Musings on life and how I choose to interpret it…

Stay steady that’s the rule of the book. You will not get wavered, but follow the scent of the swayed. I have a picture in my head of the wonderful days ahead, but they’re not. They’re not.

You can leave, you know? SFT will go on. There are some of us who are lifers. I think you need to see a therapist. That’s my suggestion.

Forgive the sins of the past, but don’t let them back to haunt you. So many presents in my insides, it’s so amazing. Yet all I’ve known is to disappoint them, and they do not take these presents lightly.

What have you got to show for? You’re out of college for most of it, and people don’t even seem to acknowledge all the time and effort you put into this group. What was the point of it all?

Do you make a purpose out of this life? Can you shape a cloud out of smoke and show them signs of desperation, euphoria and ennui? What gives and who takes?

But you know, there are some people in Parkdale who are white. So maybe we should consider that as well.

The alleys are dark and the pavement is slick with my desire dripping bit by bit. When it rains, it pours. When it burns, it burns. The sounds of the gutter will follow your footsteps into the unexplored and the unsteady.

Don’t tell me how to do my job for Tibet. If you haven’t burnt your finger in the movement, then please keep your thoughts to yourself.

We make hay out of the spoils of life. We make do with what we don’t. I own nothing. I belong only to your perception.

You don’t know how to garden? And you got hired?

There is a softness in here where you strike it feels like I’ve given into the force from underneath so that you can see me falling from all the way above.

When I tell you to do something, just fucking do it! Okay?!

Everyday feels like I have something to offer and something to take. But when I ask I have already refused your offer. Not because I’m humble but because I’m scared.

I think that Chinese lady is mentally handicapped. I tell her to do something and she just doesn’t listen to me. Is there anyone here who can speak Mandarin?

But I am a child, as are you, and as you fade so will my ignorance. I have bought a house by the cliff and the views are phenomenal. I just want to savour it before I bring it down to sea.

I disagree. I’d much rather engage people who can help this organization rather than the people who live in this community.

Hold the fort for the dead. Cry a slogan for you who passed away. Shed a tear for no one in particular. No one thinks of you in context anymore.

Who cares if we have a diverse board or not? It’s not like we’re going to put our pictures up online.

Do you carry the burden of those you care for? It’s a question that nobody does. It’s an act that everyone questions. The trick is not to question the unquestionable. The way is to answer it on your terms. We only love you. I’ve only known you for so long and so little.

I’m the boss here! Gelek listens to me. YOU listen to me!

I’m going to sleep because there is no seed inside the fruit inside the bowl. I’m going to sleep because I know you will be there for me.

We’ll start a group together, baby. We don’t need them.

Show a way. Be an example.

You’re okay, I guess.

The cold clutches of winter seem to dig deeper as we’re heading into the month of March. Like a disgruntled wife brooding about her husband’s absence the night before, the clouds that hover above don’t look they’re going to let up anytime soon. It has been two weeks since I’ve returned, and I gradually started to settle back into an unsteady groove about a week ago. The morning TTC commute to my work (temporarily labeled as ‘volunteering’ since it’s all hedging on how my proposed project pans out) on a bus and a streetcar stamps a note of finality to my removal from the hectic noise of Kathmandu and into the sobered, subdued tone of Canadian routine and orderliness. The familiar red, white and black carriages evoke a faint setting of geometric efficiency, and they mark a stark contrast against the blue micro buses of Kathmandu that stop to offload and receive passengers wherever they please.

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[In my zeal to post how brutally cold it was the other night at Critical Mass, I realized that it's been quite a while since I last updated this somnolent blog. Is it because of the usual lack of flair and increasing tepidity of my life, or am I sinking into yet another level of laziness & apathy -- the depths to rival a serial pothead?]

