with its myth of the boy moving
away from the family was written for me.
They gave me a copy for my birthday when I was 11. There were
other factors. There were other novels.
There was always a sense of blue infinity
simpler & more marvellous than headmasters at UTS
could have dreamed of slumped
(Philosophers get tired their heads swollen like Grade A eggs)
Protestant & red-faced in western Ontario white pine chairs
unable to define infinity
although we found it easy to live. And by the time I was 20,
or 23½, or 24,
my favourite streets were Gloucester, Dundonald, Isabella.
The
east of the city. There was always an abundance of chicken pot
pies & good cold beer.
There was no gaga social pressure
or rigid white pine chairs in those rundown Victorian
2nd floors I lived in on Church,
cross streets:
Dundonald, Gloucester, Isabella,
to do anything
except enjoy myself.
I was happy. I read a lot
& drank quite a bit
but I wasn’t comfortable.
to what people generously refer to
as the liberal arts,
Saturday Night
& Toronto Life, I was testy. Other people
were variously snotty or generous.
I was testy
& sometimes it would affect my body,
tension,
muscle spasm,
seizure of light
the jellyfish of light rising up in my mind
like a West African beach trophy. “Just cloud patterns,”
a friend of mine said to me, “go with it, and see where
it goes.” Okay. I went.
These days I want to work all morning
until I’m tired,
and then sit in my blue dojo pants
like somebody back from a holiday in Tibet and watch the traffic
go past.
The weather looks good for the next few years.
I miss Church Street
(and the way it empties east of Yonge
south through the city and into the Lake) sometimes
but
in a fairly abstract way. Postcards. The things
I love most are like pale green fruit, papayas, sour-sop, pale green
mangoes.
Touch them to my face in the warm Toronto sun, and
say,
thank you. That was nice. The roast lamb was fantastic. The
rosemary was sweet & bitter & my whole mouth feels fresh
again.