“By the end, it felt that the song had been implanted more or less permanently in my head. It felt sculptural somehow, as if I could run my hands over it, and it felt organic too, as if its meaning might continue to grow.”

I find those dividers that have been installed on so may of our park benches so that people can’t sleep on them to be a really hostile, oppressive sort of urban architecture. A park in Montreal shows there is another way of going about things.

An imagined history, a snippet of conversation anyway, from inside a house gone to seed.

I walk often down to Belle Island. A community of unhoused neighbours has appeared among the trees. The inhabitants either couldn’t give a damn what I think or they eye me warily. Both strike me as reasonable reactions to my presence. I can only imagine what they say to each other.

I was worried, I’ll admit it. I didn’t like albums two and three nearly as much as I wanted to. But the debut was something else and so I hoped for a return to form, a fulfillment of all that promise.

Real estate has changed a lot the last year and a half. Most of those adaptations are positive, but I can always find fault, you know I can.

There’s not a lot of balance when it’s really busy. One morning this week I attempted to make a little sense of things, or at least record a few instants that otherwise would have been lost to the wind.

I don’t like the idea of showing property to unvaccinated buyers. It’s not complicated for me. If you haven’t had your shot, you should shop for your next place online.

This evening, in the shouty aftermath of a storm that never really showed, I walked fields of long grass throwing themselves about dramatically just off Montreal Street, where the municipal golf course used to be. A short walk along the K & P Trail from Doug Fluhrer Park, it is perhaps the city’s best-kept secret.

If you find this, I want you to know that we were fine right up until the moment we weren’t fine at all. We didn’t suffer much. We’d gone to pick strawberries, lured off the main road by a pick-your-own sign and an arrow aimed down the green lane…

The latest in a series in which I think about why I like the things I do. This time it’s a little painting that I look at most days.

It’s damn busy out there. It’s hard to find the time to read a book, much less write one. My daughter turned thirteen yesterday and I can’t fathom how that’s possible. The moments blur together, like a film ripped at triple speed through a smoking projector.

There is a new sort of music coming out of England these days - an often text-based, impressionistic or confessional sort of rock. Dry Cleaning are part of that movement.

Occasionally it feels as if a listing just slips though the cracks. This detached house with a lovely fenced garden, blue deck, and garage, is one of those times.

The Swedish post-punk band Viagra Boys are like the smart-asses that made you laugh back in high school. They’re loud and they’re frequently obnoxious, but you also suspect they’re a lot cleverer than those who take quick offence at their antics.

And so it seems the Capitol Condos will be built but won’ t quite touch the sky. But will they be pretty?

There’s not a lot of time off, once the work really kicks in, as it has now. The escapes (not that I’m looking to get away, particularly) are into music, either on a walk to Belle Island, or just driving between appointments and wondering, How did I get here?

A story of Lake Ontario and flying above it, then reluctantly driving away from it.

Being a buyer is a tough gig these days. Prices were up nearly 18% last year alone and inventory is at 30-year lows. What’s a house hunter to do?

Everyone’s trying to make a living, but trying to buy someone’s house for a song, so you can turn around and flip to for a huge profit, is pretty low. The only thing you should do with these postcards is recycle them.