Saturday Afternoon

Outside the tiniest of snowflakes float. Inside, sunlight from the window hits the dust motes hovering above the hot air vent. The furnace has kicked in, rumbling melodically from the basement. The fridge hums. The cat on my lap purrs. I flip a page in my book. I notice the soft sound of my rough fingertips moving over paper. I breathe in. I breathe out. A gust of wind outside now. The snow scatters—the last of the autumn leaves dance. The cat shifts her weight, resettling on me. I breathe in. I breathe out. I turn the next page.

Inspired by the afternoon. Photo by NetPix.

Close Enough

By the time I decided to shave off my first real beard, I’d pretty much forgotten how—mostly because I’d started growing it not long after I started shaving at all, and years after my father had left, taking with him any benefit I might’ve gained from his example of proper technique.

Without that, I attacked my face with an ignorance fed mostly by advertising that emphasized the importance of closeness, shaving this way and that, until all trace of stubble was gone, leaving me with a painful appreciation of how some things are better when they’re just close enough.

Inspired by Leda and the Pelican. Image by Gemini, proving that the AI doesn't know how human males shave any better than I did back then.

Leda and the Pelican

Some women have good legs. Others have nice hair. I have a beautiful décolletage. Despite a decade of sunny seasons as an archaeologist. Not a line nor wrinkle. I slather sunscreen and cosset it in silk scarves, serum it, and gua sha it. But here’s something: I've just been diagnosed with Hashimoto’s disease. So now I take a pill every morning for the rest of my life. Because if my dead thyroid was left to moulder, it would be replaced by a goitre. A FUCKING GOITRE. I’m sure there’s a Greek or German cautionary tale about vanity in this somewhere.

Inspired by Let’s Not Talk. Image of my 63-year-old neck. No filter, no goitre.

Game Day Rituals

In pursuit of sporting greatness, I could not rely on talent, of which, the evidence demonstrated, I had little. Luck, then. To attract it, I employed intricately constructed stratagems. Example: I pulled my left skate on, then the right. Then I laced the left one up, then the right. 

      This never led to athletic stardom, but it did leave me with life-long rituals to follow during championship runs—like wearing the team jersey, t-shirt, and fan socks. And never laundering them during a win streak. These necessary measures have led to repeated tensions in the household at otherwise joyous moments. 

Inspired by an epic playoff and World Series run (thank you, Blue Jays). Image posted by the Toronto Blue Jays.

Whose Home Turf is it?

One drizzly March day, laden with shopping bags, I reached my street corner when I noticed a group of women gabbing on the sidewalk across from me—totally oblivious to anything around them including their dogs barking furiously and pulling on their leads. I vaguely wondered at this, then rounded the corner and saw the reason: a large stray—no, my mind registered—a coyote, looking wet, pissed off and bedraggled. I froze, but it took no notice of me. The light turned green. The cars stopped. And it sauntered across the intersection towards High Park and out of sight.

Inspired by Oooh, Ahhh. Photo by Harry Collins.

Ooooh, Ahhhh

At an intersection in the hood, people are mesmerized. Jaws are dropping. Arms straightened out, fingers pointing. They are halting their cars, scooters and strollers to get viral photos.
     Standing in the street in clusters, gazing and smiling, in wonderment and disbelief. A site for their eyes to behold.
     It’s not the moon, a glorious pink cloud sunset or the incredible rich colours of the changing leaves. No, it’s a giant inflatable pumpkin. A Costco limited-edition private stock. Engulfing a corner lot and causing a seemingly stirring of the soul.
     Wake up from brain rot. Forget 67. Join a luddite renaissance movement.

Inspired by this week’s events. Illustration by Ross Hendrick.