Original Sin

I feel sorry for the butterflies
When I turn off the light,

Up ahead, piles of blue gather and form, the Niagara Escarpment,
My eyes gently wander downwards and to the right, yes, stripes of white race ahead of a truck.
A cork is popped open in my ear and in flows a tide of stimulation.

The white paper cross in an SUV,
True Patriot Love - reads a Tim Horton's sign,
Subject to ignorance, suffering and the domination of death, and inclined to sin,
So read on,
Read the catechism driven into the worn and
Macabre faces that rotate and
Sometimes upright
Sometimes horizontal
Often dead.

It's not time yet
To tear up the sail.
Let things be.

Descent

Air rests uneasy in my ribcage, a lingering malaise. The tradewinds have stopped blowing and its uphill as we climb the blue earth north.

A routine malaise; now, now the hard part starts. The streets grow in familiarity each day. Stretches of land bear the same greedy faces, day after day. The novelty wears off and death resumes. Distance takes upon itself the role of the butcher, the executioner, dispensing with your time, your hours and minutes, spent traveling, waiting, as new objects of stress present themselves like the teeth of a cogwheel, always circular, always turning, foreboding and commanding, ad infinitum.

You hear yourself getting lost to the marching step. The work song takes over, as the varnish fades from street names. The walk home weighs down, heavy - no longer an adventure. Here's were Huron cuts off for a block, meets up with Maitland and Regent, swings and curves and reappears up ahead. As the road curves, underneath is a trough, a miniature valley, that might have previously laid under the running waters of a tributary. The ground slopes steeply past the iron guard that wards off stray cars from wayward steering. A moments hesitation is killed off by the desire to stave off routine momentarily. Jump over the fence and step deep into the snow. Now it gets steep and you hold onto fallen trees and branches, slowly inching your way down. Now the trail stops, but Nico urges you down further. Wait you find a better route, here! Let's go! Reminded of Japhy Ryder's wise words, you let go of fear and crash and yell downwards. Few seconds later you're at the bottom, triumphant looking up at the curve of the road, shoes and pants wet up to your knees from the snow - this was great! - a red letter day.

Salt and Dust

A terrible headache has come over me - what a sordid little expression - how is it that such pain comes over one, like a morbid pall, gently and effortlessly, and then settles on my sorry forehead. All sound and smells nauseate me. The coffee this morning did me no good. My heartbeat is off-kilter and the slightest oddities erect question marks, like signposts impaling good judgement and common sense. I went outside, after some argument, to run errands and pursue the palpitations to their limit, where I would leave them, set them adrift, so to speak. Indeed, the fresh air was good. Outside, past the sentry of coniferous trees, atop an artificial hill of snow - piled up to allow room aplenty for routine - were six or seven kids wrestling and playing, sending each other down in the snow. I smiled at them. How I wished I could enjoy their youthful pleasures. In fact, that reminds me of the other day, when I wanted to pick up the snow in my gloves, while waiting for the bus. But I didn't, hesitated and declined, because of the other eyes wandering so close to me. Anyway, when I returned from the store, I was greeted by a lone orange outside my door. I was perplexed. I felt like laughing, but I was also confused and slightly taken aback by this random gesture. I attributed it to one of the kids on the floor, maybe little Mathilda, so christened by Bryan on his recent visit. I kicked the orange and it rolled sideways and back towards the elevator. I couldn't leave it there. So I stooped and grabbed the orange, soft to touch, ripe, too ripe

I looked around the culprit was hidden, maybe still there, staring at me from across the hallway through a peephole, designed for secrecy. In any case, I opened the door and nausea and the headache and infirmities and the all too odious habits, came rushing back, knocking me off my feet. Leaving me lying in salt residues. With an orange in my hand.

The way a crow

Shook down on me

The dust of snow

From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part

Of a day I had rued.

- Robert Frost

Thamespeak

Seen Enough. Visions confronted in every weather.
Had Enough. Urban tumult, by night and day, forever.
Known Enough. Life's still-points. --O tumult and Visions!
Departure for fresh affection and noise!

- Arthur Rimbaud