a moment on the coldest street corner in toronto

In my haste to get out of the frozen wind whipping around the vortex of Queens Quay and York Street, I walked right past him. His requests for change were half-lost in the cold air blasts. I stopped and found just three dollars in my wallet -- barely enough to get him a bowl of soup.

After finding out that I wasn't a tourist he asked me about my job, and talked in a jovial tone about his previous job (the job he lost): installing software for accounting firms. I thought to myself: how can this be? how it all come to this: standing on the coldest corner in Toronto begging for money?

As I was leaving he smiled with the few teeth he had left, and when I complained about the cold, he seemed oblivious to it.

28 November 2002, 12:11

no tolerance for stupidity

When I was reading through her "about" page, I stopped at this phrase: "easily annoyed by stupidity". I read and re-read it, and realized just how true it rings for me. I have absolutely no tolerance for stupidity.

Please note: "stupidity" in this case means flat-out stupid/dumb/idiot and does not, in any way, refer to those affected by any kind of mental challenge.

Stupidity annoys me like a bad itch. Or hot and humid days. Or human obstacles. I can't ascertain whether it's the "refusing to think" aspect or the consistent clueless behaviour that irks me the most. But whatever it is, if a petition against stupidity existed, I would sign it. If there was a organization that helped to rehabilitate the stupid, I would donate my hard-earned money.

Anything to rid the world of the dreaded dumbass.

27 November 2002, 18:11

Someone has my father's eyes.

Just recently I remembered my Mom signing the form that permitted a surgeon to remove my father's eyes a few hours after his death so that the corneal tissue could be preserved and donated to someone waiting for sight.

This past week I keep thinking about my dad's eyes and who might be seeing through them now. I've caught myself wishing that the recipient would write to us (even anonymously) -- not because I want my family to be thanked or acknowledged in any way. That's not it at all. I just want to feel that at least a part of him is still alive somewhere. That a fragment of good came from such a sad situation.

I hope that whoever is seeing through my dad's eyes sees beautiful things.

26 November 2002, 18:11

something swimming

Although I am fighting off depressed thoughts of Christmas and disenchantment with my job, it feels like underneath it all there is a current of something good. Weaving its way through the cold, unstirred depths, I can feel it swimming -- if only in a dazed and sluggish breast stroke.

25 November 2002, 21:11

my life as a money maid

When I used to work as a bank teller, I had the opportunity to meet a variety of people. Sure, they sometimes pissed me off with condescension or stupidity (because you can expect that in any customer service job), but for the most part, people were nice and pretty damned interesting. I enjoyed chatting them up, because it helped them to relax -- sometimes enough to tell me some great stories.

I learned a lot from the man who had an incredible love of life, despite spending time in a concentration camp, losing some of his family, and being beaten senseless on numerous occasions. Other people, for varying reasons, taught me patience, sensitivity, and humility.

I learned other things, too, in addition to being screamed at, cried upon, and propositioned.

The man who kept eveything in plastic sandwich bags (a.k.a. "baggies") -- including his hands when he touched money or cheques -- taught me about obsessive compulsive disorder. The woman who brought in her scrunched-up US $1 bills for deposit every Monday morning taught me how important it is to wash your hands after handling money -- because you really don't know where it's been. The old woman who walked into the bank one morning and nonchalantly emptied her purse of lint, kleenex, lipstick tubes, and thirty-nine $1000 bills taught me that many people still do keep their money under their mattress.

Sometimes how different things would be if I remained a bank teller. Oh, who am I kidding? I would be completely insane.

24 November 2002, 20:11

saying goodbye

I want to tell her that everything is going to be ok. I want to tell her to expect some rough and unpleasant times, but that they are only challenges with a reward at the end. But this would be a lie -- she and I both know it. "Terminal" -- with its three short syllables -- rings loud and certain and true into the darkness. Once delivered, the word inextricably belongs to you.

A week after my parents relayed the news that my dad had a year left to live, I bought a book (leave it to me to buy a book in times of crisis): How to Say Goodbye or something like that. I picked it up because I wanted to educate myself on what Dad may be going through, and to learn about how best to tell him the things I needed to say before he died.

I didn't get the chance to read the book. A few days after I bought it he was admitted into hospital and died within two weeks.

But as it turns out, I didn't need the book afterall. The words came when and where they were needed -- sometimes in clumsy clumps, sometimes in emotional exchanges, and sometimes in pure and beautiful moments that arrived out of nowhere.

So, if there is anything that I can tell her it is this: it will be the most difficult thing you do, but the words will come when you need them.

