Caucasian man, tall and lean, dressed in beige pants and suit jacket. Baby soft, grey hair set against deep, blue eyes. Telling a joke in a quiet Irish lilt. Book in hand. His book. An award-winning book.

The Law of Dreams, Peter Behrens (House of Anansi Press)

Page 15:

As he walked home that afternoon, up the mountain, four young men–one a cousin–stopped him on the path. Before a blow had been struck, while the cousin was still boiling up insults, calling Carmichael’s mare a sorry lump of leather; a bag of goat bones; a mustard fuck, Fergus lowered his head and ran at him, butting him in the chest and knocking him down. Seizing a stick, he held off the others until his cousin stood up, grunting like a bull. Fergus threw away the stick and ran. They gave chase, screaming like a pack of hounds, and one of them finally brought him down with a brute shove that sent him sprawling.

They sat, six in total. One closed her eyes. One straightened her pink Polo shirt around the bulge she intends to lose in time for the holidays. Another set her smirk in place, like she knew what was coming. Each bore a baubled ring on her wedding finger. At home, husbands sat in front of the television, the computer, the back deck door, or bedroom wall, with a frozen dinner, leftovers, ordered-in pizza, or eggs for dinner.

“She drove into town with the girls from her book club. Some guy’s giving a reading. I don’t ask.”

Caucasian woman, early 40s, brown hair with blonde highlights, wearing an orange overcoat and scarf, and a striking black and silver ring. The umbrella in her lap is highlighter-green. Her hand is held to her mouth. She breathes into it like a mitt. The train empties and fills twice, and she sits, chest heavy, lost in her page.

Canoe Lake, Roy Macgregor (McClelland & Stewart)

Page 82:

The only light came from a bare bulb that hung on a cord from the ceiling. Eleanor had to use both hands and much of her strength to pull the bundles free, step outside the fire door, and spread them over the newsprint rolls. She then opened her purse and pulled out the notebook with the information from the graveyard.

Three hours in the emergency room you finally stand, frustrated, and march to the front desk.

“I can see the skin healing already. I had a tetanus shot just last year. I’d like to sign out.”

“A doctor will see you shortly. Please wait right here.”

A young man in a lab coat approaches and takes your hand like he’s your prom date. You wince.

“Really, it’s fine.”

“We’re just gonna take a quick look…” He unwraps the paper towels from your pinkie and a stream of blood empties onto a pile of file folders. She’s standing behind him. She goes pale. The doctor guides you gently, his hand low on your back. Over his shoulder he calls to the nurse, and her.

“Curtain two. You can come.”

She takes a moment. She can’t stand the sight of raw meat. This can only be worse.

Caucasian male, late 20s, short blonde hair with soft, frizzy bangs, wearing a black jacket, black pants, tight across the back, sporting a mag light, clip and Motorola walkie talkie. Security guard.

Dust jacket removed. Page 150:

Unsafe at Any Altitude: Failed Terrorism Investigations, Scapegoating 9/11, and the Shocking Truth About Aviation Security Today, Susan B. Trento & Joseph J. Trento (Steerforth)

When President Bush addressed the nation about 9/11, Kathy and Blythe sat watching the television and praying. Kathy was sick with worry that the president would bring up the company’s name. She prayed and prayed that he wouldn’t–and he didn’t. She said it was almost as if he stopped the speech before saying the word Argenbright.

You’ve been standing in front of the kitchen television since the second plane. You watch the first tower fall and cup your mouth with both hands because the windows are open and children are playing. You go to your computer and stare. You type.

Dear CBS,

The Big Brother Houseguests have the right to know what’s going on and should be given the free will to make their own decisions based on timely and accurate information. What was supposed to be a study of community is now taking away the right of your gameshow’s contestants to belong to one. You have an opportunity to show your viewers what a responsible media is all about.

Thank you.

Just a reminder, if you’re so inclined. Tune in to Freestyle tomorrow when I’ll be riffing on this here literary exploration and reading another entry.

Weekdays, 2:00 p.m. – 4:00 p.m. Newfoundland & Labrador
Weekdays, 1:00 p.m. – 3:00 p.m. Toronto Region
Weekdays, 2:00 p.m. – 4:00 p.m. Canada
Weekdays, 1:00 p.m. – 2:00 p.m. Manitoba
Weekdays, 2:00 p.m. – 3:00 p.m. Calgary Region
Weekdays, 2:00 p.m. – 3:00 p.m. Edmonton Region

I’m on at the beginning of the second hour of the show.

Caucasian woman, mid 20s, brown curly hair pulled back in a clip, wearing a vest, knitted sweater, long jean skirt, thick stockings and hiking boots. Surrounded by Big Carrot bags. Eating an almond raisin bar. (3 for $5.99)

The Girls’ Guide to Hunting and Fishing, Melissa Bank (Penguin)

About 220 pages in:

In post-op, he will tell you he is honored that you threw up on him. He will stay with you in the hospital all day, every day, and as late as he can at night. After visiting hours, when the night nurse says he has to leave, he will hide there with you, closing the curtain partition and keeping his feet up on your bed.

