Let us live and love,
not listening to old men's talk.
Suns will rise and set
long after our little light
has gone away to darkness.
Kiss me again and again.
Let me kiss you a hundred times,
a thousand more, again a thousand
without rest, losing count,
so no one can speak of us and say
they know the number of our kisses.
- Gaius Valerius Catullus, "Vivamus mea Claudia."
posted at 7:19:17 pm
As I board the streetcar, I glance around, to see that the only other passenger is a TTC officer, dressed in full grey and maroon regalia. There is a protective white wrapper over his hat -- probably for the rain earlier in the day. He looks at me with clear, light eyes; they stand out against a tan incongruous with a cool April evening. Voices crackle from his radio.
I sit down and try to open the window. It sticks. I put both hands to work, tugging, grunting, and muttering "frack" but the window stays resolutely unmoved.
He notices. "Stuck?"
"Stuck," I agree resignedly, thinking he wants to share some cynicism about the organization's disrepair.
"No problem." He puts down his notebook, gets to his feet, and hoists a crowbar up off its brackets by the doors. It's usually used to nudge tracks straight, especially where they split off into turns.
He braces the tip against the window; when I lean back, he says, "I won't hit you." He forces it open with a shove.
He's returning the crowbar to its place. "Service with a smile."
I'm undoing my jacket front when he says, "Hasn't been open all winter."
I smile and nod, unable to think of something clever to reply, but later, I realize, Neither have I.
Spring can't be here sooner.
posted at 7:10:30 am
Nerd confession no. 58:
We once flirted through Scrabble.
posted at 9:29:34 pm
I want to date an artist. I would wander into his studio to discover him seated at his potter's wheel, hunched over, engrossed in his own mythic union of earth and water. His hair adorably mussed, as if he had just rolled out of bed, but begging to be rolled right back in ... his hands silky with fine clay ... and his body clad in nothing but muddy streaks of art gone messily and so delightfully awry.
posted at 1:47:46 pm
Tuesday evening. St. Patrick's subway station. As the doors close and the train begins to pick up speed, the unmistakable buzz of the public announcement system clicks on. I wait for the usual "Next station, Osgoode. Osgoode station."
Chh. Chh. Chh.
Testing, testing, one two three, I think.
Chh-chh. Chh-chh. Chh-chh. Ch-ch-ch-ch-chchchchchch.
As the sounds gain in speed and grow closer and closer, I realize the operator is imitating the rhythm of a steam engine train's wheels pulling out from the station.
I stay on past my stop to hear if he does it again, but he's all business until I have to get off at Queen.
posted at 7:24:49 am
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
posted at 5:39:44 pm
Guys, ado means "bother" or "fuss." Adieu is an expression of farewell.
Don't screw it up again.
posted at 12:01:32 am
On Battlestar Galactica, the musical theme that best evokes its leading military father-son duo William and Lee Adama is a theme of Irish music, exclusively assigned to them. This has puzzled me to a great extent, as the name Adama is not an Irish name, and Adama the elder does not seem particularly Irish in appearance (indeed, the actor himself was born to Mexican parents, with one-quarter Hungarian Jewish ancestry). Conferring with my Battlestar comrade, David (whose father, as you may recall, is a composer), it was agreed that it is "lazy composing." But Battlestar doesn't tend to lend itself to laziness, so after further ponderance, it struck me that it may allude to the longstanding Irish naval tradition -- which would make it highly appropriate for an admiral and his son, a commander himself.
Dilemma (one you can wager was much, much more troubling to me than worthwhile): resolved.
posted at 3:41:51 pm
| Next Page