I had almost forgotten how much I love trains. You can’t count the GO train, really. It doesn’t go fast enough to rock you the same way, and it smacks of commuter convenience. There is no sense of exciting destination, though I swear every time I’m on one, I can smell my mother’s roast beef slowly simmering away. As a child, my grandmother used to take the train every summer to visit her family in Winnipeg. Once or twice, I got to go along for the ride. I have vague memories of sleeper cars, and faded photographic evidence of scenes…

I promise to only do this once every few months… Sunday’s show was spectacular. It was exactly the kind of high-art, high-class, sexy, sultry, comedic, variety onslaught I’ve always dreamed about. The resulting photos are phenomenal, of course, thanks to Ryan Visima. There are some really gorgeous shots of the guys and gals, but I found myself cringing at some of my own photos.I know I’m too hard on myself, and that probably nobody else cares about my thighs the way I do. Or my tummy for that matter. In fact, I know that once the weather thaws and I…

Billie Black, Photographed by Michel Mersereau This is what I see as I sit in bed, breaking my own no-laptop-in-bed rule, surveying The Fortress.It’s almost show time, and my apartment is a sea of feathers, and sequins, and silky drawers. There are rhinestone encrusted shoes, wigs, boas, tiaras, scarves, and tassels as far as the eye can see. Tomorrow night I have cleared my schedule so that I can meticulously work through the set list and put together each outfit for each number. This is one of the show elements I most enjoy. If you walked into my apartment, and…

Little cramped words scrawling all overthe paperLike draggled fly’s legs,What can you tell of the flaring moonThrough the oak leaves?Or of my uncertain window and thebare floor Spattered with moonlight?Your silly quirks and twists have nothingin themOf blossoming hawthorns,And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth,virgin of lovelinessBeneath my hand. I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heartagainstThe want of you;Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,And posting it.And I scald alone, here, under the fireOf the great moon. Amy Lowell

1-12 The Guests.m4aThis song is dedicated to my Valentines. Both of them. Thank you for a very memorable Valentines day. Is that it then? Perhaps it should be. I was starting to feel too much, and that just made no sense at all. It’s so much easier for me to just turn away and say “enough”. Try explaining this to anyone on the outside. Try telling your very best girlfriends about such a strange connection, and watch as they arch their eyebrows when you get to the punch line. But despite that, despite my own reservations, I know this is…