This is the Sea

I'm guessing everyone has at some point in their life looked around themselves and wondered, "How did I get here?" We know David Byrne has, or at least we can assume so based on the 1980 Talking Heads song, Once in a Lifetime.

Sidebar: That song is from 1980? Like, 45-years-ago-1980? Having spent 25 years saying, "The date is twenty-something", now, "1980" sounds more like saying, "1880". Yet, the 1980s are also ever present in my mind, especially with the current wave of conservative governments in the States and Europe. Later in the 80s, as a teen, it was very common to think Mulroney, Reagan and Thatcher were the stuff creepy European folktales were made of. They would seem sweetly naive by today’s conservative standards. Well, maybe not Thatcher (shiver). It is funny to think nostalgically of a time when we wondered if we were running out of tomorrows. These days it’s very common to believe democracy is in its death throes. Some are protesting it, some are trying to ignore it, some are fighting it, but unfortunately, quite a few are profiting from it. Is that how the mind works? Yesterdays are for nostalgia and tomorrows are for hope and fears?

This brings me back to my point (I just knew I’d get there eventually): sometimes you have to look around and wonder “How did I get here?” Sometimes in your life, a change happens and you don’t realize it. Other times a change happens and your world shakes and you know it’s important and even if it took you by surprise it feels inevitable. When Robert Frost wrote The Road Not Taken, was he thinking that his choices made his life, or that we fool ourselves by thinking that our choices make our lives as they turn out to be? Do we even have free will? Does it even matter?

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You are here (but don’t want to be).

This is where you don't want to be.

As more people are being asked to return to offices it’s as though we have to remind people that working from an office was something we all did, all the time. We did it so much that we forgot that it wasn’t normal to be sitting at a desk all day. How the pendulum has swung. Nowadays if people are asked to go to the office, you can measure the collective groan from space. The collective sigh would affect the weather. I get it. I’m one of the moaners and my sighs are heavy, accompanied by eye rolls of disbelief.

How did it get this way? For years I worked in an office because well, that’s where the work was. Even when I was designing signage for trails and spent days on my bike to better understand the landscape (or just scoff off while riding trails in Gatineau Park) I still returned to the office to mark where I’d been and what I’d seen. When I started working freelance from home, I found myself going cabin crazy and would routinely run around the house meowing at the top of my lungs while jumping off the walls. Though that may have been the cat? The sentiment was the same. We were cell mates in a prison of our own making.

When I did start working for someone else again, I enjoyed the office and the camaraderie. We had just moved to Toronto and I didn’t know many people so it gave me a world of meeting people of my ilk. At some point though, doing digital work, it became possible to do it in the office or at home as long as you had a good internet connection and a desk you were fine. Yet that more often than not led to bringing work home when you really shouldn’t. The seeping of work into home life had begun.

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The Geography of Man 

The year was 1624 when John Donne wrote, “No man is an island, entire of it self; every man is a piece of the Continent, a part of the main.” Yet, some think as Hugh Grant’s character says in About a Boy, “I am an island. I am bloody Ibiza!” While I’m no island, I’m a pretty good peninsula, joined to the mainland by a thin isthmus with a narrow two-way road. You are welcome to join me, though the trip may sometimes be foggy, stormy and difficult. Have no worries though, I often make the trip to the mainland, usually daily (or so). More often in the summer than winter when I prefer to be undisturbed, asleep in my cave.

It can be quite pleasant out on the Peninsula of Peter (if we have to give it a name). There are seasonal berries, light winds that can sometimes be quite strong. The peninsula can often be shrouded in fog, to be honest, and the sun rises later there. This thin strip of land is unassuming and is overlooked by many. The thing is the soil is good and fertile and the small verdant landscape is varied but predictable. It’s hard to get lost on the Peninsula of Peter. It is close to the water which some say is why the mornings and full moon nights last longer here. Sometimes affected by ill weather, this temperate place stays mostly hospitable throughout the year.
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Double Pane Happiness 

Through a glass darkly… the windows have a UV blocking film that gives the dark yet sparkly appearance.

“Double Happiness!”, he said.

“Sorry?”, I replied.

“Your address. 88. The number 4 in Asian culture is lucky, so '8' is double that. Hey, '88' must be quadruple happiness?!”

