do you remember

why you love where you live?

thanks to my brother, LB

studysergestudysergestudy

stresssssssickness

Change is in the air. People are flailing crazy all around me. You can blame it on the temperature, midterms, or maybe even a quarter-life crisis. A quick-fingered count confirms my suspicion of summer babies and running back to winnipeg; ontological anxiety reigns! winter is a son-of-a-bitch!

Juggling, dribbling, outfielding: pick the metaphor. I dropped the ball. Psyching myself up for a neat freelance project on the first day off in over two months, my body recently turned around, shut down (sick, no doubt, from school-work-paper-rinse-repeat) and I barely moved for days.  Thinking nonstop about something that should be clear after 23 years of life—the extent of my limits—I let other people down all around me in physical omission, while physically cloaked in sheets of guilt and a temperature sweat. Between stressing and 'resting,' the opportunities squandered. la rhume en chôlis. 

This blog has lost its direction and so have I. 

It's under the weather, like everything else. L.

clippings

new work:



loved one:

Today was Madge day. We waltzed through the metro, to (skipped) school, the office, the People's Potato, myriade for beautiful coffees, the EV building, through pouring rain (newspapers sheltering our heads), under steps to smoke cloves, through beaux arts, through parks, up parc, to a record store, through records, down in transit, to hug like long-lost sisters, to power nap by the end of it all. through unsuccessful only in getting matching wedding-band 'oui's' on our fourth fingers, this day was exemplary, necessary & I continues to be impressed to no end.

I feel infused with Winnipeg. Good day. Good day.

LOCO

the editorial

I think I've figured out what is worth pumping back-to-back 12 hour days in an office, under paling artificial light, working longingly beside a city skyline but not under it, withstanding dry contacts and burning retinas fixed to the glow of a screen, fingers tapping - pausing - tapping in spurts and stops, research gathering, prose forming, word honing : it is the editorial.

As I voluntarily gave up friday night in favour of the editorial, it dawned on me that this was probably the closest platform to postulate upon, addressing hundreds (maybe even a thousand) people and have them think about my personal politics.

With this realization, words have suddenly felt quite heavy, more significant, more meaningful. It dawned that this was both power and responsibility with reputation always dancing in the distance.

On top of shitting on a daily basis about the facts of the matters, I realize more and more that journalism is serious ethical business. The discipline of weighing words is extraordinary; why did I ever think that it would feel more free?

--- or can it be?