Summer was a gas. A handout so thoroughly unassuming and yet drenched with the kind of fulfillment that you only get out of a really great, aching workout. Outdoors, camping…I worked at a community garden, attended workshops… Actually, let’s just forgo this didactic listing of events and instead, aim for one of those meandering, metaphorical streams of recollections and reflections. The ones that somehow converge into a watering hole brimming with grunts, darting eyes and false alarms. Is it just a far-off mirage or is it actually thriving with beasts of all stripes? Are those bobbing logs or idle crocodiles? Hold your nose tight and high, dear reader, for those rare pellets of wisdom might just be under a muddy morass of self-indulgent reverie.

~~~~~

We begin aplomb with Shannon Thompson. Shannon is one of those people who get tagged with all sorts of “mushy” adjectives. Any attempt of writing about her is inevitably weighted with the desperation of fetching for qualities that haven’t been attributed to her previously by someone else. But it’s nigh impossible. Take a cursory glance at people’s comments about her and you get a sense of how much she means to a lot of people: sincere, passionate, hard-working, enthusiastic, inspiring, supportive, brilliant, so on and so forth. You see what I mean? It’s as if I’ve just missed out on this train and I can clearly see the departing end-carriage brimming with people and spirited chatter. It gets tiring sometimes, and equivocally cliché. But the words just don’t mean for naught, for I have had the privilege and the anecdotal heft to see those abstract concepts flow out, materialize and touch a medley of faces.

“Her light is one I grow towards.” Why couldn’t I think of something similar? I guess I could’ve just slipped this one in clandestinely and assume I didn’t know any better. But that certainly isn’t the case. And in any case, I should aim for higher. When you’re stuck in a pit of appraisal, the only thing left to do is look up. And Shannon’s light is definitely one that I look up to.

My first encounter with Shannon was on my interview day. I’d spoken to her earlier on phone, and the thing that struck me foremost was her enthusiasm. It’s not something you can glean just by the way she speaks, although that does play a major role, but more so with her unbridled knack for compassion (stay with me, folks). It’s more of the energetic kind, replete with an elegant skill of listening that she often attributes to her teaching & communications course that she took a while back. She hears you out completely, and unless absolutely pressing for time, returns serve in an uninterrupted, measured and determined manner. But that was the first thing that struck me about Shannon: that infectious sense of enthusiasm.

You get an idea of that energy more when you speak with her in person. The way her expressions are playfully animated, and how she sprinkles every conversation with chuckles and the singsong way by which she carries it. Youthful, for sure, but not in that overbearing way; rebellious without being antagonizing – most of the times, anyway.

Back to the interview: I was the last one being questioned and sorted out for the day. There were about four panelists from what I remember, and I half-expected them to just get through this exercise tiredly and be done with it. I actually did sense a bit of that but my memory is clouded with the presence of Shannon’s, you guessed it, enthusiasm. The questions were pretty standard and the answers flowed naturally.

I got wind of this job opening on Craigslist as I was idly browsing the web one evening. The posting looked innocuous enough, and I figured, what the heck? It sure beat all the retail job opportunities. I fired away a cover letter and résumé to Shannon, not holding out any hope in case it got shattered as usual. At the time, I was mired in a work situation that I absolutely loathed, and the application sent to Greenest City was among the many that I had written after one particularly frustrating day at work.

The following weekend, I was visiting and staying over at a friend’s place in Ottawa. We were enjoying the warm afternoon sun over a cup of tea when my cell phone buzzed. I picked it up and it was Shannon calling from Toronto. I don’t recall what we exactly talked about; it might’ve just been a confirmation from her about receiving my letter and résumé. Whatever it was, after I finished the call my friend looked at me and asked me why I had a smile on my face. I wasn’t offered any job position, really, but talking with Shannon had still left me smiling. It happened a lot over the course of summer and continues on till now.

There’s a side-point I want to address here, and that deals with the perception of me being a dedicated environmentalist or a seasoned community worker which enabled me to land this job. That, unfortunately, isn’t the case; although I wish it were. Sure, I had nascent ideas about climate change and opinions about sinister oil conglomerates. But does that earmark me from the rest of the roving populace? No. You see, the reason for me succeeding what could’ve been a field of far more suitable individuals is about as clear to me as it would be to you. The mechanics of why and how, the situational digressions and the particular environment at the time had somehow, peculiarly, aligned in my favour. I could venture a guess, from an immodest point of view, and say that my impression at the table might’ve tipped the scale a little towards my end. We are animals of vanity: from my immaculate, pin-striped suit to my starched shirt, the reasons for this and that, and the where and when get waylaid by the colours of persuasion. They are stuffed with elements of your disposition but did they really carry me past the finish line in this race? I don’t know, quite honestly. I suppose when it is all said and done, when Shannon and I and the others reflectively contemplate on the year that was, I could maybe ask her “why me?” But, for now, that sort of self-serving question remains mute when there’s still a lot that needs to be tended to. I’ll be sure to let you in on it when and if I get that question answered.

The day after the interview, I was called by Shannon and congratulated for landing the gig. I was elated. I was in the Queen streetcar when she called and I almost high-fived a fellow passenger standing beside me. I didn’t, of course. That would’ve been just confusing and really presumptuous of me. Especially so if it turned out that the stranger was just fired from his work. Talk about a faux pas!

Thus began my work with Greenest City, under the wing and tutelage of Shannon Thompson. Along with Bhavana Kapal & Abbey Huggan, we were entrusted with the task of leading six other youths, hereon referred to as the Youth Green Squad (YGS), into the heady levels of environmentalism, food security, urban gardening and sustainable consumption. Quite a plate, you would think. When you’re kind of green to this whole thing, it becomes even more daunting. It would be commensurate if I said I welcomed the challenge and faced the current with gusto. That, sadly again, is not the case.What happened instead was a curious and not-quite resolved extension of a job-in-training position that continues on till today. I bit my fingernails, wilted at times, and just tried to thoroughly absorb everything that was going on around me. Parkdale’s first community garden: check. Organic food: OK. Youth stewardship: check. Environmental awareness: check. Seed saving: right. Food security: sure. Issues on vulnerability: Uh huh. Arts influx, vitality, permaculture, 100 mile diet, cycling … I might have just bit more than I could chew. It’s definitely not the first time that I’ve gotten myself into such a scenario. But I’ve never before been thrust into a situation where I’m accountable for the holistic development of individuals, and not just for some abstract, quantifiable numbers of a faceless company.

