Showing posts from 2017

To the Year of Returning

A toast to 2017, the year of Returning. A toast to Melinda,  whose death sent shockwaves through my present and returned me -  to summers at Starrigan; and every second Saturday; and staying far too late; and nights around our family dinner table; and an airport photoshoot; and a tearful declaration of your imprint on my life. To January 1st, 2017,  when we rang in your last New Year -  together.  A toast to London, where I've dreamed of returning since the moment I left. Everything, everything reminded me of that first summer -  cobblestones and clocks and crowds, and bridges and books and Bank, and trains and tea and the theatre, and delights, dreams, desires. To the city where I first left my heart a decade ago,  and returned to tuck it in; s afe among aged streets  until it calls me home again. A toast to stories, whose beloved prose I've revisited time and time again. To the characters and worlds I've lived in many times befor

Shouting Into the Void

Since 8 November 2016, I haven't felt quite right. I had invited a few friends over to watch the American election with me. I had snacks and a smile. It was supposed to be a monumental night as we welcomed the first female President of the United States. Instead, everyone left early, needing to process what was happening on their own terms. The next day, I cried at my desk. I flew into a fury as my fingers typed insanely, pounding out my feelings at an undeserving male coworker who chose the wrong day to make a sexist joke. I joined in the online outrage at first. I retweeted pictures of protest signs and I got involved in the political fights I had previously successfully avoided on Facebook. I read endless think-pieces and I engaged in lengthly and loud conversations with other people who were shocked and sad and outraged. They often ended in tears. As I checked Twitter one day in early 2017 to see what fresh hell had been unleashed on this planet, something snapped. I cl

The Art of Abusers

In 2014, two big pop culture events rocked my small world: the YouTuber sexual assault scandal, specifically one creator called Alex Day, and the termination of Jian Ghomeshi's relationship with the CBC following accusations of sexual harassment and violence. A few weeks prior to the accusation that Alex Day had sexually assaulted several past girlfriends and fans, I had preordered his book about the history of the London Underground. His publisher dropped him almost instantaneously, and I assumed the book would never see the light of day. However, a few months later, Alex emerged anew on the internet, sitting in front of 2000 copies of his book that he no longer had anyone to distribute or promote. He offered personalized signatures to anyone who purchased his book. I thought about it a lot. I was so interested in the subject matter, and I am a sucker for an author-autographed copy; however ordering it felt like a betrayal - but of who or what? His past girlfriends? My morals