Ryan Reid Illustration + Design

Yesterday felt like a memory of Vancouver in spring – grey, moist, cool.

Each morning is a bit colder than the previous.

My head is a fog from cold pills, and I left the house a minute later than I should have, but the traffic lights aligned and I did not miss my bus.

Saturday was a blast at House of TARG.

I’ve come to realize the best time of day for me to write is in the morning, and the best place for me to write is on the bus.

AI rehashes what social media already proved about our species, which is that (in part), humans are easily convinced they suffer from problems that don’t exist, and are quick to buy into the solutions peddled to solve them.

This year for my birthday I got a chest cold.

I forgot you need to write every day.

Some mornings I wake up and before my toes even touch the floor the day says to me “Listen man, I can’t give you much else today, but at least you’ll catch the bus.”

Last week I read a quote about writing that I quite liked, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember where I saw it.

hope is a side road an accidental exit off a roundabout an asphalt zipper coupling the suburbs to the farmland straight purposeful unfamiliar a strange thoroughfare to a seasoned traveller of furrowed trails

A frog dropped into a pot of boiling water will jump out.

My parents own an old cottage on the far side of a small northern Ontario lake.

I’ll give you some advice to picking a career.

It was inevitable that the trees would rebel against the human colonizers.

The knots in the pine table stared accusingly at Parson.

from this perspective sitting in a plastic Adirondack chair in my back yard bbq sizzling that cloud looks like smoke coming from my neighbours chimney as if the folks next door just selected a new Pope This is a nonsensical little free verse my brain spit…

I turned fifty today!