~~~~~

On a sunny, warm spring weekend, when the breeze still harbours a trace of winter in the absence of the sun, more than a dozen hopefuls converged in the still-bare Hope garden. The name ‘Hope’ is an inventive play at ‘Healthy, Organic Parkdale Edibles (has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?) It was to be both an interview as well as a day’s session of work bee in the garden. Holding a clipboard each, as if to indicate that the participants were under a constant shadow of scrutiny — a moment’s slip and they would have to glance worryingly over their shoulder as I scribble a note while shaking my head and rolling my eyes – we sat under the shade of an imposing, aged, unnamed maple tree in the park. Shannon explained the day’s itinerary: all of the prospective environmentalists would be interviewed by a panel consisting of her along with me, Bhavana and Anna (an office intern) on the order of how we received the applications; the rest would be tending to the garden under the supervision of Abbey, the resident garden coordinator. Some applicants requested to be interviewed earlier, some later, and we tried to accommodate that as best as we could.

We had asked the Youth Green Squad wannabes, a week before the day of, to bring a piece of their creation that somehow embodied their being and, if possible, how it would enunciate their probable tenure working with Greenest City. It was idea breached by Bhavana, in the lead-up to the hiring day, to bring another aspect of the applicants to round up their presentation. We didn’t want to settle at just looking at the fruits; we wanted to smell them and taste them as well. Almost everyone brought something along with them, save for a pair of Tibetan sisters who not only managed to not do their project, but also come in late. Tut tut tut, I inwardly muttered, and placed an asterisk beside their names. I must confess that it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, and that writing semi-detached notes of judgement for the sake of objectivity was something I actually liked getting used to.

Of all the participants, a kid by the name of Max stood out immediately. Seventeen years old and almost bounding at the prospect of working in a garden, he clicked at all the right places. With an unkempt head of thick dreadlocks and a laid-back drawl about him, he was a student at the local Parkdale high school and had heard about this job opening from his horticultures teacher. He asked questions when we held the group palaver, and when told that they would be doing some light physical work, he jumped — eager to show his willingness at getting his hands dirty. He scored most of the right points at the interview: how he cared about recycling, his love of nature and music. A bonafide youth environmentalist prospect, if I’d ever seen one, and the rest of panel seemed to share in this sentiment as well.

And there were others. Andrew Pangowish, a shy, bear-like, sixteen-year-old native boy with a seemingly perpetual set of downcast eyes who was really into biking and well, quite reserved and unrevealing the first time around, but rest assured, he was going to play a big role later on. Yozajandi, a bright Mexican girl whose immigration status in Canada was in a state of limbo but Shannon wasn’t going to let a purgatorial obstacle like that prevent her from taking Yoz into the program. Karimah, a demure, soft-spoken native of East Africa who was majoring in Architecture at the University of Guelph. And lastly, Alyssa: a bratty, confident, sixteen-year-old classmate of Andrew’s who chastised him during the interview for wrecking her project by not protecting it well enough from the shower yesterday.

