You usually don’t have to work too far down my neighbourhood Facebook page to find screen-grabs from someone’s home security system. Sometimes the video itself is posted, with the clock running in the top corner, as if Kiefer Sutherland is working to defuse a bomb just off-screen.

Real estate agents gather brightly, like fireflies, around disease and death. End times energize them. There is all sorts of money in the just-vacated two-up, two-downs, even with all that tired lace drooping …

As of April 2 the city can turf people from their campsites after sunrise, and keep them out until dusk. Unbelievable.

Sometimes the things you give away can come back to haunt you.

Despite the 24-7 glamour that you imagine when you think of the realtor’s lot in life, it’s not all fun and games…

I am interested in the way that life’s routines can change so completely with the simple disappearance of a person, or a restaurant, a relationship, or belief; the way water across the road can force you north.

I’d never heard of the band Future Islands. Perhaps you haven’t either. This ten-year-old video is a good place to start.

We all have those moments that surprise us because we just didn’t expect ever to experience anything quite like them. Riding a St Lawrence River ferry through a blizzard is one of those moments.

Phase Two of the new regulations in The Trust in Real Estate Services Act (TRESA) came into effect December 1. You’ve probably read a bit about it in the newspapers. Here’s my early take.

It was 1980 when I fell for The Cure, and leaned hard on Siouxsie. I was living in Mississauga, just arrived from a little village outside Oxford, England, and without my music I’d have been completely lost.

I’ve been listening to PJ Harvey for an awfully long time. It never gets old.

Viagra Boys are an absurd, and absurdly compelling, Swedish punk band.

The market this fall has surprised everyone. We expected busyness and instead found only sluggishness, and anxiety. What happened?

They’ve been blasting Sirius Radio into the square behind City Hall. It’s a terrible idea. Let us listen to summer slipping out the side door instead.

There wasn’t much happening in August, and so I drifted, or at least that was how it felt.

I was in Brooklyn for a week in August with my son. It was awesome.

I don’t write much poetry these days. The focus and time required to get anything remotely right just isn’t available to me.

One afternoon the hydrangeas seemed to be eavesdropping, intent on picking up as much as possible from a conversation I wasn’t part of.

For a moment there seemed a way to plot the fruit on an X and Y axis, or at least to create a plot around them, to squeeze them into something new.

I don’t think as often as I should, maybe, about how hard it would be to keep food cold without refrigeration. How restrictive that would be. How damned difficult life is, in other words and in yet another way, for the unhoused in our cities.