I just shoved a copy of Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus into an empty wine box, box #28 or so in the endless parade of "does this come to BC or stay here?" decisions I've had to make about practically everything I own. I've only sketched out the vaguest notion of what this life I'm going to have in BC will be -- the one where I might dip into Wittgenstein, cook with mindfully selected goat cheese and arugula, light candles scented with faux sea air. My life here, crammed into my 550 square feet hovering above the city, is a little clearer -- fast, money-earny, bursting with people and stories, cheap sushi on the grass in front of UHN with a client talking about care models, coffee thrown down the gullet.

The books at hand evoking the time in the eyrie in Portland, fusing words to F for the first time. Another sigh, another piece of tape RPPPPPPPPPPED across the top.

West is just a question posed, a hint of an echo of a desire. A suburb on the sea, not of anything in particular, just a house in which to be and write and find. A blank, with shadows of people I'm linked to on the edges.

I'm multi-phrenic at the best of times, but in the past days it's been Work Write Talk Knit Renee Pack Finish Blankie Pack Liz Pull out knitting Pack Drive Arrange Drink beer with B Work Pack Drink Vodka and Watermelon Ice on date with GB Ice Knee Pack Talk to Sister Pack. Bashed up against a funeral and three different sets of encounters with people I haven't seen for two decades. A reunion shooting itself at me one bb at a time. Lots to ponder there, torrents of different possible stories lived, unlived, untold, unexpected, foreseen, unseen. A possibility held out in the form of the enamoured poet from the pub the night I sold my loft, cross-purposes revealed when his ardour turned out to be of the cake having and eating variety. I'm not opposed to the cake-mouth-stuffing of course, but as with Neil the surreptitious foot fetishist, I like to know which part of me is being eyed lasciviously before agreeing to try to bend in that direction.

Life. Trying to grab onto just one piece of yarn that's mine.