My friend's effusive discovery of my home's built-in luck, did momentarily charm me. Admittedly there are many days that I have not felt happy about my home purchase. To walk through a list of “disappointments” or complaints would either make me sound like a whiner, a prat, or a weak-spined man who did not take control of the reins of his destiny and instead fell into a fetal curl. There are some things money cannot fix, but when it comes to real estate, money can put its shoulder to a problem and make a push towards posterity.

Last year, I cut off one limb to strengthen another. By replacing my fence, deck and shed I put a nail in any possible claim on a parking space but it improved my day to day life tenfold. I suddenly had a usable shed, a respectable deck and fence and most importantly, a locked and fenced off area for my garbage and recycling bins. The bins need to be locked up not because they may escape, but because of all of the crazy escapades and illegal dumping that happened because there was an unused space behind my house. Whether there was a car there or not, garbage from unseen, unknown and known places piled up, inviting rats, both four-legged and two-legged to rummage and add to the detritus. Used needles and condoms were so commonplace it led one friend to say that with all the sex and drugs apparently taking place that my house was more fun outside of it, than within. Touché.

Less than a year later and those problems are mostly history (mostly) and now I have added spectacular new windows that look like they landed from the future on my house. Suddenly my place looks, if not great, then in the least, not bad. I like seeing it. From inside it’s quieter and brighter and just looks better. They say fences make good neighbours but that isn’t true. Good and high fences make you care less about whatever crap your neighbours are up to.

They also say money can’t buy happiness but of course it can buy things that can make you happy, so screw you, old saying. Sometimes money can buy happiness and when you are buying tall fences, lovely decking, a bit of security and double pane windows, it can even be quadruple happiness.

Mr. Clean 

I’ve reached a point in my life where I want to own less stuff. I’ve sometimes fantasized about a fire claiming everything I have, just so I could start over, but with much less stuff. I’ve fantasized about having some estate agency selling off everything save a handful of books, a bicycle (two of the three I own are less loved) and a couple of irreplaceable wool sweaters. Despite all of those monastic aspirations I somehow own three vacuum cleaners. As a point of order, I own two Roomba robotic vacuum cleaners and one Dyson (compact) vacuum. A man should never have the same number of vacuums as bicycles if the number of bicycles exceeds one. I don’t even own a car. If you know how expensive the Roombas can be, let me assure you they were purchased at great discount from Canadian Tire, whose yearly Autumn sale includes the previous year’s Roomba models.
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Home is Where the Hearth is 

Why can't I have nice things?

Recently, I rushed into a sizeable purchase with terrible consequences; I bought a house. Worse, of my main reasons for buying it were in this order a) the location - downtown, close to everything including work, b) it had a parking space, c) it had a backyard, albeit a small one, d) it had a real live working fireplace. Sure there were some downsides like electric heat, but I saw an opportunity to convert to natural gas (a neighbour had a clearly visible gas meter). Yet somehow all the pluses have gone sour. The location is downtown, maybe “too” downtown. For me to get to work, I have to cross through the most congested and busy part of the city. Despite being relatively close to work, it’s a harried and stressful bike ride. The parking space is there, but I never use it because I don’t own a car. I have not used the backyard and the fence, the deck and the shed all need to be replaced.

Here’s the kicker: I discovered today that the house does not have a working fireplace. Sure I could use it but a recently built condo building is too close to the stack thus disrupting air draw causing smoke to back fill into the house. To make matters worse, it’s what is called a factory built fireplace, essentially a small firebox, more akin to a wood stove with no front door. Basically, it’s really just a hole in my house to let a draught in. This means I cannot have a wood stove insert. Additionally, I can’t get natural gas to the house without incredible expense. Yes my neighbour has access to a gas line but I would require easements across two properties to get the line. The gas company has told me it would take six months just to get an estimate.

I do, however, have a plan. First find out the cost of making the fire place work (think: scaffolding to roof, extending stack 20 feet, tearing out the fire place and replacing it with a free-standing wood stove and so on and so on), then find out the cost of a new fence, paving (possible drainage issues) and a shed for the back yard, then find out the cost of updating the upstairs bathroom – new toilet, floor tile, re-tile the shower, replacing the vanity and possibly the tub. Then compare those costs and ask myself what would give me the greatest pleasure and use. Hands down my list would be in this order:

• 1. Back yard
• 2. Add A/C
• 3. Bathroom redux
• 4. Fireplace - wood stove

And that’s just the way it will be. Sometimes you just have to say these things out loud to know what to do.

Crisis delayed. Decision made.

