Published on Mondays, with columns by Artists and Writers
Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication
Click here to subscribe



by Madeleine Slavick 思樂維

Trees in a concrete sea.

View archive


Poem a Week
by Gary Michael Dault


a copper moon
my desert skin
a frying pan
over my head
beats like a gong
there's an icy island
where they speak
in clouds
and break off icicles
to chew
nobody there
has heard of heat
they think it's a river
with cooked fish

by Fiona Smyth

View archive


by Kai Chan

Spring Drawing 15, 2021 watercolour on paper

View archive


DOUBLE DOUBLE issue 0813-2021

View Current Issue

Holly Lee - NIGHT OWL SONATA (in one movement) “To write, from one language to another …..”/ Lee Ka-sing - Images and design for 劉霜陽 Lau Kin-wai's book "In and Out of the Frame" 畫框內外, a book about art criticism (1992).

From the Notebooks (2010-2021)
by Gary Michael Dault

From the Notebooks, 2010-2021.
Number 98: For a Distant Summer (August 14, 2021)

Some Trees
by Malgorzata Wolak Dault

Number 88

You can always talk to a tree.

Travelling Palm Snapshots
by Tamara Chatterjee

Uzbekistan (November, 2019) – At some point it was Gato 2 who guided the way through the courtyards of the Kalan Mosque. Meandering though the archways; all (but the cat) in admiration of the hand crafted mosaics and tiles. The cat also oblivious to the way the light danced from the shade trees, or cascaded reflections from the domed ceilings in the midday sun.

View archive


by Cem Turgay


Leaving Taichung Station
by Bob Black

ボケット:  Boketto
(letters to a wife, found in a box)

"He knew nothing to do but inhabit the paradoxes."--William McIlvanney

Letter 2

Dear Light,

The rare light umbrellas storm-ward and catches both wind and the swarming that ignites from the seasonal change, the gnats that scatter from the grass like poppy-seed or black-winter salt thrown over ice crisp and alight with sound in the diminutive luster, the bees that hone upward, chasing the crevasses and dents of a cloud’s face, incandescent as phosphorous mountaining up an altitudinal giant, the dew ascending from the cupping of late-afternoon warmth and the frequencies of language and sound gone awry in this late September timbre. All this enchantment and all the eruption which recall the distance from where I sit among the change of thought and temperature, scampering toward that which is you. Becoming. Sift these words like husk and the fingers in one another’s mouth.

I stare horizon-long and look for you in the late summer ascension, the barn swallows arabesque in the dimming light nuanced by weight and the memory of cinnamon (not spice but carriage and absent poundage), the winging of the early-jetting bats whose youth is feverish and eager and the flapping of bird and mammal which I glove and toss distant from this drying land toward the watery spaces from which you speak to me from afar. Later, the cars’ headlights at speak of desire and loss in their carving of speed or spinning, for you are not here to skirt them in the lit-up walk home and the shadows that remind us of other certainties. At night, you tired your stories against my chest like darned socks balled. In the morning we exchanged dream-tales like recipes for the awakening.

Writing a letter in absence of your presence, I distance the miles in an alphabet of phonemes and clutter. Love as sound. Meaning as the negotiation of pattern: the streetlamp under which you picked the insect bite at your knee, the wisp of a strand or two of your hair that fell like dandelion stuck from breath on the upper lip and forefinger. The stone that you found, suddenly, in your pocket like a forgotten receipt. The box opened in the old woman’s shop that carved out juniper and allspice. The algebra of desire and the dissipating light.

Distance pulling, the pulse at run and of you. 
We scatter ourselves, though the distance fans like prints in muddy sand, and declare the spaces and the pace of us, elongated and holy.

My love, I am leaving:

I am leaving, so remember the tattoos that line the curves of my body as the light carving against my bones and your hips locked into place and sound:
ink chiseled into a temple wall across the sea.

And thus, please
take the stars into your mouth and count them at night:

they will speak my name.

your, only your,


View archive

Caffeine Reveries
by Shelley Savor

Everyone Had Grown Used To Dark Clouds Looming

View archive


The Photograph
coordinated by Kamelia Pezeshki

Untitled by Denis Lalonde

View archive

The Raw and the Cooked, MYTHOLOGIQUES
(A column on the culture of eating and cooking)

by Kai Chan

I often have one or two quince fruit in the house when they are in season. I like its wonderful fragrance and the beautiful yellow colour. Many people describe it like an apple but I think it distinguishes itself with a more sculptural form.
We had very tasty goat stew with quince fruit in Istanbul, since then I often add quince fruit into my stews.

Gary Dault has introduced the cookbook by Patience Gray’s “Honey From a Weed - Fasting & Feasting in Tuscany, Catalonia, the Cyclades & Apulia” in this column. It is a wonderful book to read, full of amazing food, people and places, however, as the subtitle indicates, the range of ingredients are difficult to find in Toronto, especially the variety of fishes. However I did find a wonderful recipe for making quince jam.

First, weight the same amount of sugar as the quince fruit, then peel and core the fruit and cut into 1/4 inches slices and put them into water with lemon juice. Keep the mixture in the fridge  overnight then put it into a stainless pot, heat until boiling, dip in a sprig of basil for a minute  and then lower the heat to simmer until the mixture turns a light rosy pink. Turn off the heat for about 10 minutes, add the sugar and turn on the heat to boil. add more basil if desired. Patience Gray said the jam will turn into rose red, but my jam appeared to be pale pink.

Store the jam in sterilized glass jar. One quince fruit will make two cups of jam.



The Raw and the Cooked, MYTHOLOGIQUES is a new column on the culture of eating and cooking, with contributions by various authors. The column name is borrowed from the title of a book by Claude Levi-Strauss. It is spontaneous, a little amusing but serious at the same time.



(Breakfast area and small shop)

Located on the second floor of an art space, INDEXG Bed and Breakfast has 4 guest rooms, all with ensuite bathroom. Since 2008, INDEXG B&B have served curators, artists, art-admirers, collectors and professionals from different cities visiting and working in Toronto.

50 Gladstone Ave, Toronto

ISSN 1918-6991
Published on Mondays, with columns by Artists and Writers
Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication


Click here to Subscribe


Back to blog