Carolime Time

Every so often, I am propelled by the churning in my stomach. It is a fusion of bile and butterflies that makes me rush from the comfort of my back against my bed and write. It is the emerald green flush that follows the downpour and violence of pounding concrete on my ears, the hopscotch roofs with one leg pointing upwards, tiled along the streets, upon which i walk hand in hand with my muse. It is the safety I look forward to and to which i hold tight. the sound is always so close that i can hear it lurking behind the doors we pass. we walk faster, taking turns on each others shoulders as we make haste. i am getting tired of running, and the impalpable is growing tired of trying to keep up with me. i am sorry for taking you everywhere i go.

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I was sitting at the corner of Queen and Yonge today waiting for Mutton to meet me for dinner..it was rush hour, everyone was leaving work and I was reading the paper on a bench. Truthfully, I couldn’t concentrate, as there were too many fashionable clacking heels passing amidst the streetcars and out-of-place bicycles. I need to take notes on what’s in! Not to mention I was wearing sunglasses and I’ve not grown accustomed to the accessory, let alone a dark shadow on my print.

For those who aren’t familiar with this hood, it’s a bit of a crossroads. Walk a little north, and you hit Toronto’s attempt at Times Square–Dundas Square, where flashing lights and fountains run the show. This is also where the main downtown mall is situated, the Eaton Centre.
Take a stroll a bit south, and you’ll hit the financial district, where Blackberrys and speed-walking mark the territory. You’ll also cross paths with some young lawyers and old ones that will swallow you with their eyes.
East and west are a little trendier, but haven’t formed enough of a consistent identity for me to comment on, or rather, are in such transition these days that labels such as ‘vintage’, ‘boho’, and ‘yuppy’ would not suffice.

I noticed these two women stop beside me. One was in her mid 50s and the other was in her 20s probably. They didn’t look at me, even though I was yakking away on my phone about all the hot suits that work in my building. Not that my conversations are so important they should eavesdrop, but I was sitting right beside them. They didn’t really talk to each other, and I figured they were taking a rest from shopping, or working. I went on with my mundane chatter, and a friend I hadn’t seen in about 3years happened to recognize me, even incognito in sunglasses and prep wear.

The friend and I reunited, chatting for a short bit about what we’d been up to and how our lives are progressing. We were distracted, with him noticeably pacing at the thought of his departing train and myself, wondering where the hell Mutton was and when I’d be eating.

As D turned to leave, I glanced to my right and saw that these two women were sitting cross-legged at the core of the city, with eyes closed and fingers poised, pressed together in the direction of the sky. I was stunned. I hadn’t even noticed them. Their expressions were blank, but full. They were withdrawn, but present. I am convinced they were in a space so quiet that no one could wake them until the time was right. Theirs was a peace I don’t envy, but would rather achieve, master, and recreate.

Mind you, theirs wasn’t the attention-grabbing religious activist sort of prayer. It was private, not shy but natural.

If two people can sit with traffic blaring,
honking,
lights,
cell phones,
smog,
talking,
screeching,
laughing,
the brush of bodies on the street,
the groan of trucks and transit system
under their feet…

Then there is little we can denounce in faith of the purest kind, and sincerity of the most congested mind.

I was stilled. Quiet, so quiet I wouldn’t dare speak in their presence. I had to walk away to exhale, and I had to lower my voice to a hush as I told my boyfriend what I’d just witnessed and not been able to take part in. In fact, I couldn’t even tell him the details as I was afraid of breaking the spell. I didn’t watch them, I only saw them.

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each day, we crack open a bottle of wine and talk about our lives. where we’re headed, where we’re at, and where we can’t wait to be…sometimes it spans time, events, realities and dreams..it’s a pretty huge spectrum. other times, it is derived from people..i want to be doing what she’s doing. not the same career but the same place, feeling, height..level of comfort..i want to feel what she’s feeling. in many encounters, we are sore. our eyes are dry, and our faces redden. we hold each other tenderly, bitterly, asking for help, hungrily…because there is no shame in what the eyes may say.
after our heads clear, we all walk away as if nothing happened. we put things down, and we pick them back up. in all ways, we are each other’s recyclers. there is nothing that can compare to a burn, a drop, falling to ashes. only to be left as embers, waiting to have life and air blown back.

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the most precious statement made in “Unaccustomed Earth”, by Jhumpa Lahiri, is the comparison of death to a dark room in a photo lab. “It must be something like this”.

I would hate to look at a picture of a person I’ve been close to, who’s died. All memories of them would dissipate, expressions, laughter in motion, frowns and facial flaws and reactions, to be replaced by the frozen, faded and distant perfection of that photo.

i resist this lump in the back of my throat, and i pretend i haven’t let go.

