Textures and structures from the last frolic before Joanne and Ivanne left Toronto, of Tommy Thompson Park on the Leslie Spit.

and so i was. and after the rooms were unlocked and the books had been deciphered, i wanted to love me too. and so i became a question. stepped back into unsolved.

so I crushed my chest into rubble,
waited on the moonlight to soften the ruin.

This makes me think about my hand, which although relatively fair for a Southeast Asian, is definitely not a white hand. Then I think of all the nonwhite hands holding books, and all the nonwhite hands writing books, and I put Old Goriot away for a while.

Over the last three years I’ve become increasingly attracted to earthy palettes and the kind of details they offer. Recently, our family took a short excursion to the Elora Gorge about 2 hrs away from Toronto for a half day trail walk. It was early spring weather, slightly overcast and on the verge of rain. The forest in this type of season is mossy and broody, quiet in a contemplative way. Reds were not a big part of my forest palette until I moved to the colder climes of Canada. Now they are an inextricable part of the seasonal landscape and linger long after the fall and winter. These days, I find myself seeking these tones whenever I’m in a wooded area. I’m not sure what these textures are saying to me. Only that I feel drawn to their banal complexity and richness of detail. Maybe I am attracted to their quiet existence and natural / accidental births. It’s not a curiosity. I’m not drawn to asking questions about how they came to be. I …