How to tell a bagel from a liar.

Real bagels are shiny on the outside, and golden. They are good cold, even after toasting. Even after many hours sitting out, sliced open. Real bagels are chewy and don’t taste like loaf bread.

They taste like bagels.

Note to self: do not settle for seedy imposters. And, if you must indulge, eat it while it’s hot.

I heart no.33

Behance find: AORTA /Marco Grizelj. Swedish photographer who takes creepy cold portraits of real life mannequins (from the looks of them) and in this case some pretty amazing abstracted architecture photos.

This shot makes my brain happy.

On Behance here. Website here.

The Days Roll By

I saw the sun today! Mystery Google told me to text something dirty to (random long distance phone number). This is what I wrote:

It has been raining for weeks. The leaves have made a slippery pink paper pulp on the sidewalk.

No response. No soul mate. Which is something that I am apparently fishing for. I’ve met enough to know that they exist. Lost enough to know that it doesn’t really matter.

Everybody needs a hobby. Something to dress up for. Something to try for.

Short sentences make me happy.

Happiness is a state of mine.

S.P.A.M.

I had the knee-jerk reaction of getting properly excited for a friend who is succeeding brilliantly at a career she always thought she might want.

That is to say: I am not always a green-eyed monster.

The sound my anxious tummy makes (for no apparent reason).

It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it.It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it. It’s it. This is. Is it. It is. It is this. This is it.

Recovering.

My brother has moved out here: it’s official. We’ve only had a week but I’m already unsure how often to call, how much we should see each other, how we’ll fit. I’m not in a panic or anything – at the moment I am enjoying  some of that calm, that distancing from my emotions that makes everything more amusing than anything else.

It could be the fever.

I bought a faux-fur blanket that looks like a giant wolf pelt. When I’m at home I am always touching it. It makes me excruciatingly happy.

Just sayin’

Grandpas are supposed to shop at Peavey Mart, not MEC.

My grandfather would have stoically ignored away the existence of a $700 windbreaker.

For those of you who don’t know

I lost my front tooth (just a baby) to a punch in the face from an older neighbour boy when I was in elementary school. I swallowed it, and have forgotten the reason he hit me.

I found a cassette tape last year of a surveillance recording my brother and I made back in the early eighties when I got my first (little pink portable) stereo.There’s us saying “yeah we’re going” and my mom in the background says “supper’s soon, so hurry along” (I kid you not). Then the tape hiss and a faint melody in the background, a soft baseline. My mom starts singing along, my dad joins in on harmony. They sing Elvis’ Blue Christmas and then fall quiet.

My brother cornered me and a best friend in the garage and pretended to douse the door in gasoline in preparation for setting it on fire. I’m pretty sure he used water.

I loved the first man I slept with.

I don’t remember who I was as a child. I can pull up moments, but they’re mostly embarrassing examples of what an asshole I (apparently) was.

My father was in a boating accident while engaged to my mom, he lost his memories of her and had to be re-introduced by his mother. It’s unclear if he ever got those memories back.

There’s a certain stretch on the Trans-Canada that I can’t drive without fighting  the urge to stop the car, lay down on the highway and let my head rest heavy on the pavement. This is the aching scar of a severely wounded heart.

I am happier now than I can recall ever being in the past.

I don’t have my shit together, I am lonely some of the time, I have more plans than accomplishments, I am afraid and almost constantly exhausted, but I am happy.

S.P.A.M.

I like to help.

I heart no. 32

Behance find: Iain MacArthur. Illustrator from Swindon who is getting a lot of thumbs up on the Behance network, and for good reason. He combines sensitive pencil portraiture with graffiti design elements in a way that is often rude and always stunning.

It’s not that I like everything he’s got, but I sure am glad he’s giving it to us.

Portfolio on Behance here, or carbonmade here.