I get as much pleasure looking at the objects in my window when they're reflected by the morning light onto the curtain as I do looking at them when the curtain is open. It's kind of otherworldly-like; secret goings on in that other realm just beyond the reach of this one. Like when you're a little kid and you think all your toys come alive when you're sleeping, interacting in a toy community with toy concerns and toy traditions and toy conversations - all above the little non-magical world of mortals and thus never to be shared.
I get home tonight and find there's less room than usual at my usual locking up spot. I have to stick mine in between two others, mixing up handlebars and touching rear ends. I'm usually not so crazy about intimate contact with other city dwellers, but these dwellers are squeaky clean and pretty attractive.
The party has been invaded by a couple of a flashy, beautiful broads. Shiny brand new roadsters, one white, one black. The black one is completely tricked out – a rack, a basket, fenders, a rubber-covered u-lock, an elasticised strap. And that seat! Classy brown leather look and the springiest springy shocks. I could ride to Vancouver on that thing. The tires have those sticky outy rubber protusions are all over them, I don't think they've ridden a block. I can't believe that bike is parked outside. In downtown Toronto.
I lock up my dusty old olive green Chevy and wish the new Beemer owners many miles of happy riding. And I covet those shiny fenders.
Gusty, rainy, windy. Tree carnage. Mass umbrella slaughter. I won't even talk about what happened to the CN Tower.
I love these purple pom pom flowers, how they float above gardens like colourful little clouds. Apros pos because I found these ones at Cloud Garden off Temperance Street. I really loved these ones sitting atop this brick wall. They way they lean