It’s the first of December. In about six weeks I go to Toronto. I’ve started reading Michael Winter’s blog. I’ve started checking the club listings. I’ve started thinking about restaurants, about the Annex, about Yorkdale. I’ve visited the LCBO website and priced things I can’t get here. I remember walking in the snow by City Hall, watching the ice skaters, the Christmas window displays at Simpson’s, the smell of hot dog vendors . . . I’ve started to think about how much money someone of my age and experience might earn in a year. I’ve started to think about opportunity, about potential, about writers and artists and community, about living in the centre of the publishing universe as a free woman, unattached and self-sufficient. I knew this would happen.
Yesterday I wanted to spend my last few dollars on an insanely high-priced bouquet of fresh flowers at Save-Easy. I wanted to inhale the bright colours, close my eyes and see the reds and purples, carry the vase from room to room so I would never be without. I used to buy insanely high-priced bouquets of fresh flowers at Save-Easy, on the verge of withering, I’d count myself very fortunate to get three or four days out of them. No flowers this month. But soon.
Sometimes I think my mother wills me to fail, just so she can be right. Sometimes I think I do, just to over-ride her indifference.
Mood: head thick and oh so heavy with anti-drugs
Drinking: roobioos tisane (naturally decaf, i might add)
Listening To: Feist, Inside Out
Hair: surprisingly easy to maintain