The Call

Artwork: Julia Yellow (source)

I can hear it: in the night, at lunch, as I walk down the street. It is loud and is getting louder every day, shouting my name and urging me to come. It accompanies me where ever I go. Sometimes it's a ringing whisper in the back of my head; other times it's a horrible, jarring, screeching tone.

It wasn't always this loud. It used to be a dim voice that I would notice every now and then; an accompanying soundtrack when I heard a certain song or watched a certain show. But now it has got a hold of my heart strings and the constant vibrations cause pain and tears. It messes with my mind and plays with my feelings. But there's no way I can stop the call until I go back to the source and hang up the phone.

Distracted by Diseases

At this moment I really should be finishing a paper on "The Changing Geography of Human Disease" for my ancient civilization and environment class, but instead, like any good student, I have resorted to being unproductive and procrastinating. The biggest issue with writing this paper quite frankly, is that it is just too damn interesting. I picked a topic that I knew wouldn't bore me to death, but my decision has produced some very unintentional consequences.

I signed out the book Plagues & Poxes: the Impact of Human History on Endemic Disease by Alfred Jay Bollet and unfortunately for me, it is a really good read. I have spent more time than necessary learning about the spread of syphilis and the elimination of small pox. And I can't forget the bubonic plague, a.k.a.  the Black Death, which is oh so terribly fascinating/freaking lethal. Before I go to sleep, I read a chapter on a different disease; a chapter that contains a lot more detail than is needed for my paper. I fear I may have veered off topic but its just so hard to stay on track when reading something interesting that isn't related to Spanish grammatical structure or French vocab.

I hope all this enthusiasm will result in an A+ quality piece of work, because that mark is greatly desired/needed. Maybe I should stop writing blog posts and go back to explaining how Columbus (and many other Europeans) killed millions of the indigenous peoples of the Americas. Yeah. Sounds like a plan.

The Subway

Standing on the platform, I hear the screeching of metal before I see lights growing brighter as the train rolls closer. A gust of wind accompanies the rumbling floor, blowing off hats and scaring people behind the yellow line. Crowds estimate with precision where the doors will open, for routine is a part of life. We part like the red sea, allowing passengers to disembark. We must hurry aboard before a ding-dong signals the sea coming to swallow us up and rush us away.

Amid the tossing and turning of an unstable car, I can hear snippets of conversations: co-workers discussing their day, parents screaming at their children in foreign languages, teenagers sharing the latest gossip while fruitlessly attempting to get a cellphone signal. Black wires serve as my modern necklace, connecting  my ears to my hands. The pumping bass tunes out those awkward sexual history conversations from people who have yet to learn about subway etiquette.

I hold on for dear life as we twist and turn.  My feet are planted solidly on the ground, shifting slightly with every tiny change. After months of a twice daily commute, all the quirks of my travel are known to me like the back of my hand: where to walk and to sit, where to enter and to exit. On the subway I can observe, ignore, converse or be silent. The familiarity yet newness of these trips bring me comfort. 

The low voice of a woman reminds me that my trip is ending and once this metal boat stops rolling, I must disembark once more.

written July 16th 2011

Is this what death feels like?

Is this what death feels like? Knowing that something is about to end and there is nothing you can do to stop it?  That feeling in the pit of your stomach that swells as time diminishes?

Death is not necessarily physical. There is death of an experience: of a friendship, of a voyage, of a time of highs and lows. It is in the end that we fully see what has taken place, and are able to look back and exam ourselves. We can see the actions we took and the emotions we felt; the times we laughed too hard and loved too little.

Now I think I know why people believe in reincarnation: because we always change. Something will end and the person you were before is not the before you have become. Your life is different and it will never be what it once was.

 

Inspired by a friend.

Just Thinking

My room is cold; the result of a windy, Québecois May. I sit on a wobbly, wooden chair, at an old desk, hand on forehead, glasses off. I'm thinking. Just thinking. Above me I can hear the scraping of a chair on a linoleum floor. Outside I hear distant voices from down the hall, speaking a muddle of French and English, as doors open and close. My large window, with a broken screen, overlooks the tail end of a forest, a dumpster, and the road that runs between them.

My hands now cover my face, as my attempts to be pensive are met with lamer attempts to submerse myself in darkness. The clunking of wheels on a cart break my concentration. My mind shifts to thoughts of communal bathroom cleanliness and why keys are so noisy. As these thoughts continue to wander, I catch myself chewing on my tongue, a habit I developped when I am concentraing on something. I stop, because any resembleance to a cow is not something I desire.

So I return to my original thinking, ignoring the occaisonal honking of horns, dropping coins and suspicious vaccuuming. On my wobbly, wooden chair, I rock back and forth, creating a rhythm. I return one hand to my forehead while grabbing a pen with the other. With paper in tow, I continue my thoughts and translate them to writing. I tune out the world and just sit there thinking. 

♥ Turtles

A February Night

As I sit on a park bench, I can feel the subway rumbling underneath my feet. My fingers are slightly numb, because I forgot, or rather, decided not to, bring my mittens, nor my hat, with me today. It has been unreasonably warm (6 degrees) and I am no longer in a winter mood, though I seem to have neglected the fact that as the sun goes down, the world becomes colder. But my feet feel no change. For I am wearing my signature dull, black rainboots, which protect me from the slush that covers the park grounds.

The park itself is just one round circle, in the middle of downtown. It is surrounded by university campus buildings and a few museums. Traffic is routed in all directions, so the circle serves its purpose as a giant roundabout. It shares its name, Queen's Park, with that of the provincial legislature building, which is found nestled between various buildings of higher learning. 

It is on a long, green, wooden bench, the first of three, that I sit; the Queen's people passing me as multiple paths converge and then disperse again. I am joined only by a lone man on horseback, whose sole purpose is to guard those he sees, and remind us of an era that has long passed.

I feel the subway once more, reminding me that my time of accompanied solitude must soon come to an end. My brother might be wondering where I am, seeing as it is about 40 minutes after the time I normally arrive home. I know I must go, move from my solid position of legs crossed, head down, pen in hand. I must rejoin those who pass, those with a destination. A destination is what I seek, and although  this park in the heart of the city is where I find comfort, it is not where I need to be. So I untangle my feet, raise my head, and commence my journey home. 

 

♥ Turtles

Written February 17th, 2011