1.22.2026

No interest in calendars. My mom usually sends me one with bucolic photos of Ireland. Nostalgia for a place I’ve only been once and a long time ago and generally thought was fine. Analogies interest me though. This glen on the April page reminds me of a place I think of as a glen, or my friend Glen from middle school who always played a barbarian in D&D and was a barbarian in real life, streaking through pine groves with his muscles all over the place, peeing into sleet storms out of sheer enjoyment. The stretch along the Panhandle on Fell Street reminds me of a similar stretch along insert French Name for Catholic Saint Here Park in Montreal, the park I walked through every day for months and came to think of as home, where I saw the place lit up in arctic temperatures when I first got there and went on space walks with my mask frozen to my face and the mucous within solid like iron shavings, where I couldn’t make out the purpose or scope of the buildings, glowing officially in the frozen air, blurry and inchoate. Months later I walked through there every day. I’ve written about that place, that park, more than once, but as I refuse to look things up when I compose these posts anymore you’ll have to take my word for it. That's not true I just looked up inchoate to be sure I used it correctly. Not sure I did but it stays. Regardez-vous les warts.