Kathy Moore T’S ONLY THREE, EARLY THursday morning. Rather than sleeping, | am fueled by the unnatural stimulation of coffee and too much rest. I’ve run out of books to read. Instead of doing something productive, like going for a walk in the damp spring morning, I’m gazing at the inane repetitiveness’ of Newsworld’s Morningside. | can hear newspapers being fed into mailboxes which clap shut, their bellies sated, one after another. That satisfied sound reaches my ears, like inviting music telling me ‘now it is time to feast.’ I’ve begun reading newspapers again. They’ve developed a charm. Instead of the endless cycle of regurgitated 10—second soundbites and recycled disaster shots pre- sented by the tv eye, there is a little depth, and balance, and sometimes even research, in the newspaper. Of course it’s not my newspaper. | could never care for a newspaper of my own like | care for these other newspapers. Besides, | can’t afford a subscrip- tion—not because of the price, but because newspapers are addictive: My time costs more than anything poten- tially gained from the daily infusion of current events and the social commen- tary from knowledgeable experts that’s in a newspaper. Anyways, | feel journalists are not the sort of people who get involved with reality. Certainly not my reality. Well, that’s been my logic up ‘til now. Newspapers take effort. Television is effortless. I'd really rather have my politics and bloody disasters distilled to their very essence in those ten-second tv soundbites. They are so remote, utterly disassociated from my own life. They’re safer. But it’s summer vaca- tion. There are hours between the six o’clock news’ overwhelming thought- lessness and the morning report, and all without school filling them. | don’t need a “News Hour,” | need a “News Day.” Television won’t fill the interven- ing hours. Instead of getting a job this summer to pay for next fall’s tuition I’m skulking around my neighbour's mailboxes, hours before they awaken, reading their newspapers. I’ve. turned the television off and gone outside, lured by the siren call of home delivery. They’re still warm from the presses, ammonia wafting from the easily smudged ink. I’m wearing plastic gloves on my hands. Sure, | worry about being caught, not that my fingerprints are on file anywhere...yet. Cheap plastic gloves collect my skin’s aspiration’s and condensation begins to trickle down my arms. The gloves are pilfered from the Pharmasave up the block, from a box of hair dye. | suppose | could get a job in retail, constantly looking out for shoplifters. In the unlit pre-dawn morning it could be tough to read the 8-point text of the Globe and Mail, but my street’s gaslight is enough to cause only minimal eyestrain. Look, another personally relevant and socially insightful Red River update. Two blocks over there’s someone who gets the Toronto Sun delivered. Hopefully it’s just a case of homesick- ness. Confession oF A WORD JUNKIE It’s only 4:30. There’s still two more hours until anyone on his block wakes up—this is not the pastime for an amateur; /’ve done my research. The tan house on the corner gets the Vancouver Sun, so that’s my next stop. Broadsheet all the way, nothing decent ever gets printed on tabloid. Even the name “tabloid” is tawdry. Time to refold the Globe and head across the street. Maybe next summer I’ll get a job working at a bookstore so | can just read periodicals all day. Concept. Sigh. Many of my instructors hand out recommended reading lists, maybe some year I'll find the energy to leave my block and search some of those titles out. Until | get that initiative | suppose I’m stuck screen- ing neighbours’ papers. Perhaps the mailman will deliver magazines today. | could keep awake until eleven. There are bookshelves in my basement. Full of books that I’ve already read. The only new thing I’m inspired to read right now is political commentary. But that’s likely to fully sever the few ties | have left to reality. The Sun has nothing for me today. Seems the ‘New Homes’ section has finally taken over the entire paper. The sun is peeking over the edge of Golden Ears. Time to go inside. Time to sleep, but | can’t yet. Still caffeine- wired. Every nerve is taut, every motion expressed seems strung. | am a violin. Standing up, brushing grit from my clothes, quivering with alertness, | scuffle home. The early riser on Braeburn has flicked the kitchen light on. She'll be leaving in a few minutes. It’s best to head indoors. The rest of the neighbourhood will be leaving for work. Then the rest of my day can begin. | have such plans. My hands tremble.