as our waring barbed wire bodies lay stubborn and stiffly parallel, hands slowly defected to meet over blanket neutrality and engage in frail negotiations for a new peace.
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I have been stuck in Golden for six and half hours. We have just been informed it will be another two hours, then another two hours in Revelstoke. They combined two buses and now my bus is at capacity. Somehow I lost my bank card, and now only have ten dollars to my name. If I don’t get to Vancouver in time to go to a TD and get a new card, I will be stuck there overnight without any money....
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Superior(ity) Complex
This is the silver lining to my clouded mind where you are beautifully lost and I am chasing, a hunter skilled at tracking prints in winter white pages over parts of the country known only to truckers and locals and people like me whose headlights shine on secret solitudes of the city’s silent nation whose voices seem muffled by snow and the Icarus ambition of occupying infinity.
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homecoming 1.0
It always surprises me a little bit how quickly Winnipeg can appears out of nowhere. It’s almost like the city has been hiding eye deep in the Red and Assiniboine waiting to surprise you the whole time you’ve been gone.
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And the bus has broken down in Massey, Ontario…
Why did the hipster burn his mouth?
regasderaj:
Because he ate the soup before it was cool.
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The most significant difference I’ve noticed so far (though it is early) between going cross country in winter versus summer or spring is the animal tracks. They are everywhere. In summer, the only sign of a forest’s population is the animals themselves. In winter, however, the trees are stripped of amnesia. In winter, animals become unwilling novelists recording their chapter of...
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Nomophobia - the fear of being out of mobile phone contact.
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“I’ll put you so high on a pedestal it might make your nose bleed.”
– Nelly
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And a spark in the darkness little more than stains on paper, screen. Who’s (there)? It might be a sperm that made it, an egg who got lucky - the zygote product of some kinky mind fuck in the artist scull implanted on a uterine page, praying not to be aborted. It (was a pleasure to burn) Crowded by silence, the first word is alone. Anxious, it waits - a wife of war worried about life and...
