The train came through while I was still settling into the grass, while the ground was still negotiating with my weight. Slow, rounded cars on the tracks between the canal bank and the silo, heading toward the harbour. I could read the side of one as it passed. Saskatchewan! with the exclamation point. Green paint,...
Under the Bonaventure Expressway. The Five Roses sign at an angle I hadn't expected from here. REM trains to my right, sliding past without sound from where I'm sitting. Water. I'm always near water these days, and I'm starting to think that's not incidental. A bus passes overhead and the whole structure hums. Rain making...
The ice is gone. I notice this before I've settled fully onto the bench, the oat milk moka still warm between my hands, the pines along the boardwalk doing their slow work in the wind. Habitat 67 sits in my peripheral vision the way it always does. The Jacques-Cartier Bridge. The amusement park still closed...
The process is specific. A recognized bachelor's or master's in social work. More than 350 hours of supervised fieldwork. Registration with a provincial regulatory body. Annual renewal. Professional liability insurance. Continuing education requirements that must be documented and submitted on schedules the regulatory bodies determine. In most provinces, certain activities are reserved…
I’m trying to put my stuff back on streaming (minus Spotify, of course) and for this I am trying out Symphonic. So far I’ve just uploladed Transitions, which is awaiting approval.
Here’s a quick review of the experience so far.
Note: I may earn a commission on affiliated product links in this article.
The price is pretty good. $20/year, similar to many of the other…
My body has been the first place where things gather. A pressure sits in my back—a low bracing that has begun to feel structural, the kind of tightness that doesn’t shift with stretching or rest. It moves without ever fully leaving. Some days it settles between my shoulder blades; other days it spreads into my...
The morning after the election, the city looks the same. Dry streets, brittle air, leaves pressed flat against the pavement. A jogger passes, breath clouding the cold, and somewhere, a car alarm starts and stops. Montréal continues its routine with the precision of muscle memory, a city that knows how to disguise grief. Inside, the...