Oct 2018 04


Posted In Blog,The world

11:55 pm

“It’s like going to see a movie in 3D, and I’m the only one not wearing the glasses.” 

– my analogy to a friend tonight at ‘The Pilot’ tavern, when he asked me what it was like to spend our usual Thursday evening in the bar among many loud, laughing, cavorting drinking people – and I’m not drinking. A first. In my adult life.

I have just completed Day 4 of spending October without alcohol. Completely.

Frankly, I don’t think I can do it. Which is exactly why I’m going to write about it.

Stay tuned as I examine my relationship with alcohol, in 31 days. This could get ugly, emotional, introspective, and mostly ugly and emotional.


Sep 2018 28

As I whisked through traffic this week, it occurred to me – Now that Uber and Lyft cars are marked with decals on the back windows, a recent thing, the world feels like a much more positive place.

It used to look like everyone was just mad each other and wouldn’t sit up front together.




Sep 2018 22


I like to watch how people react when I take the dogs on public transit.


If there is a better way to find out what is truly in a person’s heart, without them ever speaking a word, I have yet to find it.





Sep 2018 19

As we enter sweater weather, I am reminded of a girl I was once interested in.

She had long, straight, light brown hair that she liked to stroke in class – I sat behind her and it was very distracting. And she had blue eyes, little freckles on her nose that moved when she talked, and also lovely teeth. Yes, I liked her teeth. It was why I liked to make her laugh. Not only did it make me feel good to make her feel good, I got a flash of her teeth if I could really roll off a good one.

This crush lasted a few weeks, from the beginning of the school year in a late summer surge of sweltering heat, until the inevitable onset of cooler Autumn

“How was your weekend, Karla?” I asked her one Monday morning, no doubt in an attempt to find something new about her and make her giggle.

“Oh, Andrew. I’m so tired today. I decided to move all my sweaters in the basement storage upstairs to my room. I’m exhausted.”


I knew then it would never work between us.

There are sweater people, and non-sweater people. Some people are meant to wear sweaters. They just embody the sweater culture. Like they were born wearing a sweater, and it’s just natural on them. They like being sweater people. And they mix best with other sweater people.

Even back then, I had an inkling of who I really was.


Sep 2018 18


It is dark here. It is always dark here.

The only two sources of light are the ghostly glow of a 20” tube television as it waits for the nightly news to start, as always, and the street lamps 12 floors below through the open sliding doors of the condo apartment unit. They are glowing, beckoning even, unimpeded by a non-existent platform or bars.

She is lying on a cot in front of the television. The possessions she holds most dear to her are gathered around her. In shopping bags. In piles. Boxes. All nudged against her blankets like tripwires. He doesn’t know when she last ate. Or bathed. Or got up to relieve herself.

“Put on a movie,” she demands, though half-asleep.

He pushes play on the VCR to appease her, and gears whine in protest. The tape is tired. Lines of static betray the present. It is not a movie, but an an old recorded broadcast of a Blue Jays game as Buck Martinez speculates about the team’s chances this evening. Coiffed and pressed, with the emerald green playing carpet behind him attempting to impostor the outdoors.

He looks around. He sees the room is jammed with things radiating out from her bed. Things she can’t let go of. The boxes seeping like tentacles stretch to the very edge of the balcony and teeter on the edge, in danger of shifting their gravity and cascading to the street below.

But he dare not move them. Even asleep, she would sense it.

The cat. He realizes he hasn’t seen the cat in days. Or is it weeks? Months, perhaps? Oh god, did the cat stray too close to the open balcony doors?

A playful joywalk on the boxes, kissing the edge of nowhere. A delicate game of dainty with the laws of gravity.

Cats refuse to believe the undeniable truth that you can not best physics.

Of course, there’s no need to check the sidewalk below. it’s likely the cat didn’t fall at all. The snake might’ve gotten to it first. Yes, there is a snake loose in the apartment. It is the colour of the darkness that’s everywhere here. Five feet long. Maybe six. It drifts silently from room to room. A covert operative. And like the cat, he’s not sure when, or what, it was last fed.

A shadow attacks him from above.

On his shoulder. Clawing his neck. The cat, the colour of midnight, purring, and fresh from refuge in a ventilation duct, has appeared. Not on the sidewalk. Not in the gullet of the dark sentry. Just a grateful, soft ball of darkness.

He can’t remember ever being happier or more relieved than to experience this cat.

Wait, does he even have a cat? And isn’t his mother dead?

These thoughts are cast aside as he carefully places the cat in a cage on top of the refrigerator. She will be safe here. The bars are too narrow for the snake.

He wanders over to the edge of the balcony, gazing at the street below, imagining himself down there, away from all this.

The tape will run out soon. She will always be waiting for the news. The boxes will never give up their secrets.


He wakes up and wonders what this therapist is doing to him.

“Who was your mother in your dream?”