Toast in a box

Bad moods happen when you expect them the least, and everyone around you who is in a good mood annoys you. Today I built a mailbox so that the mailman won't have to ring the doorbell for packages that don't fit in the mail slot. I sawed the wood with a handsaw, and I screwed all the pieces together. There is nothing quite as satisfying as making manufactured objects by yourself. Price has no value here -I could have bought a mailbox. But I would have had to go out to hell's creation to get it. There is something that fascinates me about boxes, the enclosed space, what it hides - emptiness, jewelry, treasures, letters? The most surprising box I ever saw was at the MAC in Montreal, in a sculptural installation by Quebec artist Michel Goulet: hundreds of odd objects were perched up on metal sticks and place in a large circle around a room. one of these objects was a little black wooden box with a crooked hook. I wondered: can I have a look inside? is the contents sacred? Does it belong to the artist only? My curiosity overcame my hesitations and I opened the box. Inside, I found a burnt toast.

trains and ships

There are no pictures I can post anymore because the camera is already malfunctioning. There is not one thing that annoys me the most as things that break, except maybe losing stuff, like one of my favorite earrings and having to look at the orphaned piece of jewelry. I usually transcend my frustration by just wearing the earring by itself and matching it with another lonely of its family. We went for a long walk in the south end last. We sat on a log at tin can beach, watching a cargo ship sluggishly making its way into the harbour, and wondering how natural gas is collected and transformed into a liquid format. I could hear the voices of the men chatting in the station on the water,, their voices carried by the echo of the hight tide. We also spent some time on the roof of parked trains, and Chris made funny pictures - trains are still just as fascinating to me, the tracks, all mechanics and rust, the beatsly moving creatures, carryings goods and stuff to faraway places. Good old-fashioned longing, like in the day that Halifax would have been a sought-after, mysterious destination. We wandered the streets of the low south-end until 11pm - thee are some SCARY places out there, like the one building on Saint James Street that has new vinyl windows that are all boarded up on the ground floor, and you can hear people talking throught the open windows on the second floor and then you see the security camera pointed at the front door, and you decide to walk away cautiously, nonchalamment. After we visited the house on Orange street Don was talking and there were eggshells shattered on the ground, and I imagined it had fallen from the sky and the baby bird was left to wander the streets of Saint John, separated from its mother and siblings.