Notebook 002

Three teen girls at a table in a coffeeshop. Full of of laughs, likes, ums, oh my gods.

Two of them are trying to get the third to say something. She laughs and oh my gods and nos.

"Well, type it then!"

On her phone, I guess they mean. Send a text message that says whatever is unspeakable.

Notebook 001

Stuck in my apartment all weekend.

Always assumed our building was soundproofed—but now I hear a neighbour. She screams randomly throughout the day. It might be sex noises, but I don't think so.

It makes me wonder if my other neighbours have crummy sex lives.

Sometimes she sings. She has a good voice, but it's the kind of voice that knows it's good so it doesn't actually convey much other than the fact of its goodness.

Maybe the screams are her singing Diamanda Galas style.

Question: is singing loudly while alone kind of like masturbating?

Tweek

So the challenge of coming up with exactly 100 words per entry kind of turned me off updating this blog. It also made me do weird things with sentences. Trim fat and trim fat and trim fat. End up with 92 words. Go back and add 8 words of fat.

That's why I've decided 100 will be the limit, not the exact quantity, from here on out. I have a lot of material accrued in my notebooks. Time to do this properly.

Nan 1

Nan loved to news around and to gossip, but it drove Pop. He'd be poisoned with her if she got to talkin when he could hear.

He'd say "Ellen! Don't be talkin!"

And Nan'd come back with "Whist! I'm not talkin, I'm only sayin!"

Nan had an abrupt way. If you were on the phone and she got tired of you, she'd cut in. "Well I must let you go, now." And she'd hang up before you could say anything else.

(I never witnessed any of this. It's hearsay from my parents. Nan and Pop have been dead for a long time.)

Home sickness

I have been too long from home. I walk the grid of this city but I can't be here fully, not in my mind. Streets shouldn't move in straight lines. I'm determined not to be at home here.

There are no hills. There are no vantage points. I am always within something, when I'm here.

I moved away from home, but home continually moves away from me. One day I'll get off the plane and the place won't recognize me. I dread this. On the day that happens, I will no longer be an ex-patriot. I will be an orphan.

001

Gone to ground with the primates. The secret of being must be around here somewhere. If you look hard.

Caveat: there's no guarantee such a secret exists. And primate is a created category with no reality beyond what you grant it.

But yes, you have gone to ground somewhere and it is always wise to scrutinize your surroundings.

Even roadside diners and suburban homes have secret knowledge. Even fluorescent lights and thin beige carpet that gives off a chemical smell (a smell you have no name for) will reward scrutiny.

Why say 'even'? The fabric of reality doesn't play favourites.

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.