6 AM

Happy is the serenity of the early morning walk in the park

Still dark

The quiet lays over life like a weighted blanket

The people speak softly

The dogs prance lightly 

The robins commence their rehearse for the dawn concerto 

The low lying paths

Damp and foggy

Feel intriguing and mysterious 

And get the heart beating

The top of the trail then unveils the breaking sky

Pink and gold

Streaking through the gray clouds 

The dead brown brush begins to shimmer in it’s light 

Truly, it is a spectacular place 

A new beholding every day

There to experience 

I am grateful 

Inspired by The Après Life. Image by Nathanael Kiefer.

Quarter-Pound Foolish

The subway home from high school would drop me off on the southside of Bloor, out the rear entrance, and across the parking lot to the Uptown Nut House, which although it was much better known for its fresh-roasted cashews, was my go-to for loose candy.

Thirty-five cents for a quarter pound of jubes, forty-five for the licorice babies, or—if I was feeling particularly fancy—a whole dollar’s worth of their wine gums. Sure, it was bad for me, but what did I care? I certainly needed the calories, and my teeth were still on my mother’s dental plan.

Inspired by Blue Hawaii. Photo by the Great Lakes Refill Co.

Blue Hawaii, crayon on paper towel, by Laurie Anne (1967)

I was five and Jonesing for candy. Only Drouillard Road and childhood penury stood between me and Sweet Tarts. I had to sell my art. Still comfortably in my Desert Island phase, I put crayon to paper towel and let the Muse overtake. Hula Girl, Sun, Palm Tree. I schlepped door-to-door, but such was neighbourhood apathy for design that I soon worried if I’d ever make it to Charron’s. Finally, Mrs. Drazic let me in and listened to my creative vision. Unmoved by Klee-like innocence and economy of line, she gave me a glass of milk and sent me packing. Inspired by The Happy Place. Photo of Charron’s grocery store—the Holy Grail of penny candies—posted by Diane Vella.

The Happy Place

I’m not sure why, because it wasn’t part of my upbringing, but art makes me happy. It doesn’t happen at first sight. For my first half hour inside a gallery, I’m restless, my thoughts frenetic like the street outside. Slowly though, the atmosphere tranquilizes me to worldly distractions: yes, it soothes my savage breast. Suddenly I see on the wall before me what my impatience missed, a creation that teases and winks; challenges or defies norms; or simply pleases. Mountains, forests, coasts, they work for me too, but a gallery prods me to wonder about human potential; and to hope.

Inspired by The Après Life. Image by Annie Fairfax.

The Après Life

March reminds me of spring skiing—though I could skip the slopes altogether. I’ve never graduated from the bunny runs and usually spend the whole time worrying about how to exit the chair lift without falling. So maybe it’s spring snowshoeing.

Anyway, what’s important is the “après” part. Imagine: skis or snowshoes off, sighing into a Muskoka chair. On its wide arm rest, a hot toddy. Unbuttoned parka. Tuque off. Fingers running through sweaty hair. Body content after a day spent outdoors. Limbs pleasantly tired. Now close your eyes, lift your face to the sun and disappear into the moment.

Inspired by the arrival of March. Image by Dinga.

Disengagement

I’ve always been ambivalent about social media and these days that ambivalence is tending towards the negative so I’m going to disengage for a while. Creating free content for Meta while Zuck and his oligarch bro squad are competing to become the first trillionaire at the cost of community and global disintegration is becoming onerous. Sure, social media can result in good stuff getting done as well but for me, for now, it feels like it’s tipping in the wrong direction so I’m stepping back from it.

“For the master’s tool will never dismantle the master’s house.”
—Audrey Lorde

Inspired by A Pleasant Pause. Illustration by the TV Sign-off Test Pattern.

Journal Entry #2

Dear Miss Pube,

You arrived unexpectedly much to the horror of my sister who announced it to the family. Our single father rushed to the pharmacy and returned with a book on menstruation left silently for me like a surprise gift.

I expected you would have come up during sex-ed class, but instead, there were only unrecognizable diagrams of penises and vaginas narrated by old people. You grew into a beautiful bush, and then with the trends you were stripped away into a silky sand dune on an island oasis. Today you are a Mrs. Pube; wiley, wielding and wise.

Inspired by Tom, Photo from Pngtree.

Tom

Flipping, last night, through our grade-school memories, Tony told me a story I don’t think I’d heard, about a kid in our class whom I barely remembered, but who it turns out had lost both his parents when we were all together in Mrs. Applebaum’s Grade 7 class. And you’d think I’d remember something like that, but the only thing I remembered about Tom was from the first time we’d showered together after gym, and that he was the guy who had clued me into the fact that people with red hair would of course have red pubes.

     Sorry Tom.

But wait, it gets worse, because Tony could barely believe it himself, and so I decided to show off a little and see what I could find online, because sometimes I think I’m pretty good at that stuff, and then other times I just wish I could stop, like when I found out that Tom’s mom had died on April 20th while visiting her family in Montreal, and his dad had died just nine days later, like when I discovered that Tom—their “chosen son”—had been adopted as a baby . . . and then that poor Tom had died in 2019.

