20 stories of brilliance, at least that's what I have in mind...?

I started a journal the other day. A nice black moleskin with that great elastic closure and the internal pocket. I like trying to write in it on the bus. It’s difficult but fulfilling. Sort of a strange metaphor for being aware amidst distraction and turbulence.

So this is sort of journal2.0, a sort of Second Life © for my moleskin. And hey, I’ll let other people see this one, so that a plus for you, you nosy parker. And if you actually read that, well then I’m pleased someone’s actually looking at this, my childish and futile plea for attention.

My wife and I live on the 20th story of an apartment complex in lovely Ottawa, Ontario. It’s the top floor, which gives people the sense that it’s fancy. It’s really not, I promise. And it’s not even really the 20th story—it’s the 19th, because the building doesn’t have a 13th floor.

So really this should be called the 19th story. But it’s the 20th, because writing is usually far more powerful than reality, and I live on the 20th floor. It’s written, quite literally, on the wall.

I’ve found myself spending an inordinate amount of time thinking about and reading about politics lately as the American primaries start heating up and the war in Iraq just keeps trudging along. It turns out an American like myself actually has to leave the country to gain an interest in politics. I am fascinated by the phenomenon. Mostly I’m just fascinated by myself. Thus the blog. You know how it works.

Right, back to real life. More later.