Headvoice

"...skin forming on the ambitious soup that remains unappreciated in the tureen"

Gosh, there is some wonderful writing on the web. The title of this entry is from such writing. As if I can even talk about this... mister don't post anything for three weeks even though you spend five hours a day on-line. OK, moving on now...

This summer has been one simmering long and languid trip ending in a fresh examination of all existing neuroses and at least an evening or more of line dancing with some new ones. Add the death of our cherished hound, a dear friend's crippling fall from a ladder, some grim and tenacious family problems, and you have one for the books. A sad one...

That's alright though. "Ride the bitch out" would be the bumper sticker of the tee-shirt for the summer of 2003, especially now because it's very existence will soon be smothered by the massive glacial cluster fuck that is winter in Ontario, read Toronto. At least if we are using last year as an example... and face it, can you even remember six winters ago? Most people I know have trouble remembering their menu choices in the time it takes a waitress to get to them at the table.

Things will get better, or somebody is going to get a nasty compliant letter.

Can't seem to take a really good picture these days, but this sunflower jumped out on a walk around the neighborhood the other day. I had wanted to shoot the amazing gardens mostly tended to by elderly Italian or eastern European men, as they are studies in efficiency and lush with then late season growth, even though fresh patches of late planted lettuces show up from some corners.

But I didn't really shoot anything in the gardens... because of the ugly fences sourrounding them. No good pictures from the outside. Poetic, no? No more muses to be found here just now, just some hoary red berries in the hot and dry August sun. Is there no limit here for tortured metaphors? I promise a new leaf will be turned soon. It must happen.

Homo-stasis

Just a photo today... but it might just say more than, oh, a thousand words or so. This orchid was a gift... at a memorial service. Now I am it's water slave. Everything works out...

Legs

To have "legs" means to have longevity... to be able to keep it going. At least it used to...

That's what we need more of, people with legs. Commitment, respect, reserve and introspection. Instead we have reality TV where your four grand boob job just might get you three minutes of cable TV exposure. Just stand in this line marked "complete humiliation" please...

Where is the 4th grade teacher that cares? Not here. Forget it. Ranting doesn't suit me anyway. I should get a better camera instead.

Isn't his foot cute? But the pajamas need upgrading...

Please excuse the overuse of ellipsis, I am somewhat depressed and suffering from suburban ennui. Any proposed trips to Italian resorts in September are going to be accepted even if the menus aren't pre-approved. Ha!

There must be a change coming.

Civic Holiday

Spoke to friends in New Jersey yesterday who hilariously described how they wanted to move to Canada in some part because of the long holiday weekend which culminates in today's holiday—the Civic Holiday. What? It used to be called Simcoe Day. Oh. But it is a provincial holiday... not nationwide. Oh. Get it?

I like to feel I was so ahead of my time, immigrating to Toronto from NYC in 1999. But really it was quite simple, I wasn't so prescient. It was for love, and lust, and to be with the hounds and the boyfriend. I didn't stop and survey the geopolitical and economic landscape, and speculate on the future. I was getting some.

So, I just jumped into my newly adopted country—and found friends, laughs and smart colleagues right from the start. Canada really is a wonderful country to live in... even when compared to the US. We have our own San Francisco, which is called Vancouver. We have our own New Orleans, which is called Quebec City, but it isn't heated like it's sister city. We also have something that pretends to be New York City.

Now that SARS has retreated to some petri dish in a lab there is an all clear sounding... come to Canada and visit. Quick, before it fucking freezes over again.

Parked

The park nearby used to be visited by one of us at least twice a day before we lost the dog to cancer. Walking him was something that I now miss, even though Mark and I used to gripe at each other about it. "You never walk the dog."

After five years of such continual visitation, the park drew me back on this lazy summer afternoon, even if it would evoke melancholic memories. And they were... but the sadness is becoming more muted. There will be other walks to be had in this park.

Entering from the street you can't see the full contingent of buildings and facilities at first. There is a day-care center behind a church, built in that earnest Scandinavian mode from the 60s. There is also a public swimming pool with a painted wood fence. Finally something to shoot, even though it doesn't make a great pict.

But this is not the type of walk in the park like before. It isn't a team effort. There isn't my canine buddy to mutter too... and run up the big hill with. Also, the tall guy walking around with a camera is making some people nervous.

This is not outside the lobby during a film festival after all. I realize as I walk up to the pool what I must look like... a potential stalker and or pedophile. Super! My inner critic is now channeling the late Jesse Helms. I cover the camera lens and move on, suddenly made sheepish.

It is warm, somewhat humid and calm. There is a lone jogger running along the borders of the soccer field, doing laps. The park is still here, but it isn't our playground anymore.