Sweet Honesty

Way back in 1978, Scott gave me some fancy perfume for Christmas. It was oily and dark and likely procured with a five-fingered discount from the Devonshire Mall. After the breakup, my pal Karla replaced it with Chanel No. 5, telling me to jettison that Old Boyfriend Smell. Although I persevered, I felt stupid whenever I left the trailer park smelling like Catherine Deneuve. Truthfully, No. 5 stank on me. Was it a Poseur-marking litmus test? An olfactory version of the red ring in the pool? Given my wood-hewing, water-drawing, booze-making DNA, I was probably much better off with Avon.

Inspired by Fountain Pen Mojo. Image from a magazine ad of our Miss Deneuve—rich, blonde and properly French.

Fountain Pen Mojo

In Grade 3, we graduated from pencils to fountain pens, which involved cartridges, ink-stained fingers, and much-blotched notebooks. Yes, there was a learning curve, but the process of writing was transformed. Cursive in pencil felt childish; cursive by nib, sophisticated. Writing suddenly felt worldly, and I suddenly felt like a man of the world: confident and strong. This early sample of my penmanship, bold if calligraphically imperfect, is undoubtedly the only one that survives today. I’m certain that the one I affixed to my love letter to Catherine Deneuve, sent c/o Chanel No. 5, Paris, France, (never answered) did not. 

Inspired by Doodling and Artless. The image is an AI approximation to prevent (sadly) identity theft.

Just for Halloween

The day after Sam moved out, she took a sledgehammer to that gawd-awful wood panelling in the basement. And there it was. No body—just a head with empty eyes, leathery skin and long thinning hair. Female, she supposed. Old and abandoned like her. Smelling of nothing but dust. This was years ago, and Cleo the Head had been with her ever since—more faithful than the kids who never visit and great emotional support. Better than a pricy therapist. Every night, lying in the dark, Cleo whispers to her of all the things she could do with that sledgehammer.

Inspired by Old People Smell. Image by ChatGPT.

Old People Smell

Now it’s all about Kareishu. True, I have been stuck in an airless room with genealogists—and there is a certain bouquet—like dandruff and neglected WindRiver polar fleece. But on the other hand, my octogenarian in-laws are all fresh laundry and Wesley Methodism. So what does this Kareishu smell like? Funky towels? Peppermint? The inside of a purse? Ageism? Apparently, you can combat it by being fastidiously clean with yourself and everything your decomposing wreck of a body touches. Luckily,  I have Neal’s Yard products. They contain frankincense. The same stuff they used to embalm mummies.

Inspired by: Roy’s mummy. Image by ChatGPT.

Apartment 1203

Growing up in the Married Student Apartments, one of our neighbours was wrapping up a Masters in Museology, while the other was working on his Doctorate in Medieval Studies.

     1205 took me to see ROM’s storage facilities, grabbed a random cardboard box off the shelf, and pulled out a mummified head.

     1201 showed me—by scratching it out in the playground’s sand, no less—that cursive writing, and the seemingly arbitrary forms I’d been taught in school, had in fact evolved to lessen the need for a scribe to lift his pen from the paper.

     And blew my twelve-year-old mind.

Inspired by Fountain Pen Mojo. Image by ChatGPT.

Thoughts on this Day

We are fortunate to live in this place and time. I’m thankful for friends and the history we share. I’m thankful for the spirit we muster in the face of malignant evil and ignorance at home and abroad. I’m thankful for the peace we have enjoyed, as fraught and fragile as it is. I’m thankful for the food on our tables, yet I am acutely aware of how lucky we are to have it. That luck can never be taken for granted: the best “luck” is the product of the goodwill we engineer collectively. To the world, happy Canadian Thanksgiving.

Inspired by the calendar. Image by Georgi Kisyov.

Doodling

At McGill, I would diligently take class notes (with pen and paper, of course), as the professors pontificated. But then I’d get distracted and start inventing typefaces in the margins. Then I’d sketch the professors, or other students, or what was outside the window. Then I’d blink and stop myself and get back to work. But why was I doodling? Why was I so distractible? I finally got my answer last week when I read a letter Dad wrote to Mom when they were both 17. Taking up half of the second page was a doodle. So, apparently, it’s genetic.

Inspired by Artless. The image is of my Dad’s doodle, the caption reads: “You would love my daughter even if she didn’t have any money? That’s all, son. You can go now. I don’t want any idiots in my family.”