Reading while walking. A woman coming down the trail from Regent St has a library book held in the air in front of her. A familiar black cover, blue lettering (Moshfegh’s Lapvona). “Love that book,” I say, in passing. “It’s crazy—” she says, “I’m almost near the end.” I think of the end—I won’t spoil it, the high climb back to the mountain, the reader perched there, hanging, at its close…

Behind the Sobey’s a young man with too short pant legs skateboards slowly up the street. Something about him seems notable, but I can’t place it. He reminds me of a roommate I once had, who came from genteel country poverty. Perhaps it is only that everyone here seems notable, in a town of so few. I’ve already started to see the same people more than once, in vastly different contexts, across worlds. But I’m proven right when I see the man looking through the dumpster behind the grocery store.

Going bad. In some ways I wonder if I need to let loose, go bad, go further, in my writing. But in life I want to keep things close, want not to trip those feelings, want to get underneath the trigger, recognize what makes me vulnerable and what won’t let me feel that vulnerability. One seems related to the other. But at the moment I’m not sure how. 

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