As the interviewees whittled down for the day, our ad hoc interview table now under the shade of the tall community housing building that looms over the western edge of the park, we collected our notes and bade good night to each other. We had initially intended to compare and decide who was going to be hired at the conclusion of the process, but the evening turned out to be too chilly and we gave up on that notion soon enough. Throughout the whole session, as we grilled – conversationally, of course – one youth after another, I was struck by the realization that I could have just as easily been on the other side of the table. And even from that point, I wasn’t sure I would’ve stood out as a possible YGS recruit. Some of these kids were pretty damn talented and passionate. Some were even older than me, for crying out loud.

The following day, in the basement office underneath the local community centre, we gathered our notes and engaged in a dispiriting exercise of elimination. I tested the water, since I couldn’t profess to any real, strong feelings about any of the candidates. Shannon and Bhavana were more resolute, relatively speaking, although I could tell that even they were slightly drained from picking out of a pool so equally competent and deserving. We had six to pick from the dozens, and as far as I could tell, only a couple of names were clear-cut choices among all of the judges.At the end of it, the two women decided that they were going to only choose those kids that were currently not attending university and/or, to put it bluntly, from a non-privileged way of life. I agreed, partly because this was one of our mandates in the YGS program, but mainly because this made the selection process so much easier.

~~~~~

The office of Greenest City is a basement space generously provided by the Masaryk-Cowan Community Centre. James Caldwell, the director of the centre, by Shannon’s own endorsement is a keen environmentalist and was on-ball from the inception of the program. The office has an L-shaped layout, with two points of entry from the main floor as well as from the side of the building. The first thing you notice about the basement office is that it doesn’t really feel like a basement. With the exception of the absence of windows on the wall and the presence of all sorts of pipes running across on the ceiling, the brightly coloured basement feels like any other level in the building. With it’s high walls and ample lighting, the office offers a cool respite from the heat of the summer and a warm recluse in the winter. I certainly didn’t imagine feeling how cozy it would in the cold weather; but it is, and as I type this paragraph, the steady hum of the radiator behind me gently cloaks the air with a close, dungeon-y warmth.

Most of the furniture and equipments in the office are either donated or borrowed from Shannon. The used computers were all received from a dealer with a charitable bent. Almost everything in here was once owned by someone else — the less the impact on earth. The walls are all hung with pictures from past endeavours of Greenest City, and posters of plants and animals. There are lots of chairs on the floor, as if inviting a visitor to sit down, chat and learn about the colourful pictures and posters on the wall. What’s the hurry?

The first time I ambled down the steps as a freshly inducted employee of Greenest City, the office was already thrumming with Anna and Mona Koochek typing away on the computers. Mona was a volunteer at the time and she was helping in organizing the garden opening celebration to be held on the weekend. An undergraduate of York University with an affable and coquettish disposition that far exceeds her diminutive frame, she immediately laid out the plans for the party and took us to task with it. Posters were put up, restaurant owners approached, and meals secured. The idea was to get as much cuisine as we could that reflected the diverse spices of the community. There were going to be curries, rice dishes, falafel balls, momos, Ethiopian daal … every platter a slice of Parkdale’s colourful makeup.

The opening ceremony at the garden was a celebration of vaudevillian moderation. Held in the park on which the garden was tilled, the crisp early spring air was cracked by shrieks of children laughing and people chattering. A local, bluegrass band serenaded the attendants softly, prompting the occasional whoot and claps of approval. The outdoor party was set up so that a tent covering the A/V equipment flanked the southern side of the garden, with rows of chair borrowed from the community centre lined around it further down. Colourful posters acknowledging the donors and offering tidbits about the garden were hung on the fences, artfully created by Abbey, who has a flair for wispy lines and delicate sketches.

Observing Shannon schmooze and move about the ceremony is to study a natural connector in all her glory. She stands at a medium height — with a healthy, stocky frame trained from years of cycling and indulging in all sorts of outdoor recreations such as kayaking and hiking. She capers every so often, and her penchant for operatic gestures is amplified when a certain subject or anecdote stokes her fancy. Shannon is one of those rare people gifted with the affability to instantly strike you as friendly and approachable in the most unforced manner — connecting for her is not an effort of socializing but rather a natural means of conversation.

I was stuck in one of my usual moments of uncertainty when faced with a large theatre of unknown faces mingling and creating atmosphere. I wanted to look like I was involved, like someone who was too distracted to bother introducing himself or wishing cordialities to similarly perplexed patrons. There are only so many times you can pretend like the stitch on your sleeve looked really interesting. And so I clicked. My dark, bulky and ugly D-SLR became my means of conversation, and I explored all the intricate patterns of the characters before me through the eyes of my trusty, slightly dusty zoom lens.

The whole event was a performance of colours bouncing ever which way: children’s faces were painted, the rosette of dishes screamed spice and earth-borne culture. The kaleidoscope of the procession was politely balanced with local residents and community activists; all young, old and feasting on a portion of ingredients that made up the neighbourhood where they lived. All of the dishes were paid for by the local BIA; all of them prepared by local restauranteurs. Towards the latter half of the day, an African drumming band further enlivened the affair, kids and adults alike shaking their hips and trying to maintain rhythm with the tribal beat of the drummers.

And then Shannon spoke, wearing a green, costume hat adorned with fruits and vegetables. The local dignitaries spoke as well, pledging their support and belief in all of the hot button, kitchen table environmental issues. People laughed, people clapped. It was quite the landmark event: Parkdale getting her first, very own organic garden space. A lot of promises to be met, and a lot more things to look forward to.

I clicked my camera shut and took stock of what transpired from the day. The volunteers had now started to clean the park up. No paper cups or plates were used for the party, instead we used the cutlery from the community kitchen and some partygoers brought in their own eating implements. Everything was being washed, nothing wasted. I marveled at the quiet, sensible prudentiality of the operation. All of the efforts were marked by an easy-going affirmation, none of it barked or cajoled out with an imposing aura of erudite insistence. It was my third day at work and, already, it felt like I was on the cusp of something utterly transformative.

