“Why do I travel? It’s not the flying I mind- I will always be awed by the physics that get a fat metal bird into the upper troposphere. The rest of the journey, however, can feel like a tedious lesson in the ills of modernity, from the predawn x-ray screening to the sad airport malls peddling crappy souvenirs. It’s globalization in a nutshell, and it sucks.

And yet, here we are, herded in ever-greater numbers onto planes that stay the same size. Sometimes, of course, we travel because we have to. Because in this digital age there is still something important about the analog handshake…”

Jonah Lehrer, Your Brain, San Franciso Panorama (2010).

I am leaving le T-dot for a few days to get my fine dose of analog handshakes in Brussels, Madrid, and maybe even Rome. I hope there will at least be an update or two in between the traveling, the public speaking, and the stale panoramas. And while I’m not exactly head over heels about the 5-flights-in-6-days part of the trip, I look forward to having half a day in Brussels to explore the city and read my books not so clandestinely. See you soon!

This is what I want my day to be like:

Photo by Katie Sokoler via Noelle.

If Jason Collett had a song called Almost Spring, it would be an ode to its radiant yellow light and its air, that magnificent kind of air that makes you want to sprint and reach unknown destinations while holding hands with your friends.

Close your eyes. Hold your breath. Then enjoy spring’s resplendent afternoon light.

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Last night I went to the opera to catch the last concert of the New Creations Festival, a musical program featuring the works of musicians and the authors that inspire them. It was my first time at the opera proper, but every little bit was familiar: the sounds and sights reminded me of home, of choirs, of violin lessons, of Latin sayings I still cannot decipher, of candle-light musings and oh so much more. My eyes feasted on the sight of a multitude of violins, cellos and elegantly clad middle-aged people while I followed the performances intently: first the Amadeus Choir, then Golijov’s Last Round, then Barry’s amusing La Plus Forte and, finally, Jacques Hetu’s Symphony no. 5, which premiered last night at Roy Thompson Hall (albeit posthumously.)  Post-concert, we enjoyed the Spotlight on Piazzolla while tango dancers enchanted us with their moves (though the people chatting behind us not so much.)

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Today was all about falling in love with the freedom that spring is about to bring: summer dresses, bike rides, the breeze and, most importantly, the glorious light and awe-inspiring soundtrack to go with it all. And on my way to adding one more book to the collection of clandestine to-reads, I finally got around to taking this picture:

Who are you missing?

For such a non-reader of poetry, I went against all expectations and bought more poetry books in a single day than I probably will for the rest of my life. Sylvia Plath (x2), Allan Ginsberg and Dylan Thomas now live in that very same bed-side pile of books in which a neglected Irene Nemirovsky can also be found. I like reading bits of their poems, journals or essays in between work assignments that shouldn’t really be paused. Their words make me think about cadence, intonation, “the arts of oneself” and solitary emphases. And that, of course, makes me want to write on mirrors all over again.

From Wholphin Issue No. 1
Directed by Miguel Arteta and written by Miranda July.

I love stumbling upon new artists and discovering their work. Today’s find in French Michael Levy, who catapulted me to Paris in just one click:

Paris, Hotel Le Brun (promenades architecturales series)

Paris, Palais Bourbon (Promenades architecturales series.)

He also won me over with his beautiful pictures of Iceland, which you can admire here. Now if only I had my copy of Independent People handy…

Hands up if you get the reference! Photos from here.

A short story written by Michael Chabon and adapted to film by Amy Lippman with Zooey Deschanel and Paul Rudd. Featured in Wholphin n.5 (2008)

Or, how to appreciate the slow pace of a sun-drenched Monday morning that feels like Spring:

A weekend of champions, this was.
I experienced a rare kind of decadence, one made possible only by the tacit understanding that school was to be put on hold for the entire duration of the weekend. Indulging in books, magazines, paintings and the violin is not an everyday occurrence, if you’re an overworked grad student like me. But when these rare pleasure do populate my life they are a forceful testament to the power of youth.

The weekend of champions started with an unsuccessful attempt at being studious (Ezra’s chai latte is just that good) and it later continued with a nightly studychat with Jana, but one in which she studied and I wrote for fun (because, of course, now that it’s time to write my Portfolio all I want to do is write fiction.) Friday saw me plotting against non-places, getting into grad school, and eating risotto with Roomie Extraordinaire and Roommate Emeritus. It continued with PJ reading Al Purdy poems to me because they sound like “the kind of things I would write on paintings”, and ended with a fine session of scribbling on canvases.

Saturday morning I skillfully superglued two of my fingers together, spent time painting a gift-canvas, wrote snail-mail missives and immortalized playlists on disc for a few friends on the other side of the pond. An afternoon trip to Rotate got me a gorgeous vinyl copy of The BQE, while a trip to Type got me a beautiful J.D. Salinger book to read when hiding from the rain. And in keeping with the tradition of having grand conversations about life in candle-lit restaurants, Kathryn and I had a lovely dinner at Fressen before heading over to George and Heather’s for George’s birthday. No Tom Waits references were made that night, but the music jam was just like the old times.

Then Sunday came and it taught me that I have a wonderful new skill, i.e., the ability to download music from the iTunes store app at record speed. And this is both fantastic and dangerous, as the process of paying for songs is so invisible that a music addict like me could go bankrupt in less than a day. (But at least I’d be listening to good music while doing it.) My screen-tapping exploits got me all manners of mind-blowing records: a hushed Constantines EP, a jolly Andrew Bird playing violin like whoa, the very first Timber Timbre, and more. When I finally pried myself away from the iPod, I headed over to Sadie’s to celebrate Christy Appreciation Day with my good friends, even squeezing in a quick pit-stop to Le Kens before a miraculously spontaneous hang out with Noelle. At Dark Horse, I talked her ear off while refining the fine art of swirling milk in a cup; at home, she read magazines and took pictures of my room. Finally, the weekend of champions culminated with a COMM reunion at Libretto with some friends from the golden days of undergrad. Our beloved Professor Anne was MIA, but we riveted each other with stories of odd jobs, Olympics Loving (one side of the table) vs Olympics Bashing (my side of the table) and stories of “my most urban look.” And to top off a gloriously bittersweet weekend, I ran into Natalie at Dundas & Ossington and made plans for future studychats.

And with Salinger and Kerouac fresh in my mind, it feels good to acquiesce to the whims of my ventriloquist heart. It  reawakens things that would otherwise remain dormant far too long.