Spadina streetcar, scanning and laughing.

Caucasian woman, mid 30s, wearing glasses, gray hat, black and white checkered coat, Sorel Caribou winter boots, and carrying a lululemon bag and red knapsack.

Wild Ducks Flying Backward, Tom Robbins (Bantam)

Page 115:

Radical problems call for radical solutions. Conventional politicians are too thickheaded to conceive of radical solutions and too fainthearted to implement them if they could...

She was surprised to see him walking alone in the city. He was taller than she'd expected and on foot. She'd only ever seen him pictured on a bike. Even from the waist up, she'd always imagined him sitting on his 12 speed: during a press conference; addressing the House; bounding down the stairs of his three-storey house, braking hard for his aging mother-in-law, pulling his eldest onto the handlebars for a quick spin to the Kim Moon Bakery, a bag of red bean buns a late morning snack. He passed her, chin straight, eyes forward, his Olympian beret too snug for his head, a gift, she thought, perhaps from the medalist. She watched his heels roll off the pavement and up onto the sidewalk, readying his outstretched hand to greet the man who sells the custom fedoras from a wheelchair in his shop's doorway. Then he disappeared down a side street, his shoelaces tripping under rubber soles.

----

See you Tuesday!

Spadina streetcar, fixed and frozen.

Caucasian woman, late 20s, with long brown hair under knitted purple hat, wearing long black and white checked wool coat, knees tight together, elbows in, shoulders tensed.

The Four Agreements, Don Miguel Ruiz (Amber Allen)

Page 64:

That is why whenever we make assumptions, we're asking for problems. We make an assumption, we misunderstand, we take it personally, and we end up creating a whole big drama for nothing. All the sadness and drama you have lived in your life was rooted in making assumptions and taking things personally. Take a moment to consider the truth of this statement.

The closet was not a misunderstanding. There had been drinking, there had been spinning. There had been seven minutes starting from now. But two years before there had been a misunderstanding. It had been seconds and she was not who he'd been expecting as he waited in the dark for another girl to join him, the girl he was dating. Based on that misunderstanding they now stood in the light of the closet and looked at their watches.

Bloor Line, sensibly dressed.

Caucasian woman, mid 30s, with brown hair pulled back into tight ponytail, wearing glasses, houndstooth black and gray coat, black work slacks, sensible black shoes with solid heel, and a silver thumb ring.

The Memory Keeper's Daughter, Kim Edwards (Penguin)

Page 320:

Yet the experience had left her changed, in ways both large and small. She laughed more and took more time off work. She’d started volunteering on weekends on Habitat houses; while building a house in eastern Kentucky she had met a warm, ruddy, fun-loving man, a minister recently widowed. His name was Ben.

When she was eleven she constructed a fanciful game for herself hammering nails into the planks of the wooden fence dividing her yard from her neighbour's. She used nails from her father's toolbox and when those were out she started pulling nails from the back half of the neighbouring fence to the other side of yard. When that threatened to fall in, she started pulling nails from the inside wall of the tool shed. Each morning, while her mother took her morning power walk, she resumed her efforts, the fence uselessly bejeweled while the family car prepared for the worst.

Bloor Line, growing out.

South Asian woman, mid 20s, shoulder-length black hair with brown streaks, parted down the middle. Wearing black winter jacket, and blue turtleneck collar. She cradles one purse on her lap, a second purse between her feet.

Now You See Her, Linda Howard (Pocket)

Page 55:

She tried to do some more sketches, but couldn’t concentrate. Television held no appeal, but finally she settled down with a book, wrapped up in a blanket, and managed to get in a good hour of reading before she became so sleepy her head kept drooping. It was only nine o’clock, but Sweeny figured if she was that sleepy then she needed to be in bed.

In her cozy and affordable basement apartment, she spends most of her time in bed, reading, writing, flipping through fashion magazines for suggestions on how to stretch a meal or maybe a good tip for shinier hair using aging produce. It was quite by accident that she learned that sleeping with the fleece under her comforter is the difference between needing to keep the oven on all night or just until she can't keep her eyes open any longer. That lightened her step.

Hello! Hola! Hallo! こんにちは!

