If you don't watch it you'll miss the dancing Garfield

I took this on my phone yesterday morning, walking back from an 8.30AM!!! interview at Gunwharf.
The world felt, looked and smelled (no, not smelled, in this part of the city it smells like a brothel's laundry) like an inspiring, welcoming and beautiful place and I wanted to catch it on my phone.

Alright Anonymous, you smart arse bugger - who are you? The intrigue is killing me! Alternatively, it could be like a magic trick and finding out will ruin the art, in which case, stay in the shadows my friend.... I was delighted with your happy facts about Stranger in A Stranger Land, and yes, I was referring to the novel, of which yesterday's illustration was used for the cover in days of yore. I would also have been impressed with anyone pointing out that James Warhola is Andy Warhol's nephew.......

What with the snow and all it's been a funny old week. By tomorrow night I'll have done four interviews and written five articles in the space of three days, which is a record, even for me. But I have met some ace people, each with their own way of inspiring, and each with their own particular passion. I'd love to tell you more but obviously, you'll have to wait for the magazine to come out and read all about it yourself.

It suddenly occurred to me last night that I've got my first paid gig as a proper feature writer and I haven't even celebrated yet! So, I've decided to save it until they're published and then have a little party at mine to celebrate. And you're all invited. Terms and conditions apply*



*If you don't know where I live or where to find me at 3pm on a Wednesday, you can't come. You've got until publication date to find out one or the other.......

I get all stupid and happy

Stranger in a Strange Land - James Warhola
(big points to anyone who can give me some trivia on this one...)

The snow comes silently in the early hours and I, entranced, sit up until 3am just watching it fall. I open the windows to the flesh-ripping chill just to catch a snowflake on my tongue.

Today as I walk to lunch at Churchill's, I remember the last time I was writing here about snow in Toronto over a year ago. So much has changed in my life since the last time I felt the slip of snowdust on my cheek.

I don't know if the change is good or bad, but know that it is, all the same. Life apparently does not need my perceptions of it to be its true bad self (literally? or street? Maybe a bit from a, a bit from b). Which turns out to be just as well, seeing as my perceptions change all the time, seeing the same streets, faces and days here as sometimes liberating in moments of new found or rediscovered beauty, sometimes choking me in a stranglehold of over-familiarity, depending on my mood, the sunshine, the number of cups of coffee I have drunk.

I notice these shifts in my perceptions of the same things more and more. But their transience does not make me trust my feelings less, or give them fewer moments of my consideration to try to learn what they may mean, what they try to tell me when they come back, again and again.

Instead, I try to appreciate my feelings as I do the snow, revelling in the entirety, the novelty, the sheer discomfort of its beauty, knowing that as sure as the sun will return, every last trace will soon be gone.

To give my gun away when it's loaded

I notice the details of life at the moment. The hesitant yet ever present capacity for happiness in the corner of my eyes. The unspoken potential of the conversations not yet spoken. The light of each day drifts ever, softly, slowly longer and I silently celebrate the returning of the sun as it stirs my heart awake again.

I feel better.

Now how the hell are you?

Do not mess with Mr In-Between

"Will you miss me?" she asked, gambling the question like a bad lawyer.

He paused for a moment but did not look up.

"Maybe."

Can you guess what it is yet?

Once a day Pauline would open the cupboard and she would reach for the gonads of Jesus, said Harry Potter. He flew on his broomstick up to the crotch of Antioch where the pubic lice of Satan were waiting to take him to the French Riviera and teach him to paint. His idealistic mind opened up a whole new dimension. It was intriguing to see Madonna's nappy, filled to the brim with steaming shit, on the washing line of Gloria Hunniford.

Well, blow me, said Gloria, when she saw the pants there, This would never have happened if the car hadn't rolled helplessly from the cliff into the foam below the surface of Mars, which is actually made from the sperm of Satan. This turned out to be good news for God, as she had completely forgotten where she had hidden this, and had been worried for the last few thousand millennia that Satan would find a way to reproduce.

However, little did she know that the duvet was made from clouds and the pillows from faery dust. It truly had to be the best night's sleep ever, only disrupted by the sudden attack of a swarm of burning y-fronts. Don't worry, said Harry Potter, suddenly reappearing, It's a magical infestation of Fire Pants, and he whipped out his wand.

A Heather and Sarah Original Story. Not to be reproduced without permission of the authors.

Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine

Voir sur ton chemin

Nathaniel: You were brave to face him.

David: Not really. There was a guard.

Nathaniel: Doesn’t matter. I’m proud of you.

David: I thought it would set me free but it didn’t change anything except now I know he really is insane.

Nathaniel: You’re missing the point.

David: There is no point. That’s the point. Isn’t it.

Nathaniel: Don’t give me this phony existentialist bullshit. I expect better from you. The point is right in front of your face.

David: Well, I’m sorry but I don’t see it.

Nathaniel: You’re not even grateful, are you?

David: Grateful? For the worst fucking experience of my life?

Nathaniel: You hang onto your pain like it means something, like it’s worth something. Well, let me tell you, it’s not worth shit. Let it go. Infinite possibilities and all he can do is whine.

David: Well what am I supposed to do?

Nathaniel: What do you think? You can do anything you lucky bastard, you’re alive! What’s a little pain compared to that?

David: It can’t be so simple.

Nathaniel: But what if it is?

Excerpt from Six Feet Under, Season 4, 'Untitled.'