It’s Saturday morning – dark, early – and I’m in a hotel room in the desert. I’m eating a Twix bar in bed and drinking English Breakfast tea. A tiny fire burns in the tiny fireplace, fed by a…
Pure Colour by Sheila Heti is “that rarest of novels – as alien as a moon rock and every bit as wondrous” (Kirkus Reviews). Or maybe it’s “an underwhelming fable, a sort of Generation X Jonathan Livingston Seagull”(Publisher’s Weekly). I’m trying to sort…
A blood-red cardinal lies murdered in the garden, dropped by hawk or cat. Daffodils and hyacinths that emerged too early shiver and regret. The lenten roses, soggy, droop. In times such as these, one turns to poetry… Heavy by Mary Oliver…