Friday, August 24, 2007
A Sort of Homecoming
Off to Prince Edward Island for the weekend, showing Big Bro's girlfriend Anne of Green Gables, a dream of hers. I leave you with some recent thoughts; catch ya on the flipside...
‘Good times with old friends’ is what I wrote. In the documentary of our lives there is so much that goes unrecorded and unspoken that is so difficult to articulate, like that sadness that is missing someone wherever I go. This is the price the global citizen pays for mobility.
Every summer I fall in love in a new city. I fall in love again with old friends, fall in love anew with new ones.
There’s a goodbye party because meeting all these splendid lovers individually is physically impossible on a chronically tight schedule. So in one night they flash before me in a parade where every float carries the significance of the fact that I won’t see it again, at least not for a while.
As evening ticks into morning, I collect the hugs of the ones I just got to know and the ones I thought would never end. And I feel so heavy, weighted by the sadness of the ones who dare to cry, to say that it’s a sad day. I love them the most in this moment of departure.
The party is organic and free range, dynamic and boisterous. At one point a bunch of 30-something white folks are dancing to Billy Jean (but who else would these days?) and they all want to moonwalk. Some flow out onto the deck to stargaze – supposed to be a meteor shower tonight. The conversations are fleeting and soft despite the gravity pulling us together this last time.
I hug everyone goodbye including the ones I barely spoke with because there were just too many competing interests among us. So many good people assembled here.
It was a brief summer of brief encounters, squeezing too much into too little time and too much space. It felt much like Christmases of the past decade, in and around that cottage by the shore in the East. Over the years the numbers there have diminished but not the quality.
It is inevitable now that the same will happen at the centre of the universe I’ve inhabited, built up, settled, where I’ve connected, lived and loved. It is the price I pay for my homecoming, to return to the place where I belong.
‘Good times with old friends’ is what I wrote. In the documentary of our lives there is so much that goes unrecorded and unspoken that is so difficult to articulate, like that sadness that is missing someone wherever I go. This is the price the global citizen pays for mobility.
Every summer I fall in love in a new city. I fall in love again with old friends, fall in love anew with new ones.
There’s a goodbye party because meeting all these splendid lovers individually is physically impossible on a chronically tight schedule. So in one night they flash before me in a parade where every float carries the significance of the fact that I won’t see it again, at least not for a while.
As evening ticks into morning, I collect the hugs of the ones I just got to know and the ones I thought would never end. And I feel so heavy, weighted by the sadness of the ones who dare to cry, to say that it’s a sad day. I love them the most in this moment of departure.
The party is organic and free range, dynamic and boisterous. At one point a bunch of 30-something white folks are dancing to Billy Jean (but who else would these days?) and they all want to moonwalk. Some flow out onto the deck to stargaze – supposed to be a meteor shower tonight. The conversations are fleeting and soft despite the gravity pulling us together this last time.
I hug everyone goodbye including the ones I barely spoke with because there were just too many competing interests among us. So many good people assembled here.
It was a brief summer of brief encounters, squeezing too much into too little time and too much space. It felt much like Christmases of the past decade, in and around that cottage by the shore in the East. Over the years the numbers there have diminished but not the quality.
It is inevitable now that the same will happen at the centre of the universe I’ve inhabited, built up, settled, where I’ve connected, lived and loved. It is the price I pay for my homecoming, to return to the place where I belong.
Labels: Canada, friends, love junk, non-fiction, nova scotia
Monday, July 11, 2005
Parallel
This is my friend Leah. This is a funny picture of her from her undergrad days, soon after she won a bigass award and tonnes of recognition for taking on some bigass factory that was going to pave over a beloved wetland near her home. Sometimes M and I drive by that factory, right through its gargantuan shadow, and we always comment on the 17-year-old girl who took it on, who became our good friend, and introduced the two of us.
