A long walk down Barrington with the shoreline on one side, stitched with smokestacks and cranes. Not raining really, except under trees when wind loosens it from leaves.

We glimpse blue sky, but only from the waterfront. The colours sliding across the surface of the water are richer than the unreflected world. Hard to find a horizon without a telephone pole, chimney, or mast jutting up in front of it. G. says, There are so many telephone wires that they spoil the view but not enough that they become interesting in themselves.

I left the house with a hand-drawn map but hardly needed it; unusually, here I am able to find my way intuitively. The water is an indisputable landmark. There are few distractions, and everything feels familiar. Halifax reminds me of Montreal and of St. John's at the same time. It is somewhere distinctly between.

My immediate connectedness is partly because I have family and friends here, and also because I am more willing to make connections. I feel myself slowly becoming someone who is easier to get to know. Less locked inside myself. Opening from the inside.

On my bedroom door here there is a small bolt that has been installed on the door instead of on the doorframe, so it does nothing. All my defences are the same way. Ceremonial, like a cannon in a public garden.