Thoughts on august 18

I walked to the library to return the book Unless by Carol Shields. There was a sunshower on my way to the grocery store. I didn’t need extra bags this time, so I bought bubble tea after. I realized the August special deal was for a milk tea slushie after I got the drink.

I boiled spinach, bok choy, and simmered daikon (or icicle radish according to the Loblaws cashier) in dashi and sugar. I caramelized onions and king oyster mushroom in butter. I am also making a batch of pork side ribs marinated in bulgogi sauce, onion, garlic, green onion, and cilantro. I plan on making noodles for dinner. But I am eating so much at 4 pm that there will be no stomach room.

I am sleep deprived and my eyes hurt. I updated my blog yesterday and I updated my instagram today with film pictures. The effort is exhausting. I showed a PhD student around the house today in order to rent the last room, which is why I woke up so early. I am now reading Tao Lin’s short stories online from http://bearparade.com/. I now want to write a short story.

I have this twinge in the upper left quadrant of my back that started yesterday.
I am afraid to touch my hair.
I only want to eat meat, but it has been probably 3 days that I’ve eaten something green. I associate green-leafed vegetables with a cold feeling. Cold but cleansing, my one chance at improving my health.
I am trying to ascend to the level of consciousness that writers of depressing fiction have.

I just sent in my “recovery” creative non-fiction snippet to Room magazine.

Short story idea 
Intro: We are inside trump’s mind. He is narrating his daily life, but an incident keeps distracting them.
Middle: the incident is hinted at. Trump goes to lunch with his wife.
End: the incident is a leakage of a surveillance video that thankfully people on the internet have deemed fake, but it was real. Trump and the two women are the only people that know.
Questions I need to be asking: Consequences if the video is real? Motivation to continue lying? Concept of kidnapping vs consensually held

Another idea
A man is running through the streets away from someone else. he sees a person entering a house. he enters the house and explains the situation. The person lets him hide in their small room with one 1x4 ft window. The person that owns the room is in the middle of recreating a famous painting. The runner pushes through the door to the other side of the house, opens another door and goes onto the balcony. There is a raccoon growling at him. The pursuer has caught up and is now on the balcony. The runner jums onto a roof in an attempt to hide, but he cannot pull himself up and slides down into the garden of the neighbouring house. The pursuer is not there. He catches his breath and walks into the neighbouring house. The next day he calls the painter to thank them for letting him run into their small room.

the travelling ricoh camera

this picture was taken with an old film camera my parents brought from china. it is so old even they've forgotten that it's ours. this was taken on the day i left waterloo, right before i gave nina a haircut. i liked the darkness of the living room with the image of a girl sitting on the balcony reading. this was one of those images i had ready in my mind before taking the photo. maybe it looks too forced, though. 

the lens must not be opening properly in this picture, but it looks fine in the other picture. i can only hope she comes to visit again. 

pentax june photos

 here are some pictures of my roomate's old cat archie. this really bulky camera has a cooler tinted lens, which gave good results, but it's probably better for up close pictures (it has a macro setting).

pictures from july on the small kodak "pill" camera

Nina at the waterloo library picking up books:
who do you think you are, 在大雪封闭的山庄里, and large print format of the amber spyglass
she is also reading the sun also rises by hemingway and women by bukowski

a farmer peeling garlic at the st. jacobs farmer market in waterloo.

my horoscope

writing with purpose, here we go. As the cat snoozes by my leg (audible soft snoring like an old man) the night passes by slowly. In an effort to make something "relevant" I am afraid I will one day stop writing. 

"Scorpio is a transitional constellation between Libra and Sagittarius. It transforms the elegance and good social skills of water sign Libra into the changeable and philosophical thinking of fire sign Sagittarius." I love this sentence.

"If the moon is out of phase, you may have a narrow social circle." Tonight was the new moon. Does that make the moon out of phase? 

next goal: write a post with HTML formatting. Maybe I will try to flexbox this in CSS Later. 

Third Quarter
August 11
12:44 pm

New Moon
August 18
10:41 pm

First Quarter
August 25
1:57 pm

Full Moon
September 2
1:22 am
Full Corn Moon

it's still 2020.

2020 feels like the longest year yet. This time in previous years I would have been on a trip, or planning my school year. Time stands still for everyone. Hope this means my wrinkles will be delayed too. I’ve thought about writing a short story but need to research what exactly is a short story. 

I’ve attempted to stave off boredom with painting and seeing friends at patios and parks. There’s a weird balance of meeting new people and hanging onto old friends. We don’t talk much about the past but keep trying to move into the future. I end up walking the same Harbord st. route nightly in a desperate attempt to cling onto the familiar. 

summer hail

Night kind of falls, leaving a musky dark grey-blue sky. 

It is 7 pm and there’s a commotion outside again. Sounds like a tsunami rushing upon the house, but it’s just rain again. Oh, wait. It’s white hail! 

I climb onto my bed and look out the window, bobbing a little. I step out onto the old creaky wood balcony (attached to the house at the last minute and left to rot for years) to look at the hail. I wished my roof didn’t jut out so much so I could stick my hand out and feel the hail hit my hand. 

The rushing sound outside is incredible, and torrents of water are flowing southwards in the back alley. I look over to my neighbour’s house and see a man in a pink hoodie standing on his balcony, looking at the hail just as I was doing. I turn and we make eye contact, and we both say hi. Then I walk back inside.  

Romanticism is dead in this post-modern age.