TORONTO, October 2017

Skyline. The edges of my city — Toronto — poking out of me in weird ways. On the ledge of a bench in the autumn as the sun sets I stare out at it and at all the tiny dots that hold homes and complex lives and big news and small mistakes and tough love and broken souls and lost pets and straight A’s and stubbed toes and fender benders and watercolour and guitar lessons and pet dogs and round backs and dinner, delivered by someone on a bike in the rain.



Of all the doors in the world it is this red one that I look forward to the most. Perhaps it’s because it offers me cuddles with cats. Perhaps it’s the puzzles and joys of human connection that lay beyond. Perhaps it’s the bay window I look forward to, where I am free to peer out into the street and know that, if I wanted to, I can turn my back to it and pretend there is nothing outside the three rooms I occupy. But the thing about the red door is that it is a rental. It is temporary. Where will I be when my lease on the red door is up? Where will I go?


STERLING, February 2018

In a once industrial parking lot I act out my life, where my paycheques are printed by neat people and I make acquaintances in kitchens over espresso and bread. I sit in a corner. When I leave I notice the moon, how it appears pasted in the sky above developing high rises gone bankrupt over time. I make friends with a dog and I try for the miserable Fedex guy. Hung on the wall here is a photo of a person in a top hat on this street in 1923 just staring at me (at you, looking at the photo of them). I am convinced they were taking a selfie.