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The Creation of The Birds by Remedios Varo

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The Music, Art, and Architecture Library

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The Music, Art, and Architecture Library

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Here, I discovered the inherent musicality of typing. Light, brisk keyboard clicks intermixed with singular, heavy presses to create a song.

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The particularities of the everchanging cacophony of bird songs. Some were squeaky and staccato, others were melodic trills, but all were in response to one another. Here is a quote from this space that made me smile: "Hey George! I have a Jurassic Park jeep at home!" This was said by a little kid on the playground with as much enthusiasm as they could muster!

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During this exploration, my roommates conversed with each other in the space while I listened. Their conversation helped me to discover the absurdly poetic nature of conversations between friends. To me, there is something poetic about moving from "Sometimes I wish I was a tadpole" to "If I were murdered, I think... knock me out with chlorophyll [though I think they meant chloroform] first" to "People need hearts, you know" in a matter of minutes.

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two bottles of sriracha—one with just enough to fill the other

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not pictured are the layers upon layers of words that couldn't fit in frame, despite my best effort

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another poem masquerading as a social media post

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a poem masquerading as a social media post

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We are both looking away from the camera, to our left. We could be looking at anyone. Our nonna, zia, dad, nonno, mom. Everyone is still here. We are aware of no other existence than one surrounded by them.

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In our small slice of paradise, the troubles of the year faded away. We were enveloped in the warmth of a new beginning. Together. One that ended as soon as it began. But how blissful was it to simply imagine our life together.

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gnomes in ceremony (courtesy of my roommate's lovely girlfriend)

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The front of my nonna's house in late August. Her garden is in full bloom and on display for the neighbourhood to see. The grass is soft and warm from the sun's rays—the perfect place to lie down and stare up at the clouds. It smells of roses. Honey bees flitter by, gathering pollen. I took this photo a few days before I moved across the country for first year. It was taken in a panic—my brain filled with the fear of forgetting. Forgetting my childhood. Forgetting my family. Forgetting my friends. Forgetting everything that helped to make me, me. Oh, how glad I am. My brain was wrong.

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The hole in the pocket of my mother's leather jacket is often hidden from sight. It was there when I pulled the jacket from her closet, but over the months, it has slowly grown more cavernous. From compass cards to loose change, everything that enters the pocket gets swept through the frayed fibres into the lining. I like to think my mother wore this jacket when she was my age—walking through the streets of Toronto, pulling her earbuds from the lining.