Moving On/In 

Rooftops and the City (Richmond at Sherbourne - just blocks from my new place) from Sam Javanrouh on Vimeo.

After telling a friend of my recent move she sent me this note:
On 2 Jun, 2014, at 3:52 PM, A. wrote:

Thats my old hood!
In a new Regent park condo?

And i am still in Cabbagetown every wknd cuz my partner lives there.
It is an amazing neighbourhood.

Congrats and send details.

A.

My response below:

I have to admit - I wish it was a new Regent Park Condo; they look pretty nice - but I’m still so very Duddy Kravitz and as such, I wanted something more house-like. It’s a tiny townhouse (formerly a big ol’ house since split into three) - sort of directly southwest of the new Regent Park development. I can’t really say I know the neighbourhood or what it’s called? On one map, it is distinctly Moss Park, though the resident’s association refers to it as “Cabbagetown South” (which sounds aspirational to me; anything to make it sound like it ISN’T Moss Park*). I like to think of it as on the seam between Regent Park, Moss Park, Cork Town and Cabbagetown (I know, my geography is all wrong but there you go). It’s a teeny-tiny street running between Dundas and Shuter - so yes, there are lots of older gents drinking from brown paper bags. Note: whatever is in brown paper bags makes you walk and talk funny.

But it checks off all the things I wanted:

• no pressing need for reno
• small deck, room for a bike shed
• spare room for office/spare bdroom
• parking space (not that I have a car)
• within walking distance of transit (if I stretch I could touch the Dundas Street car; I hear it clearly)
• biking distance to work (30-35 mins)
• bonus: Fireplace

I mean, there are some things that are very wrong with the place (electrically heated; flat-roof; zero storage; the upper floors get crazy hot) - but at the end of the day, my mortgage + my taxes are the same as the rent at my Parkdale apartment (I do miss the views really badly, but not the smells or the bugs, or the mice or the creaky elevators), and if/when I decide to leave, I’ll get all those upfront costs back and can move to a farm upstate (or some other ridiculous real estate dream; modern shed house with spectacular views of the ocean just steps from coffee shops?)

I read an article in the New York Times quantifying when you should buy vs rent but the whole argument is moot in Toronto. There are no equivalent options to rent versus buying. Almost an identical apartment to the one I rented in Parkdale located in High Park was almost $700 more per month (though it was in immaculate condition). For the same monthly costs of a shabby, small and older downtown apartment I get my own house that’s twice the size, has outdoor space and a fire place. Take that NYT.

Listen to me - still trying to justify it. Of course, I’m the kind of person who gets Buyer’s Remorse after buying a $60 pair of Gap jeans, so it’s sort of amplified by a house. Oh and this is the only time in my life I would condone burning books, and clothes, and files, and photo albums and IKEA furniture that follows you like a lost dog. I was considering getting another IKEA closet/armoire thing but now I’m thinking I would just rather have less stuff. Is it possible to have even less stuff? Yes. Most people on this planet have less stuff.

No more “personal collections”, that’s what museums are for. No more clothing than I can wear. No more files to keep in case I’m audited. No more books I don’t read. No more CDs, no more DVDs. Do you know, I actually moved a couple of dozen EMPTY DVD cases? I did. I don’t know why. No more records for which I have no record player. No more magazines. This is 2014, I have Flipboard and Pinterest for that. No more art than I have walls for. No more pants than I have asses for. No more kitchen gadgets for food I can’t cook. No more, no more, no more. Like the Chileans who campaigned against Pinochet, I yell “No Màs!”

That’s my new mantra: less stuff — more life.

Peter

*For those not in Toronto, neighbourhoods like Regent Park, Moss Park and Alexandra Park are all notoriously and partially failed social housing experiments where at times crime flourished and immigrant communities found themselves stuck in a cycle of poverty. Despite their failings (most famously, no through streets which created courtyards where drug deals could be done out of the eyes of police and make it difficult for emergency services to access the homes), the overwhelming community spirit of these places remained strong and residents demanded better. Mistakes in planning are now being undone and the City has committed to a long term vision of bringing improved services and encouraging development that would create a more diverse mix of residents thus negating the feeling of a big old dump of subsidized housing creating an economically depressed zone within a burgeoning urban area. Meanwhile, like many cities, these depressed neighbourhoods abut some of the most expensive real estate in town. Cabbagetown, just north of my street, is well known as one of the first parts of Toronto to become gentrified and is characterized by doll-house-sized Victorian row houses that have been lovingly restored by their affluent “creative class” residents, which of course, meant that it became and remains a highly desirable area complimented by cafes, restaurants and boutique shopping. Meanwhile, Regent Park has been invigorated by new housing with economically diverse residents. On the other hand, Moss Park remains urbanely gritty. On my cycling routes I attempt to circumnavigate that block and hope to hell I don’t have to stop at the light. Why just recently I was accosted and cussed at by two Moss Park residents best described as Jessie Pinkman’s meth buddies Badger and Skinny Pete.** I don’t know that there’s anything the City can do about that. There are simply too many rooming houses and men’s shelters like the Salvation Army building nearby to simply erase the kind of lunatic fringe that many neighbourhoods have.