~~~~~

To be continued…

-Part I-

After a couple of ciders, three shots of vodka and ginger ale, followed by two tequila shooters, all in quick succession — and the inevitable chorus of “oh yeahs” and the falsetto howling — the mosh-pit doesn’t look as intimidating as previously thought of. Instead, the distant humming in the back of the head numbs your taste in music and the weirdly bobbing and swaying motions of equally or exceedingly inebriated strangers invites you to spit out your distaste for ruefully inconsiderate invaders of the comfort zone, and just “let’s just dance, man”.

And so he followed, uncertainty slipping away from his grip with every tap from another summered-out girl and her sun-burned skin exposing every bit of the coquettish harlequin carefully wrapped up in deadlines, schedules and shifts before. Bangs were whipping everywhere, sweat pouring freely and colourful shoes that were going to be searched for in a maddeningly confusing state of recovery in the days that were to follow.

They stopped somewhere on the edge of the core of the mosh-pit. She leaned her back on him, guiding his hands towards her navel, and closed her eyes as she rested the back of her head on his general facial area. The music began to gain tempo again, and people around them were getting restless, as if instructed by some intrinsic sound wave to pick their pace and gyrate their bodies accordingly: to release their budding energy of being young, to celebrate the unbecoming of.

She was tall — only about an inch or so shorter than him — so it was impossible to see what was going on in front of him without leaning his head. The band was now playing at a fevered pitch, possessed by the urgency of trying to establish themselves as legitimately in-touch with what they just used to be. Her body started to move in waves of calm and restlessness, every movement punctuated by the vibe of the air around her.

He stroked the side of her legs, admiring the supple crease of her jeans, and rested his chin on her shoulder.

“How are we doing today?” she whispered. Her knotted bun now came undone and the intoxicating smell of sweat and shampoo briefly enveloped his face.

“I think we’re doing good. Are we doing good?” he asked rhetorically.

“You’re awesome, you know that?” she replied non sequitur. Somehow the fact that her alcoholically tainted comment had no bearing whatsoever on her actual feelings cracked him up and he chuckled. She grinned and proceeded to writhe her shoulder and spine slowly: brushing and tempting.

The sun had now settled at a comfortable angle, the elongated shadows of the band members mesmerized the young hedonists on the side of the stage. A particularly boozed up person wearing a black t-shirt imprinted with white lightning and the letters “AC/DC” managed to scramble up the stage and attempted to test the buoyancy prowess of the crowd before him. Unfortunately for him — and fortunately for the people on the ground, for he was a rather heavy-set person with drops of what appeared to be beer dripping from his morass of a goatee — the security team quickly descended on him and escorted him away amid scattered shouts of derision and applause.

