my new weekly column about nightlife, etc.

I’ve started writing about things that go bump in the night - people, and places - for The Grid. I have a disdain for the word “nightlife” + its connotations, but what else would you call this sort of beat? Three weeks in, I’ve written about hanging with porn stars in town promoting their new reality TV series, a new club in our entertainment district and a murder mystery play, and (what my editor brilliantly called) the social media star system(in other words, Twitter stars attempting to throw parties). 

It appears every Monday afternoon.

friends forever?

“Is adulthood the fork in the road for childhood friends who feel like they’ve morphed into The Odd Couple?” »

My latest for The Genteel. About best friends, and friends who change, and friends who want nothing more than to make it work. Sometimes, it’s not about thinking or believing you’ve made strides. Instead, it’s about showing yourself that you have. And that, as it turns out, happens one day at a time.

love letters from strangers

“Met you today under less than ideal circumstances, and there’s really nothing I can say that will let you know who you are or who I am……just because.

When I saw you, that exact moment, is lost to me, because I didn’t fall in love or crush or whatever with you for a little while. There was no thunder, there were tiny sparks from an exploding pinecone in a comfy fire, landing on my cheeks and eyelids, making me shy with blushing and brushing to escape the tiny singes.

You’re beautiful - there’s something about your features that came together for me under the harsh fluorescent lights, and just……made me clumsy, and ashamed, and awe-struck, and excited, and happy - because now I know there’s a man like you out there.

For today, and tonight, and tomorrow, I’m going to ghost you on Facebook like a complete creep, and think about impossible ways I could say hello, start a conversation, try and grab a tiny spark before it singes my cheek and try to light something in your heart, but it won’t happen. I want you to know that you’re special, and sweet, and for all of my bitchiness and jaded Torontofagseenitall attitude, I wanted to hold your hand in spite of its flaws, and hoped that you could look beyond mine. “

I read Craigslist Missed Connections like it’s hard news. Most of it is bullshit, and annoyingly vague, but sometimes - sometimes - you come across something so vulnerable, and so real, that your heart skips a beat and you find meaningless faith in men you don’t even know. Who is this guy? Who is he talking to? Why can’t it work? Who knows. But the thought is beautiful. The idea is lovely. The emotions are raw. See the post here, but by the time you click, it will probably be long gone, just like this moment.

the pieces of me

I somehow got connected with this pretty young thing Irina Luca to do our photos for FILLER’s fash week section. She’s fresh out the oven (a.k.a. school), so she’s always bringing up experimental ways to shoot street style or whatever, really. I don’t think she thinks much about it, she just does it. And that’s what I admire. She made this one of “my style.”

a stranger asked me a question about love

On Formspring. “And sure, you can “be in” love just like you can “be in” a pool; it’s a mass that can drown you, and give you that heart-aching fear for life and breath the moment it’s happening. It can drown out your thoughts and consciousness of the surrounding. But then you can get out. Sometimes with or without help. Before its too late. Or you can keep swimming. Or you can choose never to get into the pool at all. But that would be like never feeling sunlight on your face. And who wants that?”

ghosts, again

So, do you believe in ghosts? he asked me as I lay across the floor, organizing things. I’m not sure, I looked up at him. Have you ever seen one?

No. But they’re real. I believe it.

A few days later, I asked him about love. If it was possible to be in love with someone you’ve never met, or known, or to just fall out of love with someone you’ve spent entire lifetimes with.

I’m not sure, he said. I’ve never been fortunate enough to experience that. Or it. But I know it’s there, I believe in it.

Like ghosts?

I guess, he said.

I knew.

ghosts in the attic

Yesterday, over eggs and pancakes, I brought up a relic. A remarkably difficult, Caulfield-esque relic that still haunts the tiniest parts of my mind. It wasn’t love, or even lust. But it was something. I remember when I was 17 and just got an all-access pass to the open road and dad’s mini-van, and after driving around all night, asked a friend over McPancakes, “Who’s the one person you wish it had worked out with? You know, if you had the chance to make it work, who would you choose?”

As the years moved forward and the friend stayed behind, the moment never left. What a question to ask yourself at 17. I had only ever “seriously paid attention” to one person, obsessing over countless others without cause and without effect. What did I really know about being haunted by failed attempts or fleeting lovers? The dread of having the most intense sex of your life knowing it might not happen again for years, or forever, with him, or with anyone else, seems like a more favourable ghost to walk with now that I know better. But then there’s that one that gets under your skin. That might not necessarily live up to his own memory in your mind, or understand you, or even feel the way you would feel back, but the one that remains all the same.

I periodically think of him, like a reminder that it’s time for my weekly dose. The ghost glides across my hardwood floors at the same time, too. No, I don’t creep, and I don’t stalk. I don’t need to. But I do wonder. And I do wish. For what? Maybe that we would have worked out. Maybe that I had that chance to make it work. Maybe that I’d let it go, or that he’d let me go on.

So yes, I asked myself that same question yesterday, over eggs and pancakes. Not out loud. But to the parts of him that live within me. And I know that I know better than that. But he was here tonight.