sunday sunday here again, a walk in the park.

Ah, how that brings back memories of 1995. britpop sugar pop, pop rocks, yum! or something like that.

my room is a colourful mess of book spines, empty mugs and clothing. in fact, it sometimes more closely resembles a very spacious walk-in closet than a bedroom. A walk-in closet that just happens to have bookshelves.

today i actually took a closer look at my room, and thought, "this just won't do." so i folded clothes. As i do, on occasion. with methodical precision, fold fold, over & over until i have large stacks of t-shirts, in pinks and oranges and fuschias -- which then are placed precariously atop other stacks of t-shirts, in blues and navys and aquamarines. a terrible tower of t-shirts. destined to forever teeter and fall into a cheerful mess on my hidden floor.

and i also took a closer look at those shelves that seem so oddly out of place in my closet of a room. picked up volumes of poetry, marked with yellow post-its, carefully noted as verse to remember. and as i waded through a 45 stanza gem by tennyson, i realized that i gots a long long way to go before i ever call myself a poet. don't you know it. and a writer? hot damn.

after, i chose an anthology of literature -- you know one of those big fatties that you bought in university, read pages 245-250 and 292-300 and then forgot about. An anthology of russian lit, this was. Full of fairytales, melodramatic legends and witty play excerpts. Read the section titled, "Thresholds: Soviet culture & beyond". felt transported, though i was indeed, sitting in my messy little room. Realized that i have far to go before i actuallly make it across the globe.

So, a sunday of realization.

of clothes-folds, stories told, and soviet thresholds.

all without leaving my bedroom.