You stand alone in your grandmother’s room collecting bags of dead batteries, wads of Kleenex balls and loose safety pins from the back of her drawer. You move to the bed lying in the indent of her form, facing the window to see what she would have seen, listening to the chatter of the schoolyard outside. She’d taken your hand and rubbed it over her lower stomache. “Can you feel it? It’s massive.” She’d gotten so tiny. She’d confessed she’d taken her wedding dress out of storage and tried it on again, an 81 year old woman looking at a reflection of herself sixty years earlier. Then she’d wrapped it up, walked down the hall and thrust it down the garbage chute.

Thank you to CBC for including my Here and Now appearance as part of this week’s Toronto This Week podcast. You can hear it by going here and scrolling down to Toronto This Week where you can subscribe.

Where do we go from here, you ask? Well, I’ll tell ya. National, baby! Tune in to Freestyle, Tuesday November 28, to hear me speak once more about this here venture, Seen Reading.

When lunch is over and the end of the workday is still a speck on the horizon, you need a little pick-me-up. Tune in to Freestyle for a healthy dose of the best contemporary music ever made, as well as amusing and fascinating topics and people from all over the country and around the world.

Weekdays at 2 p.m. (1 p.m. in Winnipeg, 2:30 p.m. NT) on CBC Radio One.

If I’m correct, Toronto doesn’t get the second hour, but you can hear it from CBC’s site. Considering I once thought Halifax was the capital of Vancouver, I thought it best to rip the times from the show’s page:

Weekdays, 2:00 p.m. – 4:00 p.m. Newfoundland & Labrador
Weekdays, 1:00 p.m. – 3:00 p.m. Toronto Region
Weekdays, 2:00 p.m. – 4:00 p.m. Canada
Weekdays, 1:00 p.m. – 2:00 p.m. Manitoba
Weekdays, 2:00 p.m. – 3:00 p.m. Calgary Region
Weekdays, 2:00 p.m. – 3:00 p.m. Edmonton Region

Or visit CBC’s site for additional instructions. I’ll be on at the beginning of the second hour of the show.

Good luck!

Caucasian woman, late 20s, died red hair tucked behind ears under a green knitted cap, wearing high cuffed jeans, a black hooded jacket and gold shoes. A tiny stud adorns her right nostril.

What We All Long For, Dionne Brand (Vintage Canada)

Page 208:

It was the face of a boy, a baby, innocent and expectant. There was something wrong about it. It didn’t go with the rest of his body–something she’d suspected when photographing his back. Binh clapped. Then they turned to watch the celebration in the street and Tuyen kept clicking her camera at them until the roll ended.

From “Gregg”:

Gregg noticed the dragonfly stuck between the slats of the deck. On its back, its legs kicked, its wings sputtered, delicate, fluttering like waking eyelashes. Its tail curled up in a yawn, quivering into something he’d only seen in alien video games. (So that’s where they get that shit from.) Then with an arch it crossed its arms. Gregg descended into the woods, returning with a length of branch he snapped into pieces. Securing two twigs with a reed, he wedged the cross between the deck planks adjusting it until it cast a fitting shadow. Inside, he rummaged through the kitchen cupboard, knowing he’d seen the camera with the flashlight and cement glue. Back outside, Gregg rested his chin against the deck, turning the ring until the dragonfly came into focus. The shutter snapped closed and open in an instant and Gregg felt at peace. His eye still trained on the frame, Gregg reached out to move the cross just so. The structure toppled forward, light, but heavy enough. The insect sighed.

Caucasian woman, late 30s, over blown bleach blonde hair, long black overcoat, flared black pants, stilettos, wearing tinted sunglasses at 8:30am. Stands in one doorway, then moves across to the other, inching me out of my spot, one eye on the page, one seriously trained devil’s eye on me.

The World and Other Places, Jeanette Winterson(Knopf)

About 35 pages in:

When she sheds she sheds it all. Her skin comes away with her clothes. On those days I have been able to see the blood-depot of her heart. On those days it was possible to record the patience of her digestive juices and the relentlessness of her lungs. Her breath is blue in the cold air. She breathes into the blue winter like a Madonna of the Frost. I think it right to kneel and the view is good.

Every winter I decide to take up running. At night. It’s an en route kind of running. I’m at your place and then I leave and it’s night–and winter–and I run. I feel my breath. I feel myself speeding past things I can’t see. Something burning slightly into my cheeks. The gentle thud of my feet on the pavement convinces me that these whispy sneakers are good for something other than piling up in the corner. Two minutes and I sincerely believe I could be this person. But I don’t want to clock or catalogue how many houses or dog walkers or dogs, for that matter, I pass by; I just want to feel the night breeze. Like riding Space Mountain at Disney World when I was ten. We’d been wretched back and forth, upside down, twisted so that purses and passports were lost to the darkness. I walked out with a sprained arm and ankle, more alive than I could recall.

You can find the Eye Weekly article here. I’m a bit amused by the picture. I’m holding Freaky Friday.