Hell-o

There is something to getting old. Now, I'm not old, but I'm older. And that means, yes, a birthday has come and gone and it gets me thinking about mortality. If I'm going to age, and I'm going to stick around for awhile, I might as well age like my favourite wine. A thickened body, a smooth, complex taste and a certain dignity that no one can clearly point at, but just knows it's there. That means sticking to my French diet: drinking nothing but water and wine, and eating smaller portions. And walking everywhere and watching people and listening to their conversations. Continue carrying a notebook everywhere. Observe cat behaviour. Walk with my hands in my pockets. Get a haircut. Neglect to shave. Take many baths. If drugs appear on the scene, ingest said drugs and put on music or write or draw. Read more. Read more. Discontinue relationships that will eventually cause suffering. I know, life is suffering, but I really need a break. Don't be ashamed when I blurt out how much I love someone. Blush, often. Brush my teeth. Ride my bike. Buy a new bike. Write a poem and give it to a stranger or leave it on the train (and try to get friends to simply call the Skytrain a "train," as in "we took the train downtown and went out for coffee and firecrackers") for someone else to read. Less is more and more is less.