23 November 2002, 12:11

almost snow

Outside my window the rain is trying to turn itself into snow. Every few drops manage to struggle into flakes, but the rest can only fall in sullen ice-cold globes.

When the rain moves to sleet and finally snow, it will blow across the lake in vertical frozen sheets, slicing sideways at the boats and waves. There will be no "good snow" today. No powder-puffs of white falling lazily to the street, no powdered-sugar coating of trees and lawns.

This snow, when it comes, will slash with cold razors, and melt on impact, leaving behind no evidence, no weapon.

22 November 2002, 14:11

a headline for 2002

Twelve killed in Miss World riots.

21 November 2002, 22:11

filling an hour

She worked with the focus and skill of a surgeon, creating and sculpting a new tooth from the shard that was my old one. She was her usual pleasant self when she asked if I was ok or to open my mouth a little wider. But when it came time to speak to the frazzled (and obviously inexperienced) assistant, her words sliced a wound into the air over my head. Every request was curt; every repetition of the request was sharp with impatience.

I sat tense and quiet listening to the gap between them widening, as they worked together to fill in the hole in my mouth.

20 November 2002, 17:11

"pretty, pretty"

He appeared out of nowhere as I was walking home from work along the lake in the dark. Torn between giddiness and nervousness he approached me with his hand outstretched. There was a glint in the shadows that I quickly recognized as a small digital camera.

He asked me to take a picture of him standing beside the lake, and I happily obliged. With so many tourists in the area, there are many requests to snap smiling couples and grinning students. Afterwards, I asked him if he would like to check to make sure that picture was ok, given the poor lighting.

He took this as an invitation to continue walking with me.

So together we walked, me and the small, energetic man visiting for two months from Korea -- him stopping every few minutes as a new photo opportunity presented itself: in front of the CN Tower, the SkyDome, the bridge, the boats. Always asking apologetically. Always unable to contain his effervescent excitement as the flash reflected from his wide sweep of teeth.

When I was almost home, and after a few exchanges and several photos, he thanked me profusely and turned to walk back toward the marine police unit (I knew that he would go back there; it his attention captive from first glance) -- and to revisit the lake that had him gushing "pretty, pretty".

19 November 2002, 20:11

too many V.C. Andrew books as a child?

When I was a teenager, I was well aware of my imminent death. And because I was always so organized, I even planned for it.

Whenever my parents took us on a trip or we were going to be away from home for a few days or more, I would begin the process of writing letters to those who mattered in my life. In flowing, rounded, but determined script the words filled the page, each sentence heavy with love and longing. On carefully-selected stationary, I pledged allegiance to friends and confidantes, confirmed my love and appreciation for family, and confessed my undying desire to boys who didn't even know I existed.

Then I dated, signed, sealed, and addressed my various outpourings of emotion, and left the small collection in the middle of my desk where my parents (or the authorities, in the event that my entire family met with tragic circumstances) would find my last thoughts and distribute them accordingly.

Soon after I turned fifteen, I stopped writing my last will and testament to the objects of my affection -- although I continued to consider the possibility of not surviving an excursion and always ensured that my (adolescent) affairs were in order. Relationships mended, room cleaned, contraband materials disposed of, etc. Because, well, who wants to die and leave behind bad feelings and empty liquor bottles?

I think that I lived for romantic tragedy. Ironically.

19 November 2002, 17:11

a welcome of white

Hours late we arrived at the Toronto airport, weary and dazed, but happy to be back in the arms of our motherland. It was a chilly embrace, however. As we picked up our luggage from the carousel and dusted off the snow, we were reminded of the reason for our two-hour delay: a snowstorm that coated our city in white.

On the way home the expressway was deserted, quiet and ghostly as the taxi sailed along past white hills and trees like apparitions. Although we had just flown in from the land of sea, sun, and spectacle, the snow was welcomed: a reminder of the gorgeous and safe country we live in.

It's nice to be home. Even at 3:45 AM on a workday.

18 November 2002, 03:11

three days of florida in three sentences

Thursday: a day at the Kennedy Space Center at Cape Canaveral impressed by real, live rockets and space shuttles as well as the vast number of British tourists.

Friday: the morning spent weeding and gardening whilst fearing brown recluse spiders; the afternoon spent with family chatting, driving, and searching for a beach; and the evening spent settling into a wonderful Italian feast with a much-needed walk afterward.

Saturday: at home retreating from the rain (and potential tornado threat), lazing about and finishing up a good holiday read of Niall Williams' latest, The Fall of Light.

