Thursday, January 24, 2013

Parkdale plaques

Throughout 2012, as part of the Parkdale BIA's community garden initiative, four new historical plaques were created and installed in Parkdale.

My friend and incredible artist Joel Hentges did the graphic design, and I wrote the copy and chose the photos.  I think they turned out really well, and it was so interesting to learn about Parkdale's history!  You can find them throughout Parkdale sprinkled around the Queen and Brock area, but you can also check them out here: 

This one is located on the South West corner of Queen and Elm Grove (by The Mascot). 


This one is located on the North East corner of Brock and Queen, by an umbrella tree.


This one is in front of 1313 Queen Street West (South side).  

This one is in the garden beside the Coffee Tyme where old men sit silently sipping coffee all day.

Wish I knew how to post the better quality versions of these on here, because I am really proud of what I wrote - I even slipped a couple of jokes in them. When I finished working at the BIA, I felt kind of bad about myself because they gave me a really wonderful opportunity to fill in as Executive Director over the summer, and my ol' self esteem issues made me feel like I was really incompetent, but whenever I see these plaques, I remember that I did do at least one good thing for Parkdale, and they'll be there for a couple of years at least.  They don't have our names on them, but I know who made them!  Next time you're in Parkdale, take a look!

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Emily Anglin

A poem by Emily Anglin.

Material

When you have swaddled your head in vermillion
linen to block a glint that widens like a coo
into a dim room striped with amber light;
when you have lain below a sink, hooded by an apron of
mauve lace, and peeped through eyelets at high panes
dappled with yellow and lime;
when you have sat on a bathing house step in the late-winter sun
and bundled your brow in a rough wool scarf
steeped to a sea green as the wind rushes;
when you have leaned against the bleached stone lion that guards
the coast, and wound yourself in sacking, 
binding your own wrappings
with twine,
as the gusts lift past a scrubbed seawall—then,
set,
bonneted,
tied
and laid out on the cool salt shore,
flat under bright sun you can slowly tune
a white light for shut lids to become.