Well, my friends, soup season is upon us...and how. I already worked my way through one delicious bowl of pea soup- the one and only Habitant. Today I anticipate sexy results. The cold wind blows and the thermometers say fifteen but it feels like zero, sweaters come out (or if you haven't dug them out of storage yet, you wear the one or two you kept out for those "in case" nights in summer that never really occur.
Don't you hate bringing things with you that you don't end up using? Hindisght is 20/20, but of course, because whatever it is that would have happened already did. Why do we insist on saying useless shit? Here's a list of useless things I say on a regular basis because sometimes, you just want to talk:
-It's gotta be somewhere: growing up in Alliston, my mom worked with a woman who would say this all the time. Of course it is somewhere- the concept of "nowhere" only describes the absence of a place, "nowhere" is not on the map, and I assure you your keys did not get swallowed by the time-space continuum.
That's all I can think of for now, it's early and this blog is taking a swooping dive into nowhere. A blog about nothing, do you think NBC will buy it?
Living downtown slowly wears on your friendliness and builds it at the same time. People everywhere, things everywhere, things to do, places to go, money to be burned, people's heels to step on. Ever walk behind someone who was unsure of where they were going? Welcome to Toronto. Nobody knows, we're all horses either going home or making our way home via some place else, and during that time some feet get trampled.
This morning on the subway some woman was walking excruciatingly slow, progressively slower, and I caught her heel by accident. She swung around astonished, so I said sorry, but come on! Is it my fault that the predictability of your foot placement was at an all-time low? Maybe, but somehow I think it's at least a 50/50 split for blame. When walking or actually doing anything, I always try to predict the next move and generally it is correct, but every now and then you fuck up and break a glass- your reflexes anticipated a different flight path and worlds collide. You say sorry for things that may not be your fault, but don't want to be an asshole if their interpretation of events is different from your own. I am a pinball, the city my machine.
Love, my friends, is a fucked up thing and sometimes I wonder why everyone is convinced that there must be someone out there for them- not in a depressed way, but seriously... should there be? Must there be? Is it so hard to do the things that make you happy with the absence of someone special? And why one, why not several? Love is a good thing, of course- it motivates, it helps you feel good and shit, but why the obsession with the number one? One God, one soul mate, one chance, once in a lifetime, one career path that's right for you, one place to live for life, one destination. We're living the movies or the movies are dictating our lives? A bit of both, obviously, we are the art and the art is us and we're all locked into this survival trip, now. Fending off cold winds with tightly woven fabrics hoping that when we arrive at our destination it's warm and cozy- a lifetime by the fire.
Nowhere to go but somewhere.
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