Whenever I open up and rinse a can of chickpeas, I find myself idly picking one up and and with two fingers swiftly slipping off its transparent skin—and then another—a satisfying sensation: soon I am engrossed in plucking off each of their slippery coats one by one.
Yesterday evening we had friends over to our apartment for our weekly oomancy session. As I was sweeping the floor in anticipation of their arrival, I reflected upon the first time I tried my hand at oomancy.
As of , the Rideau Canal in Ottawa is the nearest body of water to where I live. Previously it was the Atlantic Ocean; before that, the Assiniboine River—both natural bodies of water:——but the Rideau Canal is an artificial one.
I first met my fiancée on . I found my record of this incident as I was reading through my Catalogue of Days, looking for potential blog-post material.
I have started using a paper notebook for an agenda/planner/to-do-list thing. It's been an interesting experiment.
I have a secret, which I’ve never revealed:
This city is a strange place—so much of it is paved.
The trees here—it must be lonely for them, not being in a forest; stretching their roots out and finding soil compacted by cement, soil sparse of arboreal conversation.
(In which it is cold, early morning, misty over the lake; I set my service leaflet on fire.)
I have a secret to-do list. The problem with my secret to-do list, though, is that it’s easy for me to forget what is on it.
I used to be able to make purple sparks shoot from my fingertips. I just had to snap my fingers at just the right angle, with just the right force, when the humidity was just right, when my hair was tied up in a bun in just the right way …
This morning, flatmates and I had a brief dance party in the living room. It was a lot of fun–it felt long overdue. It made me think of a note I had written to myself about a year ago.
(In which I have to blow my nose.)
(Eternal praise! eternal praise!)
Spotted Jack Mitchell searching the Perseus English-Latin lexicon for the word ‘virtuous’.
As I was walking down Duncan street last Sunday evening, I came across a tree that that had a face—eyes, a nose and a mouth affixed to its bark.
I was bored this afternoon, so I ate a raw clove of garlic.
That’s all.
Whatever is necessary that such dance parties as that of last night should happen again—that’s what matters to me. That everybody should be able to dance with their friends in a safe and comfortable space and know this and dance freely and enjoy it and have lots of fun, knowing that they are among friends—that is what is most worthwhile to me.
(Sometimes I space out for a moment.)
I made a remark shortly after I came in the door—paraphrased from David Lebovitz—about the state of the Parisian baguette: Emma is this moment recording it in her quote-book. I am flattered.
(Setting off for Halifax; musing; killing time.)