Personal Essay

Non-fictional writing of a personal nature.

The Life of Cities

In a city, you wear your anonymity like a childhood sweater. We are all theoretical, without sin, mute yet plenipotentiary, emerging into the rush-hour light with undeclared purpose.

Loss

Grief has many hands. It overturns even the most hidden of stones, reconstituting origins and descent, questioning everything, anatomizing the fossils, naming.

Why Do We Dream?

They did not ask for the journey, and we don’t want to know too much about it, but they return holding a marvellous gem that they alone can explain. A gem from a dream of the departed who haunt them. A dream not of the day but of the relentless, interminable day. A fascinating gem that I do not want to ever hold.

Life, edited

I have seen sun-bleached photos, of aunts and uncles, the happy brides and grooms whose future self will divorce and remarry, or perhaps not, retaining across the decades some small semblance of this person frozen in time, covered in wedding confetti, surrounded by those I remember as once living among us.

Mr. and Mrs. Fashism

After the news, Mr. Crusher appears on the television with an update on the Emergency. “My fellow Americans, I am doing this for you. I am suspending some of your rights, for you, because there is an Emergency. God bless you.”

Triumph

I am [ ] : the blank space a provision for contingency, perhaps it is exigencies. I know words, there are many words, the best words. Hiccius doccius.

Once the Indians

The year is 2020 and Indians, as they were known, have been extinct in Canada for a century. Nor are there official provisions for memorial, commemoration, or retrospective, nor even a nation’s momentary reflection. The Indians have been written out… Read More ›

A New Dawn (pt. 1)

In the beginning the mouth the tongue in trough formation wet pressing to palate pinching at the pill a pharyngeal propellation with proprioceptive reflex viz contraction of orbicularis oris and adduction of labia yielding the involuntary spasms of peristalsis the… Read More ›

The story of Catharine

When Catharine was a child, her parents told stories. Some were written in books, others improvised or recited from memory. Catharine’s mother would sit on the edge of the bed in lamplight, reading. “Why?” asks Catherine: for every story, Why…. Read More ›