The Oeuvre: Pink

 The oeuvre is a potentially intermittent music series following an attempt to listen to an artist’s entire catalog as a whole over a short period
.

Pink slunk out of the gate with the pop debut Can't Take Me Home (2000). Glossy and light, her voice never wavers from the higher ranges, backed by solid beats. Even at its most raunchy it only hints at the whiskey and cigarettes attitude that would come to define her sound. Reveling in sexuality artists like Britney Spears only toyed with at the turn of the century, Pink’s voice writhes and moans while never stepping outside of R&B tropes. As a debut it celebrates more of the producer’s art than the artist’s, but manages to hint at what is to come.

There is a bomb in my chest

Two sensations have been with me my entire life, or least as far back as I can remember. These two companions are constant and somehow comforting in their familiarity. The first is an unending sense of warmth, like my torso is a wood stove constantly burning. It is never uncomfortable and very handy in the Canadian Winter. I don’t often get chilled to bone cold, rather a sheen of cold that sits across my skin, but does not penetrate. This has been a source of great comfort to those who have shared a bed with me, as I am the single largest source of heat in the room, and immediately available.

glasses of wonder

Escaping the Apple tree: Samsung Galaxy II X

After years of waining enthusiasm and declining returns with my Iphone 3G, I finally had opportunity to abandon the walled garden and lept headfirst into the madness that is Android.

This is that story.

Decompression is a state of mind: Why I hate modern comic's

I made the mistake of purchasing two new comics back to back, digitally. I rarely read comics anymore, my $50 a week habit down to one or two books. The hope is to buy a tablet eventually and read more comics there (Amazon Fire makes me tingle).

The Neighbor’s cat

When she screamed it was a high pitched panicked wail of my name. We lived on the third floor of a hundred year old house in uptown Toronto. Our deck was the same size as our bedroom and overlooked a cemetery. It was grand, for a 600 sq. ft. apartment with a sloped ceiling and a nice view.

The girl on the train

She is remarkable. Young and vibrant, she drums her carefully manicured nails across the edge of her portable keyboard. She sneaks secret smiles as she types, delighted at something she has written. Her nails click against the quiet keys, driving silver bumps to rise in a line below the space bar. She runs her fingertips over the bumps and smiles again, muttering to herself over what she has written.

She is blind. She is on the train every day.

She steals her transit pass from a pocket or purse and flicks it next to her ear. She does this twice to confirm it is what she thinks it is. It is carefully placed inside a pocket in her backpack.

She packs her things the stop before we leave the train. Her cane snaps to length with efficiency as the train slows. The other passengers give her wide berth as the cane sweeps back and forth, tapping the floor in front of her. Some offer to help and she smiles but declines.

She taps her way slowly across the platform, wary of the drop 15 feet on either side of her; wary of the circular concrete platforms that dot the center of the station, where some passengers sit.

She is not smiling as I walk past, her brow furrowed with concentration as she listens for possible pitfalls.

She is remarkable.