16 November 2002, 19:11

something wonky this way comes

I don't know what's been going on with this journal whilst I have been soaking up the Florida sunshine, but something happened. I'm made some temporary fixes until I get back into the country. All will be right again on Monday *fingers crossed*

15 November 2002, 23:11

sand like cornstarch

During the past few days we've been to both coasts of Florida and have had the pleasure of sampling beaches on both coasts: the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean. On the east coast, Daytona Beach has warm beige sand the texture of flour. On the west coast, the sand on Venice Beach is dark and heavy with shells and sharks' teeth -- rough and sometimes sharp on the bottoms of feet. And Clearwater Beach has sand the colour and texture of cornstarch -- albeit cold cornstarch. This evening, as we watched the sun slip into the ocean, the beach appeared as a wintry scene, the sand like powdered snow.

Right now I taste salt on my lips and smell the sea on my skin. I am weary from driving and walking on beaches, ready for sleep. And I expect that I shall dream of waves and the sound of the ocean.

13 November 2002, 23:11

car rental tip

Car rental tip: if you are ever renting a car from Thrifty, be sure to lift the hood and ensure that everything that should have a cap or cover indeed has a cap or cover. Even if it's 10:50 PM at night and you are tired and want to find your hotel. Trust me. Look under the hood. It will be worth the extra few minutes and will save you the experience of driving around the arse end of an unnavigatable city with smoke pouring out from under the hood and a distinct scent of burning car filling the interior as you attempt to use their streetless map in hopes of getting the car back to the agency before you and your belongings go up in flames.

13 November 2002, 00:11

a pain in the plane

There are sometimes (like now) that I want to announce that I never want to fly into the U.S. again. That I am done with it.

I had heard that security was tight at airports since September 11, and that extra measures were being taken to ensure the country's safety (yes, even from us scary Canadians). However, for the life of me, I cannot see the argument for demanding that all passengers arriving into the U.S. on a Canadian chartered plane (which means mostly sun vacationers) disembark on an hour stopover so that the crew and passengers cold wait in a hallway for half an hour wondering what was going on, then sent to a chaotic run through customs with agents who didn't know how to process Canadians; quickly find their luggage and then place it on another conveyor belt (to go back to the same plane); go through gate security and witness the captain and other people being asked to take their shoes off; making a frenzied run to find the gate where a few of the 20 affected passengers were taken aside for questioning (just people of visible minorities, which was sickening and frustrating); and corraled back onto the same plane, which, in the meantime was completely searched, including the life rafts under the seat.

Did I mention that we were on a half-full mainly holiday Canadian charter full of people dressed in their shorts and destined for Disney-damned-World?

Scary. Stressful. Unnerving. Enraging.

12 November 2002, 23:11

heading for the sun

The bags are packed. The apartment has been tidied. The cat has been fed, watered, and placated (for now) with mountains of treats. In an hour the taxi will arrive and take us to the airport. And by 4:15 this afternoon we'll be on our way to Florida.

I'm not exactly the sun and sand type -- I'm an oddball, I know -- but it will be nice to get away for a while. Trevor's Mom lives near Tampa, so we'll have a bit of home to return to each night after our explorations (none of which, btw, will include the usual tourist draws). Toward the end of the week we'll be joined by Trevor's brother, sister-in-law, sister and her family to celebrate Wendy's 40th birthday. Happy Birthday, Wendy!

Updates may be sporadic during the next week, but I suspect that amidst the malls, restaurants, palm trees, sounvenir shops, and bikini stands, an Internet café won't be hard to find.

10 November 2002, 11:11

in the lingerie line-up

The store was filled with countless racks laden with lacy, silky bits -- as well as shoppers snatching up panties, bras, slips, sleepwear, and various frilly bits. As I made my way to the counter with my purchase, I could see that I was in for a wait. A line of women had formed, each shifting their weight from leg to leg, overheated from their winter coats, and tired of holding their intended underthings out for everyone to see.

The woman ahead of me was about 45, tall, dark-haired, and plainly-dressed in a sweater and dark pants. Completely average. When it was her turn at the cash register, she pointed to a pile that had been set aside for her. The assistant began removing hangers and security tags, and passing the items to the cashier to ring in.

Suddenly a glint caught my eye: I looked to see a black and royal blue bra and panty set completely covered in sequins. They positively shimmered on the table. I first wondered how someone would wash such a garment, but that thought was soon replaced by an image of sparkling and bouncing mirror balls that I tried to forget. Of course, this discovery caused my eye to wander over the other items spread on the table, where I noticed another curious item: a white bra completely covered in white feathers, beginning at the centre, and fanning out over the cup -- and beyond the cup, where the plummage fanned outward like little white wings. Of course, the panties were also similarly feathered. Bjork would have been proud.

