i n t o . t h e . w o o d s

d r e a m

I recently had someone refer to my sketchbook as a 'book of dreams', after having left it face open on my desk after work. Whatcha got there in your book of dreams, they said; the page was rife with the swirling lines and happy face variations that I'd produced for a tattoo design request.

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Lately, I've been experiencing episodes of exhausted disconnectedness; I'll get off the streetcar after a day at the office and wander aimlessly, looking into shops and at passing people in a daze. Last week I meandered up a street I'd never spent much time on for an hour or so, halfheartedly determined to buy something: a snack, some dinner, a book, a trinket. After passing plenty of interesting locations, I doubled back, entered a juice bar and realized that I had neither cash nor plastic; I shuffled awkwardly outside once more, balanced my purse on my knee and rifled around for a while. Eventually, I migrated to a bench, continued to dig around in the depths of my bag (cluttered with nail polish, pens, mints, receipts, pins, screws...) and found a handful of change.

I continued back down the sidewalk, coins in the palm of my hand. After some debate, I bought two dollars worth of strawberries from a fruit market (which was swarming with bees who kept swooping erratically past my head and colliding with their own reflections in the store's mirrored wall — so much anxiety). The sun had set by then, the street was bustling and cool.

Life is arbitrary — where we go, what we do. It's strangely pleasurable to disassociate from the structure of habitual life, to wander and let go of routine. 

e l e c t r i c . g r e e n

Perhaps my favourite aspect of Toronto is its balance of urban and natural; paces away from bustling streets, there are quiet neighbourhoods of heirloom houses with sprawling lawns and lush gardens. I took a walk today down one such street, feeling peaceful and detached from city life (and reality).

l i t t l e . l i g h t

Whenever I pass by a window, I can't help but look inside--especially at night. Walking past in the dusk or darkness, they glow seductively, little golden glimpses into another world.

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I recall a conversation in winter, when I was four or five: my father sitting on the edge of my bed one night and telling me how to break my window (with the miniature blonde-wood chair from my desk set) and escape in case of fire. I imagined myself hopping through knee-high snow in my nightgown; I tried to summon up the strength that such a task necessitated, and wondered if I ever could.

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Five years later: on summer nights when high-winds rendered me too anxious for sleep, I sought comfort in the noise and light of television. Nestled on the plaid couch in our family living room, I focused my eyes on the screen and willed myself not to glance towards the far side of the room with its wide windows; beyond the peeling paint of those aged wood frames was the wide open sky, tinged an unnatural pink. In front, there stood a long table of heavy, antique wood which was laden with plants whose silhouettes were only just visible against the glass.  

I remember the angry howl of the wind coming down the chimney and the ominous sight of skeleton branches dancing wildly against the clouds.

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On another summer evening, in young-adulthood: walking through quiet neighborhoods with someone that I had feelings for, the mood casual yet confusing. As we meandered past quaint houses on lush, tree-lined streets, I passingly peeked into open windows; I wondered if the people who lived within were happy. As the sun set and nature turned cool grey and blue, I wanted to be inside the golden light of those bright homes and the life that they embodied.