Inspired by Dying. Photo by Walker School Photo.

Nutcracker

Bless UAW’s Local 444 because all of us Chrysler kids ended up with good teeth and mine is probably the last generation to have relatives with false ones. Not today’s veneers or implants but entire mouths quarried and replaced with full sets of uppers and lowers. How many of us had our childhoods mildly traumatized by Old Timers taking out their clackers and enacting some sort of Clem Kadiddlehopper kitchen gag? And they rarely fit. My own poor mom suffered through several versions, so on any given day her smile could range from Meg Ryan Chiclets to Trilogy of Terror.

Inspired by Baby Teeth. Photo by THEPALMER.

Baby Teeth

Tiptoeing in, I reached beneath her pillow to exchange her carefully-wrapped tooth with a shiny coin. The transaction would please her (Oh, the candy she could buy now!), but I had a quandary. Those little gnashers, like first steps, were momentous. It seemed callous to toss them out. So I secretly saved them all, till I realized that was kind of icky. What was I going to do, make a necklace for her Sweet Sixteen? That would cement her cool in the eyes of her friends. And so, I dumped them, un-commemorated and uncelebrated. Better callous, I decided, than icky. 

Inspired by Gap Kid. Image by Oxana Zaytseva.

A Pleasant Pause

Let’s shift from orange through tangerine and peach to bubble-gum pink and the deep crimson of valentine cards. Just a reminder, I prefer dark chocolate with no nuts. But don’t bother with the roses; cut flowers never last. And if you can’t get a reservation at that overpriced restaurant, no matter.

Turn off the news and come sit with me.
Let’s laugh and talk, even though after thirty years I know all your stories and you know mine. 

Let’s hold hands on the couch.

Let’s snuggle and soothe our chronically jangled nerves, and whisper to each other,

“I’ve got you.”

A reply to Orange Pizza Shit and inspired by a desire to change channels just for awhile, please! Image designed in Canva by Nancy.

Orange Pizza Shit

The tyrants are breeding too many fools
We’re all tired and it’s turning us cruel

They’re having another oligarch rally
It’s all fireworks and guns
It’s just a bit of fun
It’s all god and money
It’s all oh so sunny
It’s shiny trucks and combat boots
It’s billionaire business suits
All heiling every utterance of their fatuous keeper
Their very stable genius
Pussy grabber
Dictator
USA!
USA!

While all the world sees is
A nasty child howling, belligerent and inconsolable
An orange boy prone
On his big orange throne
Rubbing his little orange worm
Trying to make it spit

Inspired by February’s Cry. Illustration by Fred Ni.

February’s Cry

Early dawn breaks
Body heavy, eyes wide and too alert
Looking out to the bleak barrage of gray sky

Soothing sounds of Vivaldi, harshly interrupted
Black hawk down
Young lives gone
Families broken
In a fleeting second

Never mind the tariffs, turmoil, tyranny
Piercing twangy sound bites
Overreactions and condemnations
All too simplistic
For life’s true tribulations

The dark cold Potomac
Enveloped their innocent hearts
And cascaded fears into waves

Early spring sun will settle the river
And awaken their souls
They’ll make peace with the cherry blossom petals
Floating silently along

Quiet the outside and listen within
Humanity’s calling

Inspired by Sereni-tish. Image by Image Creator.

Sereni-tish

So, why did it take me so long to figure this out: that there’s really not a goddammed thing I can do about the politics down there? It’s not my fight; I cannot vote. I can’t even make a miserable campaign contribution without breaking their laws.

     So, instead, I’ve already given a few hundred of my Canadian dollars to support Wikipedia and the Internet Archive—nerdy, I know, but I fear that they’re due for some unwanted attention.

     And I’m already hard at work to send another proud Parkdale socialist to Queen’s Park on February 27th.

     This I can do.

Inspired by The Miskopalian Church of Parkdale and the Serenity Prayer. Cross-stitch by Steotch.

The Miskopalian Church of Parkdale

Since late November, Rich and I have been back to a three species household and the timing could not be better. 

Worried that the world is forgetting about Kyiv? I hug a dog.

Fragile ceasefire? I hug a dog.

Gobsmacking global return to fascism? Incipient existential horror?  I hug both dogs.

Grateful for my six decades of health and happiness? I kiss our old dog.

Manifesting life as a river where good things can happen again for Everyone? I kiss our young dog. 

Reminding myself that the sun does not shine out of my solipy arse? I feed our cat. 

Inspired by Speak Truth, Stand Tall. Image: Me and Misko at High Park by Laurie.

Speak Truth, Stand Tall

With callous and sadistic pleasure
The tiny-handed king will savour
The chaos, the hating
The dog-whistle baiting
The cruelty rendered
And the weak who surrender—

Especially them.

