An interesting note about writing – when I left my Moleskine in Sudbury, I was utterly devastated by the realization that anyone could just pick her up and leaf through.  It had nothing to do with the inside content having anything to do with the possible assortment of readers and more the knowledge that there is just some stuff in there  that I wouldn’t want any eyes to see again after having written it, including my own.  This is because I try to write anything down, anything that

pops into my head, that may someday turn into something useful.  So there’s the possibility of embarrassing sentences being misconstrued, or also a misinterpretation that they are catching a glimpse of a twisted psyche (okay, this may be a possible interpretation).  In any case, I felt exposed. 

This could go back to the time my Mom found my journal after I had moved away to University.  She gave it a good read through and then called me exceptionally angry that I had written some of the things that I did.  This included a detailed analysis of my teenage years and the details she didn’t know were then right there in her face after the teenage years had concluded and I had moved away.   So there we were – her getting angry at me for some of my "conclusions on  teenage drinking" and the angsty writings of a 15, 16, and 17 year old girl who had no idea her mom was going to decide to take a gander at one day.  It was a tense phone conversation that evening, and perhaps things were said that shouldn’t have been.  This revealed to me that words I put down on paper, even if I declare them to be fiction, will be interpreted by the reader in whichever way they desire, and if they know you personally it may be interpreted to somehow involve them.  Ego prevails. 

So that was a harsh writer’s lesson that I still hold onto.  That is also why I’m extremely grateful to Adam’s mom, Mary,  for express-posting my Moleskine back to me as soon as an emergency e-mail was sent.  Because while the content isn’t going to reveal incredibly interesting and elusive details about myself that would ultimately captivate the reader, it is definitely written with the idea that only my eyes will see it for a very,very long time.  Post-mortem readings are a-okay.

    With the disjointed narrative aside, I did enjoy reading Alligator, although I agree with what Allison said on the phone, that you end up wanting to read particular character’s stories more than the others.  I found this true, although if I were asked who’s story was my favourite, it would be Madeline’s, and I’m not sure other readers would agree.  I found her the most interesting out of all the other focal points because of her older age and some similarities in her world view to my own.  Her character is a filmmaker divorcee with some interesting anecdotes about life and her work – going from a job filming training videos to live her passion of being a top filmmaker in her later years is an interesting (and also inspiring) look at real life.

    In my rating system that I have created right now, I will give Alligator a 7.5/10.  I did find the plot lacking and the general themes ran a little unclear, which I found irritating, but it was a good read and I can’t deny that Lisa Moore has quite a lot of talent.  I’ve been wanting to check out "Open" for awhile now, which was her short story collection, and may give it a go soon.

    The End of Food operates as a horror story, in a sense, about how food arrives at our table.  The story begins with Pawlick’s own eye-opening encounter with a grocery store tomato.  From there, he leads us through an examination of how food has changed in recent years, providing a statistical analysis of what comprises the different fuels we need to consume to survive, and how nutritional content is rapidly disappearing in lieu of "attractiveness", while quality goes down for longevity.

    I can’t say I had a hearty appreciation for organic foods before, but this has grown with more knowledge about the food industry, some of which was gained through reading this book.  Modeled in a similar fashion to "Fast Food Nation", you take a little trip right into the food industry, with this book focusing on the issues surrounding our grocery stores as opposed to the brutality of the fast food industry…though many of the issues are mirrored in both books.

    While Fast Food Nation basically tries to convince you to stop eating fast food as the solution, The End of Food has a greater challenge.  How can we avoid the grocery store?  Pawlick does provide some fixes, and also an interesting chapter on gardening that I found inspiring enough
to begin plans for a garden on my teeny-tiny city balcony.  I’m going to attempt some tomatos and maybe even a vine of grapes…but we’ll see if my thumb has turned to green from black over time as I am awful with the plants. 

    All in all it was an interesting read, though admittedly dry during some points.  But I learned a lot, and my life has been affected, so I would recommend giving it a read!

    The Earth stood still for one day.  One day when everyone stopped moving quickly, trying to change things that remained unchanged and unchallenged for decades except by the idealists who prayed for a revolution.  All it took was destruction to make the revolution real, but not the kind of destruction they had willed upon it.  The Earth collapsed upon itself in misery and was ruined, a revolution of desperation that we all saw coming but it spun out of control all the same.

    "There was nothing we could do" was the cry for years.  "What we have done in the past did us in before we even knew what was coming".

But they did know, quietly, through their research.  They predicted the end of the Earth but the prediction meant nothing if nothing could be done to sway it.  It was inevitable, and in the face of fate and the end, the human animal came out of its true shell, revealing the anarchy that nestles deep inside each individual, validating the philosophers’ opinions of mankind pessimistically.  Some of them, at least.

    I went on a photographic mission to find further sources of inspiration in Toronto.  I was getting down on Toronto the past couple days and needed to reaffirm why I happened to choose Toronto to settle down for a number of years.  I took photos of people on my Pentax as they walked with smiles on their faces, ignoring the negatives of the city and thinking only of what a pleasant time they were having.  I photographed the parks, the buildings, the Churches, the Streetcars…anything that would make me reflect proudly on a bustling metropolis that can certainly feel like a small town when you need it to – and even when you don’t.

