Spadina streetcar, one for Mommy.

Caucasian woman, early 30s, with damp long blond hair, wearing white jeans and gray sweater, carrying an oversized teal leather bag.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows [Adult Edition], J.K. Rowling (Raincoast Books)

Page 271:

He could see it; the Fidelius Charm must have died with James and Lily. The hedge had grown wild in the sixteen years since Hagrid had taken Harry from the rubble that lay scattered amongst the waist-high grass. Most of the cottage was still standing, though entirely covered in dark ivy and snow, but the right side of the top floor had been blown apart; that, Harry was sure, was where the curse had backfired. He and Hermione stood at the gate, gazing up at the wreck of what must once have been a cottage just like those that flanked it.

For years the bookseller had been offering suggestions, placing a book aside every week for as long as the young mother had been coming in. Finally the woman’s son was on path, entering high school and making the grade. The mother came in alone one day. Could the bookseller offer any more suggestions, she’d asked, the boy having not been the only pupil.

Spadina streetcar; new shirt, new shoes.

Caucasian male, late 20s, wearing white pressed shirt, blue dress pants, and brown leather shoes, a pale trail of virgin white outlining his freshly shorn hair.

Buying In: The Secret Dialogue Between What We Buy and Who We Are, Rob Walker (Random House)

Page 29:

Consider, for example, the Red Hat Society, notable for bright costumes, exuberant group behavior, and the fact that it is made up of women age fifty and over. Here the subculture motive is to challenge the way that society expects older women to behave. "It’s a very genuine feeling–’You need to get off the stage now and go sit somewhere in the back,’" Sue Ellen Cooper, the sixty-year-old "founder and Queen Mother" of the society, told me. "Well, no, I’ll tell you when I’m ready to do that." This is not exactly the same as punk’s generalized middle finger to society, but there is an element of refusal to go along with mainstream values–a bit of an "up yours" to assigned social roles.

Growing up on an airbase, he approached the summer of his last year in high school with both fear and excitement, shorts making way for pants, T-shirts in place of sweaters, and socks peeled back to reveal the thin lines of ink yet to be filled, rainbow flags, one atop each foot.

In full view of the sun.

Caucasian woman, early 50s, with short curly blond hair and glasses, wearing black blazer and black dress pants, centred in the hot sunshine, smoking.

The Fifth Victim, Beverly Barton (Zebra-Kensington)

Page 259:

Her bed was antique, like most of the furniture in the house, a large mahogany sleigh bed that had belonged to her mother and to Granny before she married. Genny turned back the quilt of colorful hand-embroidered birds and flowers on what had once been a solid white background, now aged to a pale ecru. Beneath lay a white down comforter and white sheets of thick woven cotton. The cases on the four fat feather pillows were edged with delicate aged lace, hand-crocheted by Great-Grandmother Butler. Almost everything in Genny’s room had a connection to the past, to ancestresses who had lived and loved and died in these Tennessee hills.

Her great aunt’s jeweled pill box holds her simple wedding band, one complicated memory enclosed inside another.

I’ve been looking for a way to give The Reader a voice at Seen Reading.

Do you secretly (or not so secretly) read aloud? I do. That’s why I’m starting a new feature called Readers Reading. This is your chance to become a part of a growing archive of performance, people engaged in the simple pleasure of reading aloud. Each Monday, I’ll feature a new reader, just 30-60 seconds from any ol’ book, be it a weathered copy of a fave title or a current read.

I always carry my digital recorder with me. If you see me at an event, don’t be shy! Come on up and let me know, "Hey! I want to be heard reading!" Easy breezy!

Next Monday, Readers Reading begins!

Today, a special treat. This is Georgia Webber, a young writer who recently read as part of a workshop I gave during The Scream Literary Festival. This is Chapter Three from her self-published book. Please enjoy the voice of Georgia Webber.

Be seeing you!

(Originally published March 21, 2007.)

Bloor Line, legs crossed and leaning.

Black woman, late teens, wearing a brown coat and brown knit cap, hood high against her neck, tied in place with a long scarf.

Vanity Fair, William Thackeray (Premier Classics)

Page 175:

How many a thing had she said, and got no echo from him. How many suspicions of selfishness and indifference had she to encounter and obstinately overcome?

Had it been a play the lights would come up now, she thought. Two figures stand facing each other on the stage, hands by their sides, shoulders forward, hips locked, legs braced. Anger. Frustration. Passion. The audience doesn’t know. A minute or two and their resolve remains even as their bodies begin to sway. Finally, they push off their heels, bounding toward one another, stopping shoulder to shoulder, clasping an arm about the other’s waist until they are a figure eight. This might be the first time the audience notices that they aren’t wearing shoes, that they’re both in tank tops and loose fitting pants. They twist slowly, circling at the waist, once, twice, and then she’s on his back, a leg slung over to slide on top, easy, effortless. She holds her forearm against his throat, her back arched, her other arm pumped high like she’s mastered the bull. He bucks, turning to catch her before she hits the ground, propelling her through his legs back across the stage to where she first stood. She stands. He faces her. Their hands are by their sides, shoulders forward, hips locked, legs braced. The door bell rings. They straighten, wipe their laps and approach one another, tending stray hairs, lopsided straps, a sweaty brow, then head to the door where another couple stands with the offer of a casserole.