a journal is just an
analogue blog
A Place Where Two Roads Meet
Thirty minutes before we’re supposed to go out for Halloween, Julia, Sebastien, and I are digging through Julia’s basement to find some semblance of a costume. We’ve exhausted our best trio costume ideas in both French and English, including but not limited to quatre-vingt-dix, third wheeling, and the three levels of government (municipal, provincial, and…
On Portraiture
When Jamie invites me to drive down the southwest coast of France from Arcachon to Biarritz, I bring my camera. He lives in a van and knows every road to Spain by heart. It’s the beginning of a long weekend in May, and there’s no 7pm curfew in isolation. After parking in a nature reserve…
On Fiction
Someone pinned a note to Ernest Hemingway’s grave recently. Free of water stains, it read, “I started writing out of love and joy… I kept writing because of you. If you could create in the midst of misery, so can the rest of us.” I write in my journal that I am not creating enough…
In Search of an Empty Room
Hanging on the north wall of my former Toronto bedroom used to be two strings of cut-out magazine letters, spelling out a multicoloured not realizing any place. This low-budget attempt at home decor was based off an Anaïs Nin quote that I’ve been thinking about for the past year. We go through life without definitely realizing any place.…
In Memory and Celebration of my Broken Phone
I’ve come to the realization recently that I am only a productive blogger when I want to make fun of the pitfalls of my otherwise sunny-side-up life. I’ve deemed mild inconveniences like having to speak French in France or sobbing with John Lennon glasses on or being harassed a record twelve times in two hours…
We Accept the Stretch Limos We Think We Deserve
On the first day of spring break in the City of Light, the metro was flooded with Parisians running with every kind of luggage you can imagine. This week-long holiday coincides with Paris Fashion Week, which results in many unfashionable folk fleeing the city to escape the harsh reality that they have zero style. Instead…
post-war hangover
there were pearls on the floor and boots facing each other and we danced [of course] because thats the only line of poetry i can remember. there are at least eight variations of saying farewell to a lover and only one of them is goodnight. there are at least six fish in the fishbowl but…
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existential embarrassment 