Friday the 13th in Toronto, Ontario, and I've settled in for an evening of classic slasher movies, childhood nostalgia, and the peculiar comforts of Jason Voorhees. I've been revisiting the Friday the 13th franchise, remembering the VHS tapes of my youth, and contemplating the various indignities inflicted upon one of horror cinema's most celebrated murderers.

Elsewhere, the Canadian cost of living has been weighing upon me, though I've had a few pleasant encounters with good food, old music, and the small kindnesses that make an otherwise difficult existence considerably more agreeable. I've been thinking about community, the value of human connection, and how something almost inconsequential to one person might mean the world to somebody else.

It's getting late, I've got a horror movie waiting, and I'm hoping to find myself somewhere magnificent in my dreams.

NIGHT MATERIALS

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November twelfth, Toronto, Ontario, and I've woken up considerably later than intended, surrounded by people who've already begun their working day. There's something faintly humiliating about climbing out of a cot while your colleagues are going about their ordinary affairs, though they've been remarkably decent about the whole thing, and I suppose I ought to be grateful that nobody decided to wake me with a broom.

I've been getting back into photography lately, and thinking about the curious things an image can preserve beyond whatever happens to be visible within its borders. An empty doorway, an unremarkable corner of a room, the ordinary geometry of a place you've passed through a hundred times. Some of these photographs contain entire afternoons for me, though I doubt anybody else would know what to make of them.

And then there are the objects we carried around as children, those magnificent pieces of cheap plastic and cardboard upon which we invested such tremendous fortunes of imagination, ambition, and occasionally our very reputations. I've been remembering some of those things, and a rather formidable young gentleman named John French.

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November ninth, Toronto, Ontario. I've just finished a rather magnificent falafel wrap from a Turkish restaurant down the street, where the people have taken to treating me with such extraordinary kindness that I find myself increasingly reluctant to go anywhere else. There's a cup of tea involved, naturally, and a woman whose understanding of hospitality seems to have survived whatever dreadful transformation has overtaken the rest of modern commerce.

The cold is settling in around Lake Ontario, and I'm sitting in the car, contemplating the peculiar events of the past twenty-four hours. I've slept rather badly, though the circumstances were sufficiently ridiculous that I suspect I might have difficulty explaining them to anybody who hasn't already made peace with the general absurdity of my existence.

There are some encouraging developments, at least. The debt is finally approaching its end, and I've got a bowl of soup waiting for me. I've also been thinking about Jean-Claude Van Damme, among other things, which may or may not be a consequence of the exhaustion.

NIGHT MATERIALS

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