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About

This is what it could look like when one completely deconstructs a life as one knows it, and how to build from the ground up. Alternatively, this is a fresh look at an old story. The fine art of falling apart.

The front porch


porch
Originally uploaded by
Abstract Magdalene.

I wanted access to some of the other features of Blogger, but then lost my way when I was playing around with Flickr this afternoon. So, here is a post...frankenstiened together. Like mismatched socks.

That's a photo of my soon to be new front porch in the 'fake' South core of London, Ontario. Indiscernable from any other ancient Victorian house in Southern Ontario. It's just a couple of blocks from my old Colborne street apartment from a few years ago and the house itself is just what I like: shabby, a bit run down and comfortable. Old-fashioned crown moulding, heating vents and 14 foot ceilings. The hardwood floors have wood inlay. I know I mentioned it before, but it's those little details that sell a sucker like me every time. That, and the landlord doesn't mind that I have 1.5 active terriers (Marble is only active some of the time) that will be skittering across those floors come December 1st. At least the floors weren't refinished or anything.

Driving around all over the city today. Getting coffee, buying a new sweater because I've forgotten all of mine up North (it's not *that* warm here) and just thinking about my optionss. It's nice to have options again. Getting heated voice messages from my ex-brother-in-law regarding access to my nephews. His new wife is basically telling me to go fuck myself. Unfortunately for them, I'm an expert in preparing documents for Family court. I have so much time on my hands right now, I'll be filing those papers tomorrow.

It's some of my blood running through those kids' veins.

I'm longwinded today. I know this. I'm feeling like I'm still in Limbo and trying to figure through the fog, but at least I have some kind of flashlight now. I'm spending tons of time with my other nephew, Nicholaki. When we sit there and tap our heads together like trappist monks, I know I'm in the right place.

Stuck in suburbia-land when I stay at my older sister's house in London. I'm an anamoly when I'm outside at 8 in the evening, smoking cigarettes. Everyone eyes me like the intruder I am. It's still a bit liberating.

Gotta run. I almost feel like my old self. I've missed her.

later.

G.

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