It was now nearly three hours since they’d first met at the grounds and delved into a progressively downward spiral of youthful debauchery. He let his hands feel the curve of her back, her firm belly, the soft mounds and the delicate neck. She continued to move contently, glowing in the unabashed appreciation of those around them. He didn’t mind. Let them gawk, he thought.

Yesterday, he mused, I was wallowing on weed and pils. Today, I feel like a fucking rock star.

“Listen: bound to the realms of this existence, I can only look as far as my eyes can see. And I can only hold for as long as my lungs can take. But take the plunge with me and you’ll sense the impermanence.”

We breathe in staccatos, afraid to let go of the last…bits and swallow abruptly. We cling. Do we not? We tug at futility, raging at the constant ebb and flow of impulses — some involuntarily, while others concocted from the myriad lapses of logic and perspective.

Slowly, and gently, a mother falcon nudges her chick away from the precipice, beckoning with shrill laughter at the seemingly hapless indecisiveness of the young one who has never felt a thermal updraft or the shimmering mist beside a waterfall. Does she plunge, will she follow? You were there. And you mocked at your reflection then, taunting it with words that didn’t break any bones nor any mirror. You broke a lot then, didn’t you? All that swelled inside you burst forth, but all that ulcerated inside have yet to cleanse.

Would you rather pick up the broken bits, or step on them? I have questions from many and answers for few, and I have feathers from afar, but songs that never travel far. Interpretations give way to irreverence, and all the traveller has in the end to show for his trip is a bag of rustic postcards. They are all filled with words of intent, but they lack intentions.

Here’s a bus ride with only one passenger: you. You choose to sit at the very back, on the left, because you’ve always favoured your left shoulder when leaning on the window. You choose to sit behind because then you can stretch your feet without having to position yourself sideways. You choose to sit at the back because you like the way the streets play out before you in front of all those empty seats. And the driver that you never met? Is he wearing a hat? Does she call out every stop in a singsong way? Is he wearing shorts, or is she gaining at all the wrong places?

Outside, it is just past twilight and the streets are dim with lights that are slowly coming aglow. It is pouring today. Or tonight. Can you tell? The fogged up windows and the trickling drops outside cloud your orientation. And now you’re unsure about which stop you passed by, which curve and what slope you descended into. The bus travels along at a brisk speed, the whipping rain now completely blinding the windshield, and yet the driver ignores the wipers. Do you slowly panic now? Or are you beyond reprieve?

You rub your eyes and wipe the windows, but it doesn’t help. Nausea creeps in from some absurd corner of your gut. Your hands feel distant, aloof and almost independent of your thoughts. You’ve forgotten your backpack, stereo headphones emitting tiny crackles of choruses that you never bothered to uncover. Do you stand up, or do you sit? Transfixed. A feeble attempt at opening the overhead window is met with a blunt noncompliance. You’re moving at an average speed of 66 kph, but you’re paralyzed inside.

You’re hurtling through space at a blistering pace of thirty kilometers per second, but you’re stuck. You’re barely hanging on, it seems. Clinging seems more appropriate. Do you chuckle at your inane thoughts now? Are you “reflecting”?

When the woods have cleared and you’ve brushed aside the sweat on your forehead, take a look behind the seemingly wayward journey of yours and you’ll discover an uneven path. A path strewn with broken branches and carelessly tossed tissue papers. A path, nonetheless. The falcon cries in the distant — of wonders that have yet to be beset upon, and pitfalls that lie beneath every bed of flowers.

Follow or plunge. Pack heartily in any case.

Driving along a seldom used back-road that suddenly leads into a vast stretch of farms and grasslands with an odd barnyard pockmarked here and there. Thanks, o Canada.

That cool drift that generally follows a quick storm on a hot, humid day. The smell of rain and the displaced dust helps too.

Being engulfed in the persuasive perfume of some mysterious passer-by on the side-walk. And as you distractedly turn to look back at the offending stranger, she drowns into the impersonal crowd, leaving you momentarily bemused at your own capacity for capriciousness.

Sitting through a crappy club and hearing the opening rift of a really good song, and looking at someone as you both realise it.

That rude gush of ice-cold water that remained in the shower pipe before the warm water comes out. Perks you right up even though you’ve been dreading it since releasing the tap.

