Map of the World

Tomorrow, the map of my world receives a far-flung addition. I'm going to Portland OR.

My world has a hub (Newfoundland's Avalon peninsula). It has a couple of regional nodes where I've lived, spent significant time, had significant experiences (Waterford Ireland and Harlow UK, Toronto and London Ontario). I've seen much of the country between. My world's borders are the cardinal points of extremity I've visited: most easterly, most westerly, that kind of thing.

Today, the western border of my world is a farm 20 minutes' drive outside of London, ON. Tomorrow, my western horizon will be blown wide open.

Meeting writers

A strange feeling comes to me when I'm introduced to authors whose writing I love. I know one aspect of their mind so well already. I've spent hours reading their work, with their words filling my head, carrying me along the drift of a narrative. I surrender myself when I read, give myself over.

But the book is a collection of artfully arranged thoughts, trapped in the formaldehyde of print. A specimen I later examine. The writer is a person, responsive, secret. Some switch is flipped. It's at once a reduction and an intensification of intimacy, and I become awkward.