Thank goodness it's Saturday....

The event of the day was going to the fitness club for my 'orientation' session. This consisted of a woman named Jody (in a bright yellow shirt) teaching me and another newcomer named Sarah how to use the weight machines.

I was impressed.

We tried each one of them. None were terrible at first, but by the twelfth repetition it was pretty gruelling.

After the orientation I used a cycling machine for twenty minutes, or more; I was reading and forgot to watch the time.

Then I walked home. It's hot - very hot - I think Beulah told me it was thirty-six degrees Celsius, and I don't know what that is in Fahrenheit, but it's hot. Somehow, I don't feel the heat as much when I'm walking. Maybe I should worry about sunstroke or something. I hate wearing hats.

There's something about the city in the summer: everyone seems so happy just to be outdoors. The Bluesfest is going on, so everywhere you go downtown you hear live music. I stopped to listen for a bit at the Rideau Centre.

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Once upon a time I heard a recording I'd like to get my hands on. There was no music on this tape; it was the sounds of an old sailing ship at anchor. You could hear the waves, the ropes, the creaking wood.

I couldn't find it in the CD shop. I looked on amazon.com - amazon.ca is hopeless, and indigo-chapters is worse - and couldn't find it. Does anyone have any idea what it might have been, and where I might find it?


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The baby budgie was chirping loudly this afternoon, greatly to my relief.

His brother hatched and didn't survive: I found a little corpse in the cage when I cleaned it this morning. You know what was worst? The books had told me that newborn baby budgies are ugly, but this little guy wasn't ugly at all. No feathers, of course, none of that elegant budgie plumage, but he was cute, in his newborn-bird sort of way. Tiny, vulnerable-looking. A little like a rubber chicken with big eyes, if you imagine one that's only about an inch long.

Rest in peace, little guy.

I couldn't help thinking of the lines from Sandman #8, "The Sound of Her WIngs", that I've quoted before and will no doubt quote again, at the scene where Death comes for a baby.

"Is that all I get?" asks the baby.

"You get what everyone gets," said Death. "A lifetime."


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I felt like shopping idly. I felt like reading or surfing the web. I felt like anything but writing. At the same time, I'm dying to work on my story, and finish this draft. Why does this procrastination happen? Why did I suddenly feel the need to play with icons, or do anything but work on the story that I really want to work on?

I don't know.

I'm going back to the story now.

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