I am primarily writing for Argue Job now. My posts are listed under the anagrammatic pen name “Burly Letter”. Read them here: arguejob.wordpress.com.

Look for a guest post on the fantastic slowcoustic.com in the near future.

Posts here are going to be necessarily few and far between, but I’m still writing for you.

Come see me perform next Saturday, July 30, 4 pm at the Black Dog.

T.

Again, my apologies to those who have been waiting for their copies of Winter King. The postal strike is over. Everything is in the mail right now, flying through the sky to the four corners of the world.

I am not built for this dry Edmonton heat. It is an inescapable force that leaves me drained, coated in a sheen of sweat. I have been staying inside for the worst part of the days drinking iced coffee and dreaming of  late summer breezes and long nights in the river valley.

T.

I have to pull out of my scheduled spot at Landisfest on July 15 for personal reasons. I’ll try to make it up to Grande Prairie in the fall.

T.

I’ve been waiting very impatiently for The Group Sound to complete this record ever since we (of Jom Comyn) shared a bill with them at Wunderbar. Do yourself a favour, listen to Secret Girlfriend on repeat all summer.

T.

I am awaiting the final confirmation, but it looks like I will be opening for F&M on July 30 at the Black Dog. F&M is centred around the husband and wife of Ryan and Rebecca Anderson. They are wonderful musicians and people, and I am thrilled to finally share the stage with them. Find out everything about them on their website: www.fandmtheband.com/

Celebrated Canada Day by lifting furniture, then enjoying a few bottles of Prosecco with close friends. Today finds my senses lessened: my muscles are dull and heavy, my ears and nose and eyes are blurred with lingering illness, my tongue is coated in celebration and cheap coffee and toothpaste.

I am dedicating myself to recovery.

T.

Curled up and sick as a dog these last two days. The earth has become a buoyant sea, shifting beneath me. Managed to get home early this morning, and have been resting in my apartment waiting for my voice to heal. I am supposed to be recording a Gordon Lightfoot cover for a compilation over at Herohill — fingers crossed that I don’t sound like a toad tomorrow morning.

Can’t wait to try this great-looking recipe tonight.

T.

“He is one of the few truly generous and supportive and generative mentors of younger writers. There are so many writers across the country just a few yours younger than him to someone who is just coming up today who might run into him. All of whom he greets with great generosity and says ‘Welcome to the club. The door is open, come on in and see what you can offer.’”

T.

I have been travelling throughout Alberta for the last four weeks, working myself to the bone. I’m heading home to Edmonton tonight after a week in Red Deer, training staff in a new office. I am sitting in my hotel room in Sylvan Lake, packed and waiting, watching sailboats scoot across the water under a gathering storm. My Father and I both wish to learn to sail: a foreign pursuit for we Albertans without a lake to frolic in. Still, the maritime blood that boils in my veins utters a primitive call when I view such an oceanic pastime.

My sincerest apologies if you have ordered Winter King and not yet received it. When word began to circulate that Canada Post was going to strike, I decided to wait until that particular storm had blown its course. I’ll be shipping all outstanding orders tomorrow.

I was deeply struck last week when news reached me of the death of Robert Kroetsch. I had the privilege of meeting him in Calgary just one week before he passed. He still crackled with his famous wit and exuded the comfortable feel of an irreplaceable mentor and support of the arts in Alberta. His work has drastically influenced my own. I easily recall a night when Sean and I, drinking whiskey, took turns shouting snippets of Kroetsch’s poetry at each other until we lost our voices and sank down contented. He will be greatly missed.

T.

Playing tomorrow night at Wunderbar. Brody is backing me up on bass. Here is the Facebook event.

T.

PS: It doesn’t matter that I’ve read the book three or four times. It doesn’t matter that I am completely aware of the futility of my attempts to avert the storyline. I’m still (spoiler alert) probably going to weep like an infant when Ned Stark is executed.

I was struck with an unparalleled literary grief when I first read Game of Thrones in high school.  I know now why the loss of a single character meant so much to me. Stark’s death marked the end of my ability to believe in archetypal morality or heroism. It coincided with my early education concerning realpolitik, and my growing understanding of characters and the literal world.  It was a drastic shift in how I experienced reading, writing and living.

This exposition has gone on long enough. I will leave you with one last thought. When you play the game of thrones, you win or you cry.