    I walked into the Wine Rack and picked up a bottle of Merlot to really get the juices flowing, but by the time I got home I didn’t need the liquidation to make sure I could write.  I was doing just fine, and ended up writing a short story that I think turned out quite well.  It was both reflective and forward-thinking, and I’m going to fine-tune that baby up and submit it to a couple forums.  Away I go!  When I bought the wine, they asked me what it was going to compliment.

"My novel", I said, admitting it for the first time.

I then got into a heavy discussion with the two employees about the nature of the written word, delving into Foucault and Derrida for contextual analysis.

"Do you find yourself contemplating what Derrida would say about your book as you write it?" she asked.

"No, I find myself contemplating everything when I write, which is what makes it so difficult.  My mind gets carried away with the present influences, and if I stop to sit and think about the words I’m putting down then I over-analyze until my eyes burn.  If I can’t put the present into the past immediately, it will never be completed".

Ah. The truth.  I focus too much on the here and now.  If I turn towards the future, I stand puzzled and amazed at what could possibly open its doors to me.  If I think about the past, I get lost in memories and dazed by how I got here.  Finally, if I think about the present, my mind flips to what I should be doing instead of doing this one act that means so much to me.  The key is not to think too hard and just do.  I am getting there with a firm grasp on my limitations as well as a strong knowledge of my goals.  This, I can do.

    I also snuck out and read some poetry at a secret Toronto location to total strangers on Saturday night.  It felt amazing and I got some great feedback.

    Last night I saw some old friends, people who’ve known me since I was 17.  It was great to see them and I’m glad I went.  There is nothing better than sitting on pillows outside watching the BBQ cook up some delicious food, talking, and drinking Sangria late into a Sunday night (though the jello/choco delish shooters were also a tasty treat). 

I’m shocked that BC weed sells for $5000 a pound in LA.  I am clearly in the wrong business.

Rubbing the wall with your fingernails while he’s lighting your crack pipe, smoothly inhaling your addiction like so many others in so many forms.  Henry Henry Henry had the sex and the alcohol but not the drugs.  He had the poverty and the homelessness in the grand literary style, sleeping with women in the street, annexed in by robust Parisian buildings and the smell of cigarettes floating through the sky entangling in their hair.  Ancient stories made contemporary, circular societies that move to the new, the fresh but always represent the old themes of sex, brutality, poverty, cheating, philandering, sweet romances in a summer breeze.

The hopeless romantic still survives, th eone who begs for a secret gift showing up at the doorstep, something indicating thoughts that are present even when you don’t exist subjectively, perceptively.  It’s interesting how the old dreams never die, only redeem themselves in the time of least want but the time of highest need. 

You, I adore.

First, I diced some onions up and then put some oil in the pan and warmed them up…then added some chopped asparagus.  I mixed it around for awhile and let the asparagus get a little softer.

So then I added some chickpeas, curry paste, water, and coriander.  A little too much coriander due to a minor mishap thinking there was a spaced lid on the top when in fact there was no top, so spice plopped right out and into the mix.  I scooped some out furiously as it continued to cook and rescued the mishap.

I took a little break for hydration and ate a V8 splash juice popsicle I froze up earlier in my popsicle tray.  Mmm.

And then my basmati was ready and I ate.  It was seriously more amazing then I thought I could do…so I WIN KITCHEN…MOOHAHAHAH.

But on my way, this is a series of new homes that I adore near my place.  The architecture is so nice and light, and a bit of a change in Toronto. It’s on Bathurst, so it sticks out like a sore thumb but is adding some much needed character to the Oak Leaf Steam Baths region.

On my way to Kensington, I cut through this little park.  I had not noticed that to the left of this shot was a public pool – I’m considering taking advantage of it to do some laps.  I have fond memories of Toronto public pools growing up – particularly the large one in Monarch Park with the slide.  In order to have "access" to the deep end when you’re little, you had to swim one length of the entire pool for the lifeguard and then you received a password.  Much love for water safety.

In the park were some skaters enjoying the empty wading pool.  There’s a pool like this near my Grandma’s house on the east side and we used to love using it because the water would spray out of the middle in streams like a giant sprinkler.  I haven’t seen one of these actually being used in ages though…I could be wrong and maybe just don’t notice them in action.  I don’t recall seeing the one in Christie Pitts ever functioning when I lived around there.  It’s probably full of hobo urine at this point.

I end up making it to Kensington, though I was tempted momentarily to grab some lunch at Cafe 668.  When I walked in there was no one there, server / chefs included, so I found myself back out again and on my way.  My mission was to procure some veggies for a curry.

Here are some people taking advantage of the car-free roads.  There was a lot of action going on all around – musicians, vendors, poetry readings…it was all quite entertaining.   I was also admiring this man’s man purse ahead of me.

More later…

Although it freaks me out that Michael Jackson put a voodoo curse on Steven Speilburg for not casting him as Peter Pan.  THANK YE GODS ABOVE.  Speilberg has Jewish protection on his side!  Watch yourself MJ!