That tilted, painfully intrigued look on a dog’s face as you test your whistling prowess.

The wonderful mounds and angles of a woman’s shape. Especially so when all they care to have on is a pair of jeans and nothing else.

Instantly connecting with a complete stranger and sharing a nefarious sense of humour.

Moving people with your writing.

Watching someone close their eyes in bliss and thoroughly enjoy a dish that you made while listening to some Stones’ tunes.

Really old couples sitting on park benches and soaking up the bustling life before them.

Going over an absolute mess of pictures from the day, getting progressively pissed at yourself, and then coming across that one single image that “just works” and had nothing what-so-ever to do with the day’s intended theme.

Dragging your feet against the knots of a well-made Tibetan rug.

Talking to sensitive, precocious little children about the arts and music.

Unexpectedly catching a really good song in an otherwise shitty, commercial radio station.

Mature yet casually stylish women in subway trains and cafes.

Oily foot massages … and taking turns.

Walking through a neighbourhood early in the morning, when the streets are eerily silent and you share nods with joggers and street cleaners.

Spending the whole night talking about everything under the sun and beyond with old friends and schoolmates.

That dull sensation ringing in your head when you’re pleasantly buzzed and you can finally ask that pretty girl for a dance without mulling over the disaster scenarios.

Everyone agrees that yes, we demand an encore and all involved shall heartily stamp the floor beneath them. And then the band shows up, obviously glad of the reception.

The awe in babies’ eyes as they crane their head back and stare at the mountain of a being that you are. And then laughter.

Finding yourself attracted to someone, in spite of yourself.

(what do you like?)

You should have seen the way she held his hand and firmly led him around the festival ground. A fluttering of not-quite-unpleasant aches swelled inside him as the cacophony of the distortion from the opening bands plundered the eardrums of those who were not quite sure which band was coming after whom.

A pleasant mid-May afternoon, and already the cherry blossoms were signaling the turn of the season — the high sun casually burning the young, restless people loitering or canoodling about the park.

“Did you bring any sunscreen with you?” she inquired after settling on a high spot on the ground, a safe distance from the thick of the crowd but close enough to feel the thumping speakers vibrating and shaking the air around them. A comfortable spot, he hazily surmised, lying beside her on the soft mound.

“Uh…what?” He was still feeling the bitter aftertaste of whatever he had shot earlier on the tip of his tongue and on the roof of his mouth.

“A sunscreen cream. It’s fucking hot. Wow.”

He didn’t. He didn’t even bring his bag, come to think of it. Well, be that as it may, he rested his head on the grass as she fished around her purse, evidently looking for a tube of cream to protect her pale skin. So fair, he caught himself thinking, and let a smile loose.

The clean, late Spring sky loomed overhead as strands of cirrus clouds harmlessly swirled on the periphery. Then, silence. Distant screeches from sea gulls swooping towards the ground and fighting over bits of hot dogs and buns punctuated the still, murmuring atmosphere. I wonder who’s coming next, he wondered. Is that a banjo? No fucking way.

“I need a smoke so bad.” she said, quite earnestly, after watching a bunch of roadies disassembling and assembling the equipments onstage.

“I thought you said you quit.”

She stared at him bemusedly and shrugged. “Only on special occasions, natch. Hey beautiful, can I steal a drag from you?”

A girl sitting about three steps away from them glanced at her laughingly and more than happily obliged. “Thank you so much. You look really, really hot.”

They all laughed and exchanged pleasantries: the “what faculty”, “which quad”, “how long”, “where from”, the “oh my god really? All the way from Kootenays? That’s so awesome!” and the “hey, you know a Jeff from so-so went to this high school my cousin’s ex la dee la dee das” — then silence, again.

She decided that it was about time they sauntered towards the crowd and “y’know, let’s dance.” OK.

Wait, what? He maybe a little buzzed, but he wasn’t inebriated to the point of flailing his arms around and embarrassingly beleaguering himself with the frat boys. He didn’t care much for the frat boys: the “bros”, the guys with the Birkenstock sandals on slightly frayed, fatigued cargo shorts with their over-sized aviator shades, their meticulously tousled coifs and their propensity for gratuitous exclamations, their AXE deo-sprays and lastly, their fucking popped collars. Who the fuck does that? Why would anyone do that? He didn’t really, really care much for the frat boys.

-Part II-