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i’m putting you aside
i’m letting you decide
for this is how you wanted it
this is what you meant for it
all things silver were meant to turn gold
and platinum was always
best when sold
all things make believe
were said to stay dreams
so if you mean to sleep
i say, make sure
that you’re so tired
there’s not a moment for you to think
i say, make sure
that there’s no time left
nor space for you to let things sink
just numb the pressure points
and quell the active joints
calm them,
appease them
just put the pen down
and pick up the shield
every time you feel
that ever so pleasant burst
zap that baby
and send it home
every time you sense
peril wandering
off the harrowed path
send the dogs barking
release the pigs

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when i get back to toronto, i’m going to make snow angels and drink loads of hot chocolate and blow hot air into cold air and watch it mix..i’m going to slide on the sidewalk ice, wear cute boots, complain about how i can’t feel my toes, take long evening walks wearing a different hat each night, so i can be french one night, russian the next, and sing sing sing into the dark, at 1am on a Monday, after doing something humane again, feeling my blood flow again, when no one else is on the street, while tall black lamps shadow my path, keeping me safe.. and snowflakes will catch the light, white falling onto the black hair of some tall, dashing stranger, whose eye i’ll catch mischievously but to whom i won’t turn back and look twice cause gosh darn, i have things on my mind and i’m serenading someone in another country…i miss the cold, i miss the city, i can’t wait to live downtown again and schmoooooooze and do things that mean something to me while doing practical things i am sick of doing, like making money…did i tell you how much i hate money? it’s killed me a few times..i found inspiration on the beach in goa, with my eyes aimed at the sky, and i heard it again on the side of a road, telling me it’s okay to be me, it’s okay to want and work for dreamy things..so i send my thanks for that, these last few days have been better than so many others..i gave up something special and i’m hoping she’s still there, i’m coming back to look for her in the middle of a busy intersection in the dangerous part of town..oooooh YEAH

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in my head, i’m sure i’ve seen it all. from peace treaties to conspiracy theories, i’ve been invited to the table. offered my views and exercised my veto beyond recognition. i’ve rescued and pillaged, the remains and the revered. in my head, i’ve tried to make amends. placed my best in a test and dropped it all on impulse. i’ve walked back and forth for hours on end, because i’ve been told, this is the way to move forward. caught in a limbo or two, not a word has rung true. selecting words i can believe and ignoring the rest, i’m here with a little more, and even more of a little less. they speak of this foreign language, one built on trust and honour, sanded with sincerity and nailed down by actions..i scoff at these things..i don’t believe a word i hear, and suspicions drive me through to dawn. the second i drop the bridge, the third i fall, and hit the ground, running.

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somewhere along the way
i caught a fishbone in my throat
and i stopped to breathe
but instead
i began to choke
i held my neck by the line
i gagged and stuffed my face with rice
gouging out all remnants of the sea
along with all the flesh and flavour
i had no choice but to stop, and breathe

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…like a scratchy sort of cloth that once held sparkles and littered them on everything it brushed up against…now threadbare. the kind of cloth that would leave its mark on your face and blush on your cheekbones..now faded. if u were to come in contact with this cloth, everyone would know, and no one would try to hide it. it’s not just cheap dye that runs, and beats the wind. like lipstick’s kisses on a collar, it’s there and it’s not going anywhere. you try to wipe it off, weakly, but you don’t try hard enough, ’cause secretly, you want that sparkle, that kiss, that blush.. to linger. you want someone to ask, what were you up to before you got here?

people try to rub shoulders with you, just in case you may..rub off. one last bit, please.

sometimes, i think we’re so close that we can hear the same birds chirping
outside our respective windows.
other times, i write to you and i’m sure you wouldn’t even read between the
lines.

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my baby’s skin was rippled when i first had her. blistered, red, scathed from being born in hot water..i was sure i could take her, and love her. i was young, and she was born old, withered and of ill-repute. i thought, i’ll show them all that this is not a mistake, and is instead something i can’t do without. i watched her take her initial steps, first carefully. what a wonder, when she found herself flying. she giggled, she cooed, she would tell everyone where she was headed. she didn’t have to say anything, they just understood. sometimes we’d walk into a room where she was meant to be studying, or reading, or even sleeping..and she’d be dancing..fluttering around like a rows of corn, she couldn’t stay still.
her skin began to glow. people would stop, questioningly. curls started to frame her face. people asked what had changed, why did she smile so wide? even i began to have hope. i would wake up every morning like i was in love with the world.
they still retorted, isn’t it hard, having a child that won’t ever speak? a child that won’t ever marry, won’t ever love? silently, i knew people had been tutting away at her. the bastard child that would never amount to anything. that bastard child that is scorned in print and set aside by high society.
i had her for a reason. i wanted to pull at every strand of tristesse and expound it. i never even looked at her father’s face, i just took his wares and left. i wanted to soothe her burns and prove her right.
this week, i left her on a corner. i told her i’d be back, and she smiled trustingly. i didn’t kiss her cheek, i didn’t even let our hands linger in an extended goodbye. i did not say goodbye to the child i can not keep.

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