**Breaking Bad reference which I foresee using regularly to describe the most unfriendly of neighbours.

No Direction Home 

Today I dropped by my new place for a quick look around before I take possession.

The previous owners were still finishing up moving out so it looked messy and depressingly small. I had to feel for them as they weren't able to find another house by the closing date and are renting an apartment temporarily. The whole reason they sold their home was to get a bigger place as they are expecting their first child.

I was a bit trepidatious. As soon as the door opened I felt a slight chill. The rooms seemed smaller. The ceilings seemed lower. I felt like a giant in this tiny house somehow. I knew it would look bad – houses always look their worst in that state - near the end of packing with boxes strewn beside an orphaned mattress on the floor. The realtor asked me what I was thinking probably sensing disappointment and I lied and said I couldn’t wait to get it set up for myself. I even agreed it seemed smaller but that was okay as I was a little worried about having a whole house to clean. He continued to reassure me of how lucky I had been to find such a gem of a place at that price. Essentially, the scale of buying a house means the proportionate “Buyer's Remorse” is enormous compared to, ”I really shouldn't have bought those skinny jeans.” So, yes, I was a little deflated by reality.

In truth, all I could think about was running away. My mind drifted to thoughts of summer, not on my own deck, but on the bike, riding along a leafy, tree-lined country road.

Not too surprisingly, I had the same thought yesterday when I dropped off the frightening and massive cheque to the lawyer. It cost $7 to get a bank draft for what was an enormous sum of money (well, it is for me). I felt so vulnerable riding my bike through the streets with this cheque in my coat pocket.

From the lawyer’s office you can see the roof of the old Maple Leaf Gardens. He said he can hardly look at it thinking of what they’ve done to it. It’s now a Loblaws Superstore. Then I mentioned how my brother and I went to see a Cubs game in Chicago at Wrigley and how great it was. We talked about the Leafs and the Blue Jays and what the old field down at the Exhibition grounds was like. We both agreed we liked old shabby stadiums with history better than shiny new ones. Then we started to talk about how few old ball parks and arenas were left which led me to thinking about a road trip to Boston to catch a game at Fenway.

In my mind I was already skipping over the packing, the arrangements, the moving, the unpacking and that first uncomfortable night in a new place or worse, that feeling of the first morning not really sure where you are or if there’s any toilet paper in the bathroom – or where the bathroom is for that matter. Is there someone out there who would do all that for you while you just go away for a vacation? You could leave for two weeks and come home to your new address. Your books where you like them to be, your clothes in the closet, your favourite chair waiting for you. There probably is and they probably charge more than I paid for the house.

This is who I am. The unadventurous one. One of the not-so-crazy-ones. The boy who hated the first day of school. The man who hates the first day at a new job. I’m that guy. That guy who would rather just stay on the couch as long as that couch is somewhere familiar. But what is familiar? Nothing is familiar, until it is. Then you’re home. Here’s to home; a familiar place in the future.

Unrelenting 

Endless shovelling from Romain Laurent's series of animated portraits.

Recently someone had posted a little used word to their Twitter feed; apricity, pertaining to the sun's warmth on a cold winter day (you may experience apricity while standing on the sunny side of the street waiting for the bus in January). Of course, you could only experience this if you could see the sun. The problem with winter in Toronto is that, no matter what the temperature or precipitation, it is always grey. The sky is seemingly constantly a dirty unbroken off-white dull sheet over your head. This makes it difficult at times to distinguish the horizon line which is also a dirty off-white unbroken sheet of grey. That makes for a most depressing season. A season I prefer to hibernate. This winter I have miraculously avoided colds and/or flus, probably due to the immunity I built up from getting every possible cold and/or flu last year. Also, I had my shots. Despite that checkmark in the plus column, this season can only be described as unrelenting in every possible sense. What is amazing to me, is just how hunkered down I've become. I haven't gone to see any interesting films in the theatre since January 1. I've missed Cycle TO events or community meetings and exhibitions all because it just seemed like too much trouble to overlay the winter fleeces, vests, jackets and tripled-up socks on my tired, overweight body. Not to mention harness up the dogs to sled across town only to arrive cold, wet and grumpy. This hunkering has led to some chunkifying. Now I'm so fat, I feel retarded in my movements and embarrassingly, overflowing in my jeans.

