- I find how much our brains aren't like computers kind of unsettling.
- Flixtape is like making mixtapes for people but with Netflix movies.
- Women artists give some pretty great advice about creating and honouring our work.
- The On Being with Krista Tippett podcast's episode "Thich Nhat Hanh, Cheri Maples and Larry Ward: Being Peace in a World of Trauma" is wonderfully reinforcing about creating a gentler, kinder world and what it takes.
- This tongue-in-cheek bio on British Prime Minister Theresa May's husband is brilliant.
- We have access to so many tools online right now, and it might not last, so take advantage of it.
- Nintendo is releasing a mini NES with 30 built-in games, and I need one.
- Black Canadians are facing similar problems to Black Americans.
- I'm a fan of the concept behind White Nonsense Roundup.
- When a puppy gets to pick out his kitty, true love ensues.
Sometimes when I sit down to write poetry, I am half asleep, and when I wake up, things have gone all sideways on me. This is one of those poems, so please do not ask it for absolute coherency. It cannot provide that for you.
Also, I have watched a good deal of the Republican National Convention's live feed over the last few days, which I am hoping gives you some kind of idea what is wrong with my brain right now.
I sailed in a toy boat,
certain we were unsinkable,
because toys suffer no tragedies.
I once discovered my uncle's favourite doll
twenty years after he last put it away.
Her celluloid toes were pushed in
and her dress was torn,
but her face held its smile.
She had believed until the end.
Me and my toy boat
joked about the garrulous sea we were on,
how it lapped and frothed and splashed,
because we were certain.
We believed almost right up until the end,
like any good toys would,
BUT THEN TRUMP HAPPENED, THE TOY STEALER,
AND HE SENT PENCE TO STEAL A PIECE OF OUR BOAT,
AND WE SANK TO THE BOTTOM OF THE BATHTUB
LIKE A COUPLE OF FOOLS
WHO DIDN'T KNOW THAT EVEN TOY BOATS CAN SINK.
I become tanned here,
apart in the low garden.
Their voices are soft,
rounded by the heat
that weighs bees low among blooms.
This call slows us all.