from cannes to london to the wilds of western canada, i have been cruising quite the cultural spectrum lately.

my eyes are sore from gazing at endless points of interest, points of other-ness from the norm (or rather, my norm). and now my skin is equally sore from the hours spent under the hot hot hot saskatchewan sun.

and my mind is sore from weeks upon weeks of thinking, drinking, and sinking into a whole new frame of mind. or maybe it's not that new. maybe it's just the same frame, moved from picture to picture, trying to find the one it fits.

i know exactly what i want to do, and where i want to go. i just don't know the rest.


and the rest is, well, life, isn't it. knowing what you want to do and where you want to go are just the drive, the narrative, the plot. it's the people and the things, the scent of the subway in the morning and the crinkle of the sunday styles section of the paper and the little four leaf clover traced into your pint of guinness and the warmth that flows from head to stomach when someone says your dress is pretty and the naive butterflies and the heart-wrenching sagas and the silly adventures - these are the things that fill out the empty skeleton of a life.

so, it's not what or where. its how. and who. and most importantly


when.