Here's a poem I wrote about her a few years back, because she's so freakinwickit:
Parallel lives lived entwined entrenchedly
listlessly lying in sprinklers playfully
Eating like meeting a tattooed gourmet
wheeling and stealing into the chalet
Kissing in circles over hummus discussions
of barefooted boxers & blackbooted Russians
Not a thought about purpose or porpoise oppressions
just active in costume protests against our own obsessions
Squeals of closeness and objected assumptions
audible anger over the other's no gumption
Advisories precede rationalizations of the stupid mistakes we made
right before our boldest hearts suffered a barber's fade
The fall that follows falls short under the swallows
There's also beauty in a homeless man's wallow
With the ties of bondage broken too
the lonely freedom descends upon you
And me with the fear of the fate to come
resisting the ever-present urge to run
But fate is just whatever happens to us it's never wrong
Our nature's take us where we belong
Leah recently started her master's degree at the Ontario Institute of Studies in Education (part of U Toronto), and is leaving an amazing job where she works with kids to bring out the best of them in their art - it's even better than it sounds. We saw their show a few weeks ago - a combination of original artwork, art from found objects, and performance art, that was absolutely stupendous and I wish I had pictures of that for you.
Leah should have been considered for that 'greatest Canadian' CBC schtick. Instead I nominated Tooker Gomber, who is also really great, and who I also wrote a poem about. But, today's blog is for Leah.
--Bopper
Labels: 2002, friends, Poetry, Toronto
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Post Birthday Blues
All the insanity began on my 30th (ack!) birthday, just over a week ago. What I'd expected to be a low-key affair turned into a 3-day celebration, with many of my friends, many of whom don't know each other. Alcohol broke that ice.
On the day itself, I took in Revenge of the Sith, which was surprisingly good despite the usual cornball antics and Lucasy cheesmification. Then my bball team, The Truth, lost a tight battle that cost us a playoff spot, and hit the local Firkin to chase our sorrows (and tequila) with beer.
The biggest surprise of the whole affair happened when M took me for a nice dinner with our mutual friend L, who introduced us way back when. After a rare (in preparation and frequency with which I indulge) steak, we went over to Hugh's Room, where none other than the great Steve Forbert (www.steveforbert.com) was playing. This guy is a bit obscure, but he had two hit records with Columbia in the late '70s that my dad played relentlessly through the youngest portion of my youth. I always thought nobody outside of my family remembered him. Turns out he's got about 25 albums out, mostly released independently since he had a falling out with Columbia (the record company, not the country). I didn't even know he still toured! And there I was in a room full of baby boomers, all singing his songs right along with him. M treated me to a fantastic show, and I met Steve afterward and got him to autograph the live disc I bought. What a treat!
Lastly, we had a party the next day, schooled some neighbourhood kids in 3-on-3 bball (okay, we had an average height advatage of about a foot, but you gotta take your victories where you can find them, sometimes), then drank and ate and played spoons, yes, spoons on my 30th birthday. Age is a state of mind, and I'm proud to say I still have the mind of a 12-year-old!
Since then, it's been a workathon with meetings galore, so much so that I've declared next Friday 'meeting-free day' at my office. I'll celebrate alone if I have to, seems appropriate anyway.
-Bopper
On the day itself, I took in Revenge of the Sith, which was surprisingly good despite the usual cornball antics and Lucasy cheesmification. Then my bball team, The Truth, lost a tight battle that cost us a playoff spot, and hit the local Firkin to chase our sorrows (and tequila) with beer.
The biggest surprise of the whole affair happened when M took me for a nice dinner with our mutual friend L, who introduced us way back when. After a rare (in preparation and frequency with which I indulge) steak, we went over to Hugh's Room, where none other than the great Steve Forbert (www.steveforbert.com) was playing. This guy is a bit obscure, but he had two hit records with Columbia in the late '70s that my dad played relentlessly through the youngest portion of my youth. I always thought nobody outside of my family remembered him. Turns out he's got about 25 albums out, mostly released independently since he had a falling out with Columbia (the record company, not the country). I didn't even know he still toured! And there I was in a room full of baby boomers, all singing his songs right along with him. M treated me to a fantastic show, and I met Steve afterward and got him to autograph the live disc I bought. What a treat!
Lastly, we had a party the next day, schooled some neighbourhood kids in 3-on-3 bball (okay, we had an average height advatage of about a foot, but you gotta take your victories where you can find them, sometimes), then drank and ate and played spoons, yes, spoons on my 30th birthday. Age is a state of mind, and I'm proud to say I still have the mind of a 12-year-old!
Since then, it's been a workathon with meetings galore, so much so that I've declared next Friday 'meeting-free day' at my office. I'll celebrate alone if I have to, seems appropriate anyway.
-Bopper
Labels: 2005, friends, non-fiction, Toronto