Abandoning principle and self-respect
They’ll kiss ring, kiss ass, and genuflect
Straight-faced, they’ll walk back criticism
Shake heads, deny, and eat some shitism.
Pundits in media will denounce and proclaim
The tragedy, the horror, the pitiable shame
Of edicts, breached treaties, and raids in Chicago
While bosses tee off at Mar-a-Lago

Made-up truths and policies dumb
Everything a zero-sum.
What best to do, midst lies and schlock?
Resist, speak truth—or tug forelock?

Inspired by So, What Do We Do Then? Image: Ron Berg’s Innocent 2.0, which is inspired by artist Francis Bacon’s reinterpretation of Velázquez’s Innocent X.

So, What Do We Do Then?

How do you navigate through a world full of monsters but not become one yourself? The temptation is there to wall yourself into your condo like a medieval hermit or a modern anchorite, passively resisting the onslaught of rampaging narcissists, by not noticing them. That will work, right? There’s nothing to say you have to engage. You could turn off your cell. Refuse to comment. Don’t watch them. Don’t give them the satisfaction. You could practice pranayama breathing. Give up red meat and strong drink. And only binge watch the sitcoms of your youth. But is that resistance or capitulation?

Inspired by (or a reply to) Peace Is Not a Love Song. Illumination from Ancrene Wisse, courtesty of Corpus Christi College.

Peace Is Not a Love Song

Left and right used to describe handedness
Used to be used as direction
Used to mean the logical half and the creative half
Now that windmills, diseases and trucks are politicized
Now that America is oligarchic
Left and right signify the other who must be shamed and silenced
Enemies who must be mobbed and trampled, jailed and shot
We are a body, with knives in each hand trying to cut the other arm off.

Democracy cannot be toothless
Who still holds the ideal together?
Where rises the radical centre, the militant core?
So, fight.
Peace is not a love song

Inspired by Gumption and the Inauguration. Illustration by Fred Ni.

Gumption

As I sit here, recovering from a fracture and read my fellow corpses’ pieces, I find myself wondering what it would be like to be toothless. A one-handed Safari misstep results in several links to toothless blowjobs. Curious, I dare not open. It’s my work phone.

Called gumjobs I’m not quite sure how “gum” replaces “blow.” There was no conventional blowing in my Scarborough upbringing.

  If you’re an aging actor needing reinvention or a hottie who’s lost all teeth in a car accident, I can see how this can be a way to make your mark (without a mark).

Inspired by Gap Kid. Photo by Nina Malyna.

Gap Kid

The boy waits for his first tooth to work loose. Behind some of his friends, he wants desperately to be a part of it, this basic rite of passage. Because now he can push it right over—with a bit that still clings to his gums, bleeding a little—the grown-ups cringe. They don’t remember, can’t even imagine the thrill of losing something they now work so hard to hang onto.
     Finally, come morning, it lays by his pillow to be found, so small, but somehow too special to lose. His grin made all the broader with one tooth missing.

Inspired by Abby Normal. Photo by the author.

Abby Normal

“Can he bring it home?” Jane‘s husband was about to have a large nasal polyp removed, and I wondered about a souvenir.

     We were a family of LET ME SEE ITs. Simultaneously intrigued and repulsed by our own effluvia. Our house was full of pickled specimens, mostly Gerry’s: Tooth extractions, kidney crystals, gelatinous abscesses that floated like jellyfish.

     If pressed, where would obliging surgeons draw the line? 

     “Surely,” says Jane, “they wouldn‘t let you bring an amputated limb home.”

     Maybe. But they let Dad keep a huge calcified gallstone in a baby food jar that you could shake like a maraca.

Inspired by Mark’s Polyp. Photo: Cucumbers by Laurie.

Democracy: The Musical

I hear their tinny, amplified voices across Kraków’s Main Square, and wander over to see what’s happening. They are young Ukrainians, singing patriotic songs and raising money for their country’s struggle against its invader. They are few but their spirits are high. They gather every night. Days later in Warsaw, I encounter another thin crowd of energetic, singing, flag-waving youths. They are Georgians, protesting their government’s anti-democratic tilt. All this in Poland where, just months before, voters ousted an autocratic government. My takeaway? When times are least encouraging, there’s an alternative to apathy: it’s taking a stand for your beliefs.

Inspired by Elevator Pitch and Courage. Photos by the author, Spring 2024. 

Elevator Pitch

“It’s like Twilight meets Arrested Development meets Avatar set in space in 2450. Essentially, the preserved brain of Stephen Hawking is accidentally melded to the brain of someone like GOB Bluth and they get put into this Iron Man suit and sent out to a mining colony on Mars to hunt down Martian vampires, who are trying to eliminate the colonists because the mine is poisoning the planet. And then the beautiful female leader of the Martians falls in love with our hero because of his brilliant, self-absorbed mind. But they’ve both sworn to kill each other. It’s a musical.”

Inspired by Tis the Season. Image by Image Creator.