I get a kick out of seeing who stops by the ol' blog and I really do appreciate the time you take to visit. From me to you, a little hello to:

Cambridge Paris Fairborn Kokkola Barrie Rockwall Suffolk Stockholm San Jose Edmonton Omaha Singapore Kingston Saskatoon Mississauga Nanuit London Isle of Palms Dublin Reading Berkeley Tokyo Burnaby Fairfax Kitchener Prince Albert Newark Waterloo Washington Aurora Queensland Cardiff Calgary San Francisco Coquitlam Riverhead Stokesdale Nanaimo Flekkefjord Jamaica Brooklyn St. Catharines Charlottetown Portland Columbus Halifax Gent Dubai Osijek Santa Rosa Montreal Winchester Los Angeles Basel Dartmouth Ajax Virginia Beach Bath Seattle Reston . . .

Remember to update your links!

http://seenreading.com/

Spadina streetcar, holding his own at the door.

Caucasian male with rounded nose and stubble, wearing blue jeans, striped toque and grey runners, carting a black rolling case and backpack.

Band of Brothers, Stephen E. Ambrose (Simon & Schuster)

Page 145:

Winters and his fifteen-man patrol moved forward quietly, along the south side of the dike. As they approached the SS company, he could see tracer bullets flying off toward the south. The firing made no sense to him; he knew there was nothing down that way and guessed that the Germans must be nervous and confused.

They never tell you, once you've served your country, your next tour of duty will be 20 years on a line pretending you didn't see a thing.

Bloor Line, another over the shoulder.

Caucasian woman, mid 30s, with brown hair pulled back with purple hair tie, wearing blue winter coat, pink scarf and charcoal gray skirt. A weathered crochet cross is her bookmark.

In the Bed of a Duke, Cathy Maxwell (HarperCollins)

Page 69:

And a truce, however acknowledged, existed between them. One Phillip credited himself with negotiating although not even the Spanish ambassador had ever made him work so hard.

On the days she misses him most, she looks at her life reminded that things are alright. Oddly so, in fact. As if her grandfather had taken God by the ear and, pointing, said, "That one, there. You do right by her. My good will is her inheritance."

Bloor Line, ready to hit the pavement.

Caucasian male, early 20s, tall, thin, wearing long black coat, black dress pants, and black leather shoes. He rests against a rolling cart of cardboard boxes, fast and cheap deals, a sidewalk salesman.

The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People: Powerful Lessons in Personal Change, Stephen R. Covey (Free Press)

Near the beginning:

This Personality Ethic, I began to realize, was the subconscious source of the solutions Sandra and I were attempting to use with our son. As I thought more deeply about the difference between the Personality and Character Ethics, I realized that Sandra and I had been getting social mileage out of our children's good behavior, and, in our eyes, this son simply didn't measure up. Our image of ourselves, and our role as good, caring parents was even deeper than our image of our son and perhaps influenced it. There was a lot more wrapped up in the way we were seeing and handling the problem than our concern for our son's welfare.

He shares his father's lingo. He's a problem solver dealing in solution sales. He can't text you on your Blackberry, and he won't be expensing this lunch. But sitting across from you, chatting in between sips of syrup soda and bites of soft shell tacos, he's pretty sure you're going to agree this clock radio is the perfect retirement gift for your boss.

Bloor Line, in fast and eager to sit.

Asian male, late 20s, with short spiky hair, wearing glasses, black jacket and scarf, pressed blue jeans, and white sneakers.

The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari by Robin Sharma (HarperCollins)

Page 9:

Perhaps he had settle down in India, a place so diverse that even a restless soul like his could have made it his home. Or maybe he was trekking through Nepal? Scuba diving off the Caymans? One thing was certain: he had not returned to the legal profession. No one had received even a postcard from him since he left for his self-imposed exile from the Law.

If he had to leave today to live on a desert island, he wouldn't take his favourite books, or music, not even his favourite jersey or pet cat. He'd take a box of all the things he'd been holding when she took his breath away. A grapefruit spoon when she'd asked if he'd like her to buy an extra toothbrush. A safety pin when she'd leaned forward to kiss his forehead while he tried to fasten a presenter's badge to her lapel. A tin of loose tea leaves when she'd announced she was pregnant, really pregnant. And while impractical, his father's coffin, when he'd looked over to see her crying and realized that, one day, she would miss him this much too.

Update your links!

Seen Reading is moving! The joint still needs a little paint on the walls, but the address change is effective immediately.

dubya dubya dubya dot seen reading dot com.

www.seenreading.com

Bloor Line, content to stand in the doorway.

