Raquel Maestre is soft-spoken and poised, on stage and off. Her presence on stage captivates your attention from the start, then you’re hit by her jokes that are filled with wit and misdirection, making you explode with laughter.

These days, I'm really into my gut. (Hey, Editor, don't be a dick.) No, not my microbiome, though I do think about that quite a bit (hello, Magnificent Microorganisms! Keep up the good work!). I'm talking about The Gut, where butterflies and instincts live, the thing we follow, or ignore, at our own peril.

It's officially the season. Bows and bells, lights and sparkles, gifting and getting. And sure, the population at large is counting down to the 25th, but the cool kids (um, and me) are stoked for Andrew Jamieson's Sleazy Christmas Volume 2.

It happened. And it happened suddenly.

Friday night, Andrew Jamieson and I were walking through what seemed like a harmless mist (it was deceptive, and we were drenched). By Sunday we were trudging through sticky snow, carrying Christmas decorations, leaking sparkles everywhere we went.

It’s a mild November afternoon and I’ve come to visit Gallery Parfois for the first time (and a day prior to their latest vernissage, no less). Arriving at 4064 Saint-Laurent, I make my way up to the gallery, which is nestled above several small shops.

Man, do we respect hustle. I'm speaking in the societal we of course, as I'm wont to do. We venerate those who work 26 hours a day only to return home to care for an ailing parent, a house full of foster animals and a crafts-based side gig.

My husband’s a painter. And he talks about how a painting is not just a snapshot of where you are as an artist; it’s a record of you becoming a better artist—and that’s why you start with broad strokes and go down to details, basically, as you go through it.

Age is more than a number. I know, I know, that's contrary and awful, but I've given this a lot of thought over many (many) years. That's the crux of the matter of course: my perspective has been forged in the fires of time and self aware experience. So gather round the flames, Young’Uns, and take a moment to listen to your Elder.

The world is expanding faster than our brains ever prepared for. Not in a one-and-done way where we might catch up, but with momentum. Social media struggles to keep us connected, fundamentally scattering us further, drowning us in a cacophony of dispute and marketing.

There’s something about humans that makes us love the sound of our own voices. Not that we all enjoy speaking per se, but given the opportunity to shout into a cave or canyon, most will. We enjoy the way our echo floats back to us.