The act of collecting little things of nature is delightful, children’s tales told in the early evening delightful. The granite rocks and acorns from Muskoka this weekend. The plump chestnuts on the bikelane of Hoskin Street this afternoon. The dried spotted corn from seasons ago, the mini pumpkins from Kensington Market. Those that are free are the most delightful, but regardless, they are all beautiful in their permanent impermanence.

Last week during a creative writing workshop, I was given six words by the person sitting beside me, and I was to write something from them. Here’s the first stanza of that swift poem:

In the small crack of your voice,
a greening blossom,
a raising bursting
from rain.

Here in Toronto, things are picking up for me. I’ve greatly overcommitted, I’ve slowly realized this consumerist attitude I’ve led my young adult life on. Yesterday there was a discarded box of free CDs by the English Lounge. There were some bangers in there: Regina Spektor, The Strokes, The War on Drugs, The Weakerthans…

Look, I respect The Weakerthans and I know they’re Winnipeg’s jem. But sometimes I can’t help but associate their music with bland white food. Now, I hate myself for even writing that sentence, as it’s the sort of generalized Internet-culture language that I feel is not conducive to “dialogue”. Now, I also don’t admire myself for writing this previous sentence – there’s so much to imply with dialogue and I’ve appropriated the word by carelessly sticking quotation marks around it. I just… don’t feel like “One Great City!” is still of complete relevance in our more awakened times. “…our Golden Business Boy will watch the North End die.” There’s a certain level of discomfort with such a line now. It’s what Jia Tolentino said about privilege. It’s what I’m exhibiting right now.

Personal blogs are dead. Fake deep rules. Authenticity remains as the God who never wanted to be God.