I am a dreamer, or maybe better put, I remember my dreams. I often wonder how my sleeping brain can create such fantastical, unfamiliar places. One particular element appears in my dreams rather frequently―an elevator the size of a large room. To my astonishment, I saw just such an elevator today.
Leslie and I were among the last to leave the studio after a taping of the George Stroumboulopoulos show. Sometimes it pays
I have recently started working out of CSI-Annex. (A shared office, not the latest incarnation of the TV show.) The newly renovated space has a communal washroom, and for a semblance of privacy, each stall is fully enclosed. In previous posts, I have cited the power of the seemingly utilitarian washroom to reveal the character of a building. This time, the revelation is about me, rather than CSI-Annex.
It seems I am a habitual person. I suppose I knew this, but the washroom stalls confirmed
My afternoon began uneventfully enough. I was standing in the living room ironing, when I heard the upstairs doorbell ring. The family that lives on the second floor is away so when the person switched to an insistent knock, I answered the door.
There, stood a small man dressed in a denim shirt and jeans, both several sizes too large. He smelled of alcohol and asked me repeatedly, “Was I was the woman he met, who told him to come to this house?” I’d never seen him before. I repeated this fact to him several times, but my answer didn’t seem to satisfy him. Feeling frustrated and uneasy, I said goodbye and locked the door.
I also locked the back door and closed the open window in the bedroom. I was home alone, and his intense stare and repeated question spooked me. A few minutes later he
Stretch and Strength class is taught in the JCC’s main studio in the basement. Today, the usually chill class was interrupted. The manager swung open the door saying something about a problem with the pool and pipes, “The water is rising fast”. Slightly dazed, we hopped over the rapidly forming pool of water and climbed the slippery steps to the boxing studio. Upstairs there is no music. Instead the rhythmic sound of an individual skipping filled the air and a different kind of calm took over.