the basketball corner in this one is truly "a mood"
in this house springtime means CHANGE, GROWTH and TOTAL CONFUSION
Apartment Poem is free, but you can support it (and me) here.
“For a few hundred more green zinnias / I can fly to Rome at / the end of June.”
(Number One is out now, which means you can finally do yourself the kind favour of buying it.)
Hello:
First bike ride of the season! I took all the back streets, wondered whether I need a new helmet. The air smelled like fresh laundry, burnt wood, humid breeze. It felt good to leave the house. Last week, in a weird frenzy of post-book-deadline energy, I spent the better part of a full day dusting on top of all the blinds and scraping the ancient layers of gunk off the door in the kitchen and scrubbing the top of the weird pipe that runs through our bathroom and then three hours later our landlord called to say she wanted to renovict us. Like all that care and attention was a spell I had performed, calling her call to us. I know I am not the only person who has lived in this house and believed in their capacity to jinx it. When I moved in here no one had painted the walls or planted in the back garden for over a decade, and after that phone call I realized this was why. The feeling of precarity is so strong in this place that no one wanted to treat it like their home, in case they lost it tomorrow. We don’t have to leave, at least not yet. But the threat made me feel a fresh, false sense of my own power. After the call, I decided not to prune the backyard lavender even though I could see green starting to emerge through the grey and brown. I did not want to make things worse.
I put air in my tires before I left and the pavement under them felt so good. The city finally repaved our busted-up street last fall, but by the time the work was finished it was too cold to ride. I loved the feeling, thank you city, and then worried about what it meant to love it, think our street. When I got to Deragh’s place she threw the keys down from her window like in a movie about New York. The magenta blanket I’d brought for us to sit on, one of the old roommate’s castoffs, was so eye-searingly bright that when we stared at it and then looked up the world seemed 200% greener. Buoyant, I kept thinking for some reason, just the sound of it. I was wearing purple stripes and yellow polka dots and a plaid mask and kept saying things that made everyone laugh although none of us were entirely sure why, like pronouncing it chay-otic. I drank two cold aluminum glasses full of light pink wine and felt the film come down gentle over everything. The spot at the back of my skull still pulses if I drink but now it’s so faint I almost have to be looking. I said thank you to my brain. I am trying to always remember how it used to be, especially this week, when I have been taking advantage of all the dumbest things I can do with my body. Thank you for baking stoned. Thank you for three hours crinkled up on the couch staring down at the phone. Thank you for staying up too late and sleeping in. Thank you for rolling Mario around the little sand dunes, throwing his magic hat at all the cactuses so I can eat the glimmering coins inside. Thank you, thank you, sorry, sorry, sorry, thank you, thank you.
The burger place wrote Deragh’s full name on our order which also seemed extremely funny. Dogs kept coming up to us because they could smell the smell waves of our food on the breeze, like in a cartoon. I immediately spilled mustard on my brand new jeans. Behind us was the slacklining zone. Every once in a while I’d look over Doro’s shoulder and see an adult man juggling bowling pins or doing devil sticks. It does not seem so chill to have to bring that much equipment with you everywhere, but I guess that’s why I’m not in the lifestyle. The sunset was one of those classics where it just looks like the sky is completely on fire. Then it got darker. When I walked across the park to pee I could see the tall buildings of downtown glittering like a handful of jewels. When I came back the jugglers had been replaced by a group of people with hula hoops that lit up and flashed bright rainbows while they danced to EDM. I could feel actual summer on the tip of my tongue.
First night bike of the season: I saw a black and white cat sitting perfectly still on a railing, spotlit perfectly by a porch light, and wanted to stop and ask it about my future. The city was so silent I couldn’t believe it. I looked into people’s windows: overstuffed bookshelves, soccer-based video game, arc lamp, what looked like a painting of an office chair? I loved the silence, wanted to wear it. I saw all the for sale signs and the sold signs and wondered for the millionth time in my life if the world had always been like this or if I was just seeing it now.
The next day I had a hangover, slept in until noon. After coffee I let the cat out to sniff the soil in the garden, watched his weird long body stretch and contract as he checked out all the corners. Then I pruned the lavender, the oregano. Pulled the winter tarp away so the crocuses could get some sun.
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The city of Toronto has posted eviction notices in encampments across the city telling residents they must vacate the parks by April 6th or risk being criminalized under the Trespass to Property act. This not only endangers the lives of encampment residents, but sets a dangerous precedent for the future. If you do not want to live in a city where your neighbours are punished for simply trying to survive, ESN has a No Encampment Evictions Toolkit with info on ways you can help support them. The toolkit has templates for writing and calling your councillor, social media hashtags and talking points, and these very cool signs you can post, or put in your window/on your lawn: