Paper. Fire. Deaf.

The building fire alarm went off THREE times last night. 

You know, I appreciate the need to wake people up in times possibly fraught with danger.

The need, however, to DISEMBOWEL THEIR EARDRUMS with relentless unstoppable high-pitched beeping seems highly unnecessary.

Anyhow, the fire department got called the first time around (the second and third I just stayed in bed. Perishing in the flames, I decided, would still be preferable to opening my door that sound again.)

But yes. The first time. In a highly foggy manner, I thought to myself perhaps this could be an incident fraught with some danger, and I collected up my drawings, in case I should have to vacate in a speedy fashion. I put my laptop in my bag, and my camera as they are the only expensive things I own, and stood in my living room, thinking about the end of my world. 

Why, you ask?
There are five archival boxes of completed drawings in my home. At least a dozen more drawings/paintings on the walls. We won't even attempt to count the books, visual ephemera at least 500 postcards strong, etc etc.

And then I put all the drawings down, save the present unfinished six. 

Let's face it. My entire life is made of paper. If I'm going up in flames, it's over.

Then I stared with no small amount of irony at a photo on my wall of me spinning (fire) on Toronto Island last summer. 

Conflicting interests, could we say?