Caucasian woman, 70s, with glasses, wearing black "parachute" pants, black jacket with faux fur collar, and black and white bandana tied around her silver-white hair.

Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage by Alice Munro (McClelland & Stewart)

Halfway:

She paid for the passenger ticket now, from a roll of bills in a cloth bag in her purse. Like an old lady. She counted her change, too. But not the way an old lady would count it--she held it in her hand and flicked her eyes over it, but you could tell she didn't miss a penny. Then she turned away rudely, without a good-bye.

She fans the book in one hand, the other reaching into her pocket. She retrieves a tissue and dabs her nose, mouth open, shallow breaths, no scent, no taste. She sniffs and adjusts her weight, assuming the stance of a teenaged girl, face falling soft, skin creased into crepe paper folds.

Spadina streetcar, freshly shaved on the other side of a weekend.

Caucasian male, mid 30s, with shaggy brown hair, glasses, squared nose and absent chin, the boyishness of his cherub cheeks melting into his father's neck.

The Icewind Dale by R.A. Salvatore (Wizards of the Coast)

Near the middle:

Assassin Artemis Entreri whisks his kidnapped victim, Regis the halfling, south to Calimport and into Pasha Pook's vengeful hands. If Pook can control the magical panther Guenhwyvar, Regis will die in a real game of cat and mouse.

Saturday night. His wife is at the movies with co-workers. Tomorrow, they'll wake up to the paper and pancakes. Maybe she'll sleep a bit late. Banana slices. The good syrup. Freshly ground coffee. Jr. A bouncing baby. The dogs will have been walked. 10:00 am. Day will feel done. And he'll wonder, as he does every Sunday morning, why his father wouldn't want to see his grandson for the first time.

Bloor Line, eager and waiting at Spadina Station.

Caucasian woman, late 20s, with blond hair tucked under a knitted cap with large red flower, wearing red jacket, black and white plaid shirt, and black galoshes.

Sacred Games by Vikram Chandra (HarperCollins)

Page 1:

A white Pomeranian named Fluffy flew out of a fifth-floor window in Panna, which was a brand-new building with the painter's scaffolding still around it. Fluffy screamed in her little lap-dog voice all the way down, like a little white kettle losing steam, bounced off the bonnet of a Cielo, and skidded to a halt near the rank of schoolgirls waiting for the St Mary's Convent bus.

One train passes, the next approaches. She leans on the edge of the bench, back straight, skirt flat, and pretends to read. The doors open and he stands looking both ways, his backpack pulling on his shoulder, a 10 lb bag of Caramel Apple Jelly Bellys weighing it down. The waist of his jeans are still wet. She shaved this morning.

Spadina Streetcar, sunning.

Caucasian woman, early 30s, wearing brown jacket, crisp blue jeans and suede boots, black laptop bag tucked under her arm.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer: The Long Way Home Season 8, Issue 4 by Georges Jeanty, Andy Owens, Jo Chen, Joss Whedon (Dark Horse)

She grew up in a tall, narrow house. Twice a day, once very early and once again on the afternoon trek home, a train rolled up her street, curving through her backyard. She stood at the window, the pane rattling, and waved. Sometimes, it shook so hard she feared the glass would break. On those days, she pressed herself against the window and tried to imagine what kind of superhero could deflect the world's harms with impaled shards of glass.

Canada Reads 2008, Entry Five

Spadina Streetcar, coffee cup leaning lazily on her thigh.

Black woman, mid 20s, hair pulled back into a curly ponytail, tired eyes masked by wide-rimmed glasses, wearing short grey jacket and tight blue jeans, cuffs tucked into lined winter boots.



From the Fifteenth District, Mavis Gallant (McClelland & Stewart)

Page 117:

Mr. Cranefield explained, kindly, that up at Rivabella they had made a patron saint out of a mixture of St. Damian, who was an intellectual, and St. Michael, who was not, and probably a local pagan deity as well. St. Michael accounted for the sword, the pagan for the fire. Reliable witnesses had seen the result, though none of these witnesses were British. "We aren't awfully good at seeing saints," he said. "Though we do have an eye for ghosts."

She stands at the photocopier, finger hovering, matching size and type, her head cocked toward the company kitchenette. Friendly banter turns to heated debate. Everyone likes to back a winner. She's read them all and has her opinions. Perhaps she'll share them. For now, she shuts her eyes hard, stretches her face, her glasses falling offside her tiny nose, and contemplates another cup of coffee. Size and type, she concentrates. Size and type.