And after she paid the $210 total and left, I couldn't help wondering what she was wearing at that moment under her plain sweater and dark pants.

09 November 2002, 18:11

birthday

Her note arrived last night while I was out at a party -- into my third drink, insulating myself from the approach of today. When we came in, her words and the words of an anonymous author were waiting for me in my inbox like the kind, understanding eyes of a friend:

"The quality of a man's life is not to be measured by longevity. Honour, dignity, commitment and, perhaps above all, courage are qualities which are to be admired in a man - while he is alive and after he passes.

When a man dies, we mourn our loss for a while. We speak in shock, disbelief. We complain of the injustice of it all. Sooner or later we must accept his physical passing and celebrate the man's life."

Today I am going to celebrate a great man's life.

09 November 2002, 12:11

what did you call me? part 2

Last night we were enjoying some beers at the Friar and Firkin pub. From the first pint ordered, the waitress was efficient, attentive, and friendly. After placing our food order and thanking her for our drinks, she said "thanks, sweetheart" -- not with a I-call-everyone-sweetheart tone, but with kindness and genuineness in her voice.

Two "princesses" and a "sweetheart" from strangers in one week. Either I am coincidentally running into exceptionally nice people, or I am exuding some needy, please-be-nice-to-me vibe that they cannot resist.

08 November 2002, 18:11

sky

From the treadmill this morning I watched the morning crack open from a glowing, fuschia fissure. Sweat and CNN were not enough to distract me from the pink bleeding into the blue.

Walking home from work tonight, I caught the rose-coloured sky washing itself into the lake. Rinsing itself back into indigo.

08 November 2002, 18:11

if grief came with a manual

Sometimes I wish that there was a guidebook. It would help considerably in times like these. Everyone would know what to do, what to say, and how to act. We could look it up in the table of contents, and there, on page 34, all answers would be provided: What to do on the first occurence of a parent's birthday after their death.

06 November 2002, 22:11

what did you call me?

The man behind the counter at the Beer Store in our building calls me "Princess", as does the man who occasionally begs for change outside. I'm not sure how to interpret it. The only person who ever called me "Princess" before moving to Toronto was my dad.

05 November 2002, 23:11

two months of christmas

In the semi-darkness, walking home from work along the lake, I noticed that the tree trunks are already wrapped in white lights under an umbrella of red spotlights. Railings of boats left in the harbour suddenly sport strings of coloured lights that sway in the wind. And tonight, looking across at one of the apartments that face ours, we noticed the distinct silhouette of an evergreen tree, waiting to be trimmed.

Christmas? Already? I am always unimpressed by the commercial push to get Christmas buying underway early -- but this originates from money-hungry corporations gnashing their teeth in anticipation of the next holiday buck. So I expect it. What I can't explain, though, are the everyday ordinary people who wait -- with garlands and Christmas lights poised -- for the dawn of November 1, when for some unknown reason, the Christmas season magically begins for them.

When did Christmas become a two-month long festival? And how annoying must it be for non-Christians to endure all this tinsel and tackiness for 61 days of the year?

04 November 2002, 20:11

on sundays, and being a geek

For some reason, the difficult memories wait for Sundays. Throughout the week they gather unnoticed, silently like snow, filling up the corners, layer upon layer, dusting into drifts that only by week's end suddenly become noticeable.

So, on Sundays I know that I need to distract myself. Spread a little salt around in anticipation.

So today I planned to work on [places for writers] -- redesigning and re-implementing Movable Type. All afternoon I plugged away, and now the site is even using categories, bookmarklets, and other functionality whose beauty I have ignored until today. I've been finger-deep in MT upgrades, style sheets, and palette selection, and I feel at one with my inner geek.

People ask me how I can work on web pages 40 hours a week for my job, then come home and work on my own pages at night and on the weekends? The answer is simple: I love it. I can't get enough of it. And, of course, it occupies my brain for long stretches of time.

Like a whole Sunday.

03 November 2002, 20:11

autumn and Niederngasse

I was happy celebrate November 1 with raking leaves early in the morning during a quiet snowfall; enjoying conversation and a scrummy lunch with old friends; taking an hour-long walk with my Mom in the chilly evening; and having a poem published in the English edition of Poems Niederngasse, a great Swiss mag also published in Italian, German, and Spanish.

01 November 2002, 22:11