This Creativity, It Will Be The End Of Me
Where does the creative process begin?
I've asked myself this question on many an occasion. Usually, the question centers around my own creative process, the book or short story or play I'm trying to write.
Not so lately.
You see, the missus and I recently introduced our toddlers to crayons.
This was a mistake.
The End of an Era
The economy sucks and the middle class is steadily disappearing. Inflation is soaring and it's enough to make you wonder if anyone actually understands economics at all.
An Urban Adventure: Kensington Market, Toronto
If you're ever in Toronto, after you've visited the CN Tower and the other obvious places...or if you've just moved here and want to see what "here" consists of...or even if you've never been anywhere near Toronto...come take a walk through a neighbourhood. Any neighbourhood will do, they're all different, but one of my favourites is Kensington Market.
If you're taking the Spadina streetcar from the subway line, as we did, you enter via the bustle and strong smells of Chinatown – people hawking cheap t-shirts, designer knockoffs, herbs right on the sidewalk, sometimes pirated DVDs although none are to be found this time; there must have been a crackdown recently. Coming from the south, you turn off Spadina onto Dundas Street West, suddenly surrounded by quiet.
One short block later, you turn again and now you are in a different world.
The Rosy Glow Imparted by Long Ago
The first time I went camping, my dad had acquired a huge tent meant to sleep a legion, and we were dragged off to spend Memorial Day weekend living in it.
I complained, whined, and muttered, and I took a stack of books a foot high.
Now, understand--I grew up on a farm. I'd slept in the backyard in a sleeping bag. I'd slept in the barn in a sleeping bag. I'd slept on horses' backs (sans sleeping bag) and in trees (also without the sleeping bag. That's just asking for trouble.) Any time I wanted to eat fire-cooked food, I'd pester my dad into a weinie-roast. (I was twelve. Stop laughing.) So I really didn't see the point in this camping thing.
It was as miserable as I'd feared. It rained the whole weekend, one of those long, slow, soaking Pennsylvania rains. We were all--my dad, my brothers, my dad's girlfriend, her kids--stuck in that huge flipping tent that really wasn't big enough to hold us all day and night for three days.