Canada Reads 2008

Canada Reads 2008, Entry Four

Timothy's, Church Street, laptop buzzing.

East Indian woman, early 30s, with long, black hair, wearing long, black skirt and thick-soled boots, velvet coat bunched on the seat beside her, gaze darting back and forth from the page to the slight man at the counter.

Brown Girl in the Ring, Nalo Hopkinson (Aspect)

Page 174:

Baby's little fist opened and closed against her skin. He looked deeply into her eyes as thought he were trying to communicate something. He seemed reluctant to take her breast. He'd suck a little, then spit out the nipple and whimper, staring up at her. She was probably taking him to his death. "Child, I sorry," she whispered to him. He fussed and kicked. "She gone, doux-doux, "she said to him. She'd never used that endearment with him before. But now he was the only one of her family left, unless she counted the disembodied woman who was bound by Rudy's obeah to kill her. "Mami gone."

He comes in the same time of day as she does, reading in the back corner for hours. Making his way through a personal library of Russian fiction, he occasionally stands, walking through the coffee shop on the balls of his feet, hands shoved into the high pockets of his flooded khakis. Bottom lip stuck out, he doesn't sit until he's reached a conclusion, a finished thought punctuated by a salute to no one in particular as he lands heavy in his chair, deeply satisfied. His short curls are matted from his winter hat, and his teeth protrude a little, but she's certain that in her comic book world he will be the hero, and get all the girls.

Canada Reads 2008

Canada Reads 2008, Entry Three

Bloor Line, last day before a long weekend.

Caucasian woman, 50s, with blond, soft perm, wearing long beige overcoat and knitted scarf, book in lap, pages levitating.




Not Wanted on the Voyage, Timothy Findley (Penguin)

Page 54:

Mottyl caught only one further glimpse of the cormorant as she paused to get round a particularly fat hedgehog who had fallen asleep in her path--and the glimpse revealed the cormorant spreading its wings as if to dry them after a dive in a river. Then the sight of it was lost--forever, as it turned out--beyond the closing fronds of fern and bagwood.

The bathroom has been cleaned, the carpets vacuumed. An early morning round to empty the trash cans is all that will be needed, then she can set to the task of the snacks--Cherry Crunch Coffee Cake and Almond Drops. Her ladies will like that. She's pulled the china teapot from storage, yellow and green flowers, the inside walls stained from monthly visits, the tradition of her mother's book club living on in spots of Red Rose.

Canada Reads 2008

Canada Reads 2008, Entry Two

Indigo, John and Richmond, leaning in the book stacks.

Caucasian male, early 30s, with wavy, brown hair and dark beard, wearing plaid green jacket, black jeans with stitched back pocket, carrying an old leather bag.



Icefields, Thomas Warton (NeWest Press)

Page 180:

He digs absently with the toe of his boot. There is a faint blue shadow in the hollow where the spilled liquid fell. He crouches, brushes away the snow crust with his gloved hands, digging a hole into the powdery layers beneath. Further down the snow solidifies again. Sexsmith stabs his alpenstock into the hole, strikes a hard surface. Rock, he thinks, and scrapes at it, glimpses a faint reflected gleam.

On the other end of the long drive, while three will shovel a throughway, one will have to make the pathless haul to the front door to turn on the power. They spend the last thirty minutes trying to find a radio signal, listening out for commercials, playing a bastardized version of Rock, Paper, Scissors they made up in high school, twenty years earlier. A pizza jingle beats a car ad, a car ad beats a realtor, and anyone selling hot tubs or saunas beats them all. Inside the cottage, he strips to his shorts and jogs in front of the space heater, an open bottle of red breathing on the counter beside frost-bitten ice trays.


Canada Reads 2008

Canada Reads 2008, Entry One

Starbucks, Saturday, crack of dawn.

Caucasian male, late 30s, with short black hair and goatee, wearing blue bomber jacket, unzipped, hat in his lap, sitting near the window across from a stranger surfing wireless.



King Leary, Paul Quarrington (Anchor)

Page 133:

Lonny Chandrian appears and hands me a puck. The feel of a hockey puck has changed over the years, but I'd be hard-pressed to tell you exactly how. In front of me Killebrew and the Maple Leaves' mook assume the traditional half crouch and poise their sticks above the ice. I hold out the puck and let it tumble. Killebrew bats it in the air, bouncing it upwards, and then he catches the rubber on the blade of his stick. It's a fairly keen stunt.

