Before I met Eric I thought I was the only one who over-analyzed everything. He was philosophical, cynical, messy, sarcastic and way too charming. When he wasn’t reading Sartre or heating up microwave dinners, he was a bag boy in an organic grocery or playing bass in a garage band. I always wondered why someone so smart was working in a grocery store, but he had a way of rationalizing it, that it was a conscious choice to avoid the evils of the corporate world. I found out that he was originally from Alberta, which explained the plaid shirts and country-boy charm. He always had a paperback in his corduroy back pocket and used to give people this crooked smile as if to say he knew something nobody else did. Eric had this habit of dating extremely attractive yet intensely vacuous blondes, which I always thought must have gotten frustrating after the initial lust period, but I was probably just jealous. He ended up going on tour with his band that summer, where I’m sure he spent half the time with groupies and the other half with his nose in a book.
I decided to change the name of these bits of prose from Sociable Sketches to Character Sketches. At first they seemed to take on more of a romantic, dating vibe but recently I’ve been inspired by other characters in my life and I’ve decided to widen the field, thus the name change.
I am thinking of putting together a book of these sketches, so look out for that in the future.
Haza
Allison never wore pants, only skirts. She had been known to dabble in performance art and she could drink a whole flat of coke on her own. She used to wear this one sundress all the time, a putrid colour of yellow mixed with brown in a geometric pattern, but somehow she still managed to pull it off. With a childlike smile and old soul blue eyes, Allison burst into the Art scene and devoured every colour and shape in her path. I met her in university, when her mind was like a sponge taking in everything from German language courses to Cinema theory. We used to practice together for open mic nights in a small room in the basement of our residence. On the walls in this tiny room, many former dwellers had marked their presence with pens and markers. Poetry, signatures, “she loves him” declarations and favourite quotes adorned the painted white bricks.I don’t remember what type of mark Allison made on those walls, but I’d guess it’s probably the most creative or abstract of them all, with a touch of whimsy added to it — just how I remember her.
Roger was my landlord for a few years, but he was really a professional photographer. He was a pretty hip landlord as landlords go, with strawberry-grey hair and a scruffy beard, very “Old Man and the Sea” — if the Old Man had an iMac. Roger’s vast repertoire of captivating stories was rivalled only by the number of cigarettes he could smoke in a day. He had this way of telling stories that reminded you of the ugly realities of life, but somewhere in the tale was a bit of beauty lurking beneath the surface. Roger’s own story involved a rise from living on the street, where his passion for photography played the role of saviour. He had a booming voice that asserted his ego and experience in life and photography; but underneath the rustic, seasoned exterior lived that same boy from the Toronto streets who one night chased a dollar just to get a coffee.
Alex had an interesting mix of thoughtful intellectualism and embarrassing bravado. He wore kitschy tshirts with smart sayings on them and only drank micro-brews. We met at a party when a friend introduced us by setting us up with one of those predictable comments, you know the type – “Hey, both of you (insert shared activity here)” and expected us to discuss further. Predictably, we did discuss further and ended up hitting it off, at least in the sense that we shared a love of Value Village finds and Indie music. He was one of those guys that loved to talk about many interesting topics, but most of all he enjoyed talking about himself. Although he did seem a tad cocky, Alex had a way of making you feel valued, like he was one of those guys that actually appreciated your intellect too, although deep down you knew that couldn’t really be grounded in the truth because he was just a guy, after all. He did have some intensely expressive eyes however, and that along with his trendy haircut and quirky, boyish enthusiasm is what intrigued me.
My cabin that summer was aptly re-named “Where Moths Come to Die”. As I snuffed out each little moth’s life night after night, it became like a reflex. Just as I would settle into my satiny sleeping bag, a friendly little moth would be earside, unaware that the end was imminent. Some nights the tin roof was a raucuous symphony of pounding rain, other nights I heard the family of bunnies digging below the cabin floor. In the daytime there was sunshine, clean air and greenery all around. A nice contrast to my home city full of crowds, cars and chaos. It was a summer of country roads and swift baby foxes, suntanned skin and a lake as smooth as glass. I relished in the little things: a hot shower where you could smell the fresh air as you lathered up, the anticipation of the day ahead as the stovetop coffee pot brewed. Certain evenings I stumbled around roots and relied on my magestic Mag-Lite, other times I gazed up at the expanse of stars, wide-eyed and full of calm. As the summer came to a close, I was sad to leave such a natural setting, but happy to return to the land of streetcars, sushi and socializing.
I’ve decided to post any of my writing that’s been published, in the hopes that I will someday soon have more to post! This is an article I wrote highlighting my Dad’s office fire and the subsequent redesign of the new dental office by my sister, Wendy.
This is one of many poems I wrote to help me come to terms with my friend Nate’s passing. We met when we were teens at camp and he passed away at the age of 17 very suddenly. His passion for life inspires me to this day.
My Hippie Angel
I believe in angels, never used to but I do
Used to take for granted all my friends till I met you
You were just a corduroy kid, but I noticed you
Aged fourteen and full of spark, your eyes an emerald hue
We used to spend our afternoons lying in the fields
Camping out was our life, beachfront was our view
I was chillin’ with an angel….I guess I always knew.
taiwan calling
hopes falling
reality waking
mistakes making
eyes winking
too much thinking
mind denying
plane flying
pride swallowing
heart following
paths diverging
memory purging
