I am studying the process of language acquisition. I propose to teach English as a second language to adults. I am immersed in phonemes, morphemes, transcription systems and pedagogical grammar. We attempt to communicate – transmit, receive …

The miracle of language. The perception, ideation and utterance of beauty.

Subject, verb, object: Who is G-d?

Let us speak. Let us decrypt one another. Where are we written?

Powered lines web the earth; we come closer and move further away.

I like punctuation. The subtle connective tissue of a semicolon, used always with intent and sparingly, illuminates an unexpected contrast.

Without contrast we cannot construct the word reality, we cannot begin. Everything we would hope to pin down to our velvety new word breaks down. Particles become waves, entanglement ensues. There have been moments when the cohesion of the universe relied entirely on one thoughtfully placed element of punctuation, rare dawn pearlish moments.

• Geneviève Bergeron, 21
• Hélène Colgan, 23
• Nathalie Croteau, 23
• Barbara Daigneault, 22
• Anne-Marie Edward, 21
• Maud Haviernick, 29
• Barbara Maria Klucznik, 31
• Maryse Laganière, 25
• Maryse Leclair, 23
• Anne-Marie Lemay, 27
• Sonia Pelletier, 23
• Michèle Richard, 21
• Annie St-Arneault, 23
• Annie Turcotte, 21

Today marks the seventeenth anniversary of the Montreal Massacre. These are the names of fourteen women – thirteen students and one employee. At École Polytechnique, in Montréal, Quèbec, Canada, on this day in 1989, these fourteen women were murdered by a man with a rifle. Thirteen people were injured. Forty-five minutes after the shooting started, suicide ended it.

Because we each enter this world through the body of a woman.
Because the killing of women for being women continues, unabated, among all people, all over the world.
Because blame will not heal this wound.
Because remembrance may teach what hatred forgets — we search the heart.

I am thinking about to have and have not. I have in my hand a slim digital device. I take it out in the street. If you are the spark that catches my eye – I take your picture with it. I try to be discrete, not to trouble you. Recently I enacted a policy of preserving anonymity. In this meagre way may I show some respect for you, whomever you are, smooth out the wrinkle of neglecting your permission. Nevertheless, I help myself to an image of what you have/have not, to make a point. Please -

forgive me.

For those less familiar, Bay Street shelters BIG $ … not to mention a shadowy den full of well-heeled Jesuits. This is the northern terminus of Bay. When hippies were hippies, this was “hippie yorkville“. Gentrification is on steroids. The wrecking ball has been in full swing for quite some time. The word botox is at least as common as hello. G-d bless the resistor with the can of white spray paint.

Who hates whom and why?

Ye find me guilty of binary politics? Jury me, judge me -

We, we, we, I tell you. Us. Only one. All beggars, dust and ashes.

An Italian proverb states; “Once the game is over, the king and the pawn go back in the same box.”.

Some of us sleep on fewer illusions than the rest of us, that’s all.