His morning coffee interrupted by peeling squeals, neighbourhood kids too far down the ice, going against all the rules of all the parents. Would serve them right, he'd thought, scratching behind his ear while the bread browned in the toaster. The clock chimed, the Black-Capped Chickadee ringing 10:00 am. The squeals reached near mania. He slammed his palm against the counter and lunged toward the door. On the back porch, he scanned the lake, pulling his robe tight to his body one moment, off in the next. One boy in, two on the edges.

Canada Reads 2008

Canada Reads entries now live!

CBC.ca has posted my entries for Canada Reads 2008. You can read them here!

To those new here, welcome! Kick back and relax.

Canada Reads 2008

The folks at CBC approached me some time back to ask if there was any interest in me taking on a little mission, an entry for each of the finalists for Canada Reads 2008 (CBC Radio One.) My reply? "Hella, I was gonna do it, anyhow." Together, through fields of daisies, we skipped, picking up stray trash along the way, and next week, Monday to Friday, you can read the findings on the official site for Canada Reads, found here.

Congratulations to the finalists and bonne chance to the defenders!

Bloor Line, standing out from the crowd.

Caucasian male, early 50s, with long face, wavy, grey hair parted down the middle, "I Am Salman Rushdie" button pinned on North Face jacket, wearing red jeans and white sneakers.

The God Delusion, Richard Dawkins (Mariner Books)

Page 150:

So, we have seen that eyes and wings are certainly not irreducibly complex; but what is more interesting than these particular examples is the general lesson we should draw. The fact that so many people have been dead wrong over these obvious cases should serve to warn us of other examples that are less obvious, such as the cellular and biochemical cases now being touted by those creationists who shelter under the politically expedient euphemism of "intelligent design theorists."

As a boy, he'd stood in the woods watching. The man was the first redhead he'd ever seen naked, the second man. His body hair was shocking, not in mass or texture. It glowed, back lit by a low morning sun. This minister had started dating his mother. His minister. They were bathing in the lake, thinking him still asleep. This was the first redheaded naked minister he'd ever seen, he thought, and went back to bed.

Bloor Line, pasta, pasta, pasta.

Caucasian male, late 40s, large and fit, wearing brown leather jacket, jeans and black leather shoes, carrying groceries and using a Price Chopper receipt as his bookmark.

Million Dollar Baby, F.X. Toole (HarperCollins)

Page 65:

Okay, he thought, times have changed. Dames are doing what guys is doing, but that don't make it right. And then there were the practical reasons. Scheduling fights around periods. And bruised tits. And what if one was pregnant and had a miscarriage because of a fight? That, and he couldn't cuss.

By the time he'd reached late high school, he told his young son, he was winning most of his matches. Why wasn't he happy then? the son had asked. Flipping through old yearbooks, they couldn't find one picture in which he was smiling. The father ran a self-conscious tongue over his veneers and remembered to love himself.

Bloor Line, Sunday brunch

Hispanic male, early 40s, with brown, finger-combed hair, wearing blue jacket, glasses and headphones.

While Canada Slept, Andrew Cohen (McClelland & Stewart)

Page 2:

As the country's chief diplomat, Manley was refreshing. Amid the puree of platitudes which passes for truth in Ottawa these days, his lament had a ring of authenticity.

The woman next to him wonders how he can read with headphones on. She's shared her opinion with the woman, of no relation, next to her, and the man across the aisle. How, she continues, he can concentrate is beyond her, the snap on her purse keeping time with the toe of her boot. There is no music. There are no batteries. Just a failed buffer. And, yes, he'd like to concur, it is rather hard to hear with all this racket.

Bloor Line, Saturday night, a little sloshed.

Caucasian woman, early 20s, with brown hair pulled back into loose ponytail, wearing long brown felt jacket with three buttons on each cuff, and bright yellow rubber boots.

Open All Night, Charles Bukowski (Ecco)

Page 309:

From "Chinaski"

agnostic
soul
and now let us go on to
more worthwhile
things

He likes to listen to her read, his head restful in her lap. Last night, she caught their reflection. His jaw was tight. She stroked his head and asked if everything was fine. He blinked hard and sat up, pulling out his ponytail and scratching behind his ears. Was it cool if he took off, he'd said? Could he take the book, maybe some others?