listening to: wild is the wind, nina simone
drinking: ginger tea
a drive down yonge street, straight as the parting of a young man's hair, turn left on queen street. as we drive over the viaduct we talk about the creation of art, the life of artists: originating from spontaneity, compulsion, the desire to share, a life of ownership. bowls of coffee at a crowded velvet burgundy coffeeshop in leslieville where pines are wreathed on the brick walls. we talk about the memory that lives in places - in doing so, we create new ones. look, there: the early morning bench in the park watching the sunrise was the time when you were grubby, overtired, elated. the snow-covered sand (scrape beneath to see us:) laying stomach-down on the crumbles of sand in one of the warmer months, me with a boy i was trying to love at arm's length. stepping slowly along the slats, i see the boardwalk walks with my dad - we ate ice cream. farther, there is the ladder on the lifeguard station that we took turns climbing after afternoon tea at the craft market. places are steeped in their history, most of which we will never be a part of except for that soft, felted feeling - a thickness of molecules. we are a cumulation of everything we've ever been.
(this is how i reconcile distance).
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