July 29th, 2024

Dear reader,

First off: thanks to the many who hit reply on the newsletter I spun out last month (016 — Life and Death and Tomorrow). In my overwhelm I didn’t write back to each of you, but know that I read every word and they were much appreciated.

June 27th, 2024

This is not the next newsletter I wanted to write. But, life interrupted.

Last week, a friend passed away in a plane crash. She was piloting a routine flight in her twin-engine Piper, something went wrong, and she put the plane down in a wooded lot avoiding the many houses around it. The rest of the story’s details are unknown.

March 30th, 2024

That’s it - only all-inclusive vacations from here on out.

I mutter this half in jest, but the other half...well, you could say I’m half serious. Planning a trip from scratch is such a headache. Sunwing Vacations is doing God’s work in giving us what we need without the prerequisite of an existential crisis in the face of what’s possible. Only a fool would turn away from the travel package overlords with the absurd idea that they could do it better.

January 28th, 2023

The world’s calendar flipped as I rolled out of bed.

It’s early on New Year’s Day - quiet, save for Rick Astley’s lingering midnight promise to never give me up. Last night I joined the London, England, livestream to count down to 2024 with some friends. Their celebration culminates at 6 pm on our local clocks, to the great convenience of kids and my fellow sleep-loving adults.

October 21st, 2023

I grew up in the arms of trees, buoyed by the sturdy limbs of maple and unwavered by the sticky bark of spruce. For a young one, their perches gave a perspective loftier than even the adults who otherwise towered above.

The birds called to me and I called back; watching them dart out and up to forage for little ones left behind. A hop and a halt - both of us moving, watching, waiting. Light tickled skin and feather alike, dappling through the treetops as the sun winked across the sky.

September 1st, 2023

The office in my apartment shares a wall with a neighbour - one through which I can measure how the stock market is doing on any given day. How, you ask? Well, while the elderly couple who live on the other side are lovely...they're also heavy smokers.

There are certain clockwork rhythms built into a lifetime. In the case of my neighbours, every Wednesday at 6 pm the needle drops and their record player livens up the building with swing music. Friday is cleaning day, so their vacuum serves as a 9 am wake-up call for anyone who might be sleeping in. And whenever the stock market goes red, they double down on the cigarettes and my apartment smells like a Robin's Donuts back in the '90s.

July 23rd, 2023

I live a rather large life out of a rather small apartment, which translates to a home with not a single square foot wasted.

It's filled with a mix of tools and emptiness - to facilitate flow from one into the other. Projects, relationships, the world...home is my base camp for stepping out and into all of it.

May 27th, 2023

There's a tiny slice of pavement between my neighbourhood supermarket and the senior's apartment next to it. It's kind of a grey area, not claimed by grocers or landlords. And just like the shadowed nook under the bleachers back in high school, it attracts a certain type of person - albeit with witty elders instead of sassy teenagers.

It's known as Dale's Office, a title honouring the namesake fellow who sets up his lawn chair (office chair?) in this no man's land each summer. Smudged by his seemingly never-ending pack of cigarettes, Dale creates a casual space that has a certain centre of gravity to it. Neighbours are enticed one-by-one into his semi-circle to chat and wile away the day. Their conversations are bluntly real, yet they are guardrailed by the rules Dale makes clear to all with his practiced welcome speech: leave the drama at home and no arguing.

March 16th, 2023

Greetings fellow wranglers of time,

It's good to see you again. Thank you for all the kind responses after my last dispatch. My vision is slowly returning, but the jury's still out on how the dust will settle around the health gamble.

January 28th, 2023

Fellow watchers of scintillation,

A lone streetlamp stands sentinel outside my apartment, holding a light against the long nights of winter. Snowflakes drift into its white orb from the darkness beyond. Hurried feet trace ephemeral patterns on the living canvas.

Nov 27th, 2022

Fellow foot soldiers,

The rains arrived in the mountains alongside my stride, quelling summer’s lingering heat with moisture, and frost, and snow. With a collective sigh, billowing smoke from the Chetamon Wildfire receded along with lofty goals; reality keeping us both in check.

September 12th, 2022

Fellow shouldered shoulder-season-ers,

It’s camping season! At least, it is according to my annual rhythms. The hoards of mosquitoes and tourists have retreated back to the abodes from whence they came. Glacier runoff has slowed, making river crossings more possible than in the warmer days of summer. And equinox light is perfectly balanced - not too much, and not too little.

August 20th, 2022

Fellow citizens of summer,

Can you feel it? Overnight, the wind has suddenly taken on a cool tinge; rustling both leaves and bare legs with a warning breath. Summer was short and sweet. I am wistful, but the seasons march on.

July 7th, 2022

Fellow toilers of words,

The time travel experiment of Afterwords Japan (AWJ) is complete! And...I daresay it was a success? A sincere thanks to all of you who hopped onboard this ephemeral pop-up newsletter with me.

(A time sensitive tldr: Join me for a new pop-up newsletter that will run daily from May 7th to 31st: www.davidquiring.com/afterwordsjapan)

May 4th, 2022

Fellow imbibers of delights,

April 21st, 2022

Greetings great encouragers,

Welcome to edition 002 of Intersections, my monthly missive that has been running for two straight months now. It's nice to be here.

March 16th, 2022

Greetings dear reader, from the blank canvas that is a white Winnipeg winter.

Snow is falling gently as I write this; a soft quietude floating down from the sky that has the power to settle even a city. I sip a cup of bright green tea as I stare out the window into a monochromatic world. For a moment I forget about the horns blasting Trump-isms a stone's throw away from my home. For now, the snow covers up the sins of the world. But, spring is coming.