If I did commit myself to two things this year it was to find a) a home of my own and b) a winter coat. On this front I trumpet great success. The house hunt was a dedicated and patient affair which resulted in a what I hope to be a great home base for years to come. After a few weeks of committed and focused explorations, the house was found, right under my nose in a nearby and unexpected place. Close to markets, coffee shops, stores, bike lanes and swimming lanes. An unbelievably lucky triangulation of parameters, I would say. Then, soon after, a winter coat was procured! After weeks of wading through piles of discarded nylon shells and down-filled cotton of no significance, a single coveted jacket, the last of its progeny in this hemisphere apparently, became known to me and we were united by the emptying of my wallet.

What's the message in all of this? Things are finally going my way. “Yes! Things are finally going my way!” says well-educated, well-employed white man. Sometimes you can't see the forest for all the roses that are blooming, which is why when a gift horse comes your way, just shut up, climb aboard and count your blessings as you ride off into the sunset.

What a Funny Old World 

CN Tower from Bathurst bridge. Image via Daily Dose of Imagery

It’s a funny old world. If the word “funny” is some kind of acronym like FUBAR (something like F**king Uncanny Nonsensical Negative Year; Fully Unlikable Nasty Neurotic Youth; F**king Unbelievably Nauseating News Year; Fearful Unimaginable Nightmare Neuters Yourself) I suppose it would be normal to feel like you don’t fit in the world when your father dies. I suppose I always feel this way in January. I suppose it’s normal. Nominally normal.

It’s no wonder I feel I don’t fit in the world. I barely fit in my pants. This is the pattern I’ve recognized that you may recognize too. January is cold, grey, damp and dank. I’ve gained ten pounds and no longer fit in most of my clothes. I shall exercise this demon away by hook or crook or by running or training. By the Ides of March, my weight will be more normal. Nominally normal, at any rate.
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Dead Mouse; Not the Cool Kind 

image via Designers Go To Heaven

He would've died with his boots on, if he wore boots, or if Clarks made very tiny boots. I didn't know him that well. Maybe he was more of a Croc guy or Converse high tops? He never wore shoes, I know because I could hear his little nails scurrying over the parquet floor. Maybe it was a she and not even a he at all? Well, they are nothing now. Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes and all that. This was my annoying little visitor. Your common house mouse. Mus musculus Linnaeus (apparently). Now dead. 86'd from my juke joint via a one way ticket down the garbage chute. People die everyday. So do animals. I'm responsible for their deaths. I order them killed, slaughtered, divided and wrapped in cling film. Then I eat their corporeal flesh. Sometimes, if it suits me, I gnaw at their bones.

This rodent's death was different. I planned it and saw it through to the bitter end. A mob hit couldn't have been better executed. I said I didn't know him though I knew him well enough to know all his routes. So predictable. Being predictable will get you killed.
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Beginning of the End 

Toronto used to be more bicycle friendly, as this photo from the 1930 CNE attests. See more at BlogTO.

It is a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury

In Ontario (I can't speak for other Canadian cities) everyone knows, summer begins to end when the "Exhibition" comes to town. In Ottawa, it's known as "The X" or "The Ex" (depending on the current marketing campaign). Whereas in Toronto, it's called the CNE, short for the Canadian National Exhibition. How grand. I can't remember what we called the one that appeared in the Avalon Mall's parking lot in St. John's. The Midway, the Fairgrounds? Midway sounds right. Right?

So that's it. At 10 AM Eastern Standard Time, August 19^th, the end of summer begins. At the same time it's the official close of the sale of 112 Fern Avenue. A summer of house sales, house builds, house moves and endless, endless trips back and forth. I'll always think of it as "The Summer of a Thousand Cuts" (as in "Death by a thousand cuts"). A summer of endings and beginnings. At times it seemed like a cruel "Groundhog Day" version of an Endless Summer. It certainly was the summer of our discontent, in the real sense that all of my "discontent" was in full bloom. Of course, summer really ends with the explosive, howling Air Show on the Labour Day long weekend. If I could escape the city for a weekend, that would be it. Though Caribana would also be in the running.

