BTW - a freelance update - my new managing editor loves my first article, in his words, "everyone loves it... you can stay!" So, we're invited to a private launch party at a posh undeserving-elitist-dress-code club this week to [accidently] brush up against Canadian celebs. And since it's on a Thursday during Hollywood north's TIFF, I may meet some undeserving-sense-of-accomplishment personalities. Who dares me to cup one of Pamela Anderson's boobs?

this is a love note

This Saturday morning paints it in clear greasy rain puddles for me: summer's glory's all but gone.

I can sense the inevitable subtle shift toward autumn.

It's in the way the sunlight comes deeper, on a nearly imperceptable slant, and the way the thought of fixing that hole in the pocket of my winter coat dawned on me while the scattered showers soaked (not cooled) me.

It's on the empty patios, in the switch to stout as a seasonal beer and in the cured smoky perfume the trees begin to cloak themselves in.

And in my bed at night it's obvious, when I can curl myself in your arms, braid my body with yours, brush the arch of your foot with the top of mine (warm like a smooth stone in summer sand), feel your damp breath on my neck and not sweat.