I recently heard a quote from MacBeth that seems fitting. "It is a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." Yeah. Full of sound and fury. Signifying nothing. That's life.

Smooth Move, ex-lax 

We made the big move yesterday with maybe only slightly less effort than Cadel Evans' big move in yesterday's time trial (vaulting him from 3rd to 1st!) The heat was less today but still over 30 and warmer with humidity factored in (I think it topped out at 37C today compared to over 40 on Thursday). I keep thinking it's probably fine weather to sit on a patio with a beer but just ungodly hot for moving.

Luckily our movers were great and very professional and had moved both of us by just after lunch. Then we went on an expedition to find a fan for me which took longer than the move!? Finally got one at Rona.

We still have a few things to move out (small stuff to put in storage) and we got a dumpster "bag"; a huge vinyl bag which you unfold on your lawn and call a crane to come pick up. It's like a soft dumpster that costs a little less than getting a dumpster. But we have 2-3 weeks to do all that — should be done with a week left to clean up.

Out, Out! 

Emmet Otter's Jug-Band Christmas

Lately we've had squirrels in the attic. Not metaphorically, but really. Maybe furry little critters are all cute and cuddly in Muppet form when they're playing in a jug band trying to earn a little extra scratch for Christmas, but that's a one time thing and besides, they weren't real and they were otters so the likelihood of them in my attic is next to nil. These were real, live, scratching, chewing and gnashing squirrels. Their rodent teeth and nails scratched and clawed their way into our sleep. I mistakenly thought the damn things had entered our walls via our neighbour's but as I was talking to him about it, we saw the lil' bastards scamper along the eaves trough and disappear into our soffit.
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Pre-fab Shed!

It only took about 4 hours to assemble and was probably easier to put together than some IKEA furniture. This all-cedar shed with a sliding door is only 8' x 3' but it will now act as a fence between the yard and the lane way and be home to a couple of bikes, some rakes and shovels and other assorted yard tools. I may have to add some clever contraptions to get everything in there and there will have to be some seasonal adjustments but overall I'm pretty happy with finally getting my bike out of the kitchen. Next weekend: installing one of those dangling tennis balls to indicate just how close to park the car and I've already had a request to add some lighting. One of the unforeseen repercussions has been the shed blocks all of the light from the house at night making it a tiny bit like a back alley black hole. A touch of stain and some patio pavers in front of the door should do it. From nothing to a working shed over the course of a morning isn't bad at all in my books. I wish all home improvement projects were that simple.

Posted via email from peter's preposterous posterous

Man is as Man Does

Man is as Man does. Man cut down tree. Good-bye pesky Manitoba Maple. I'm sure Gordon Lightfoot has already written you a soliloquy. Is it just me, or is referring to a tree as a weed seem like kind of a "Mainlander" thing?



To be honest, I thought this necessary tree removal would be my opportunity to buy an axe or even a hatchet, but I'd brought the thing down with a few saw cuts and a couple of tugs. Maybe I don't need a "reason" to buy an axe – I should just have one, because I am Man!

Front Steps, originally uploaded by rowdyman.

I added these really simple LED deck lights to the front steps this week. It was probably the simplest addition to the house I've done. I have to say they look surprisingly good considering how cheap they were (and the transformer can support 24 of these little lights so maybe I can find a way to add 18 more).

Step-by-Step

This post is really just taking advantage of Flickr video — a curious new feature of Flickr.

Step Up

The madness of porch upgrades continue. Call it porchography and I won't stop until every piece of our porch has been replaced. In a yearly ritual, on the first weekend in September I stride into the bright early morning light (or alternatively, mid-morning light), and while military aircraft maneuver overhead I rip some wood from our porch and then affix some new wood. Since we moved here I think I've spent every Labour Day Weekend labouring. And labour I did! Behold the fruits of mine labour;

Bugs 'n' Stuff

Sometimes it's surprising just how quiet our backyard can be and how loud that quietness can be. I just stepped outside and I was struck by the sound of the crickets chirping and cicadas buzzing. Beneath the insect flitter was the flutter of bamboo leaves and the breeze through the grasses. Even after walking back inside I could still hear the hum and shuffle of the sounds outside. It was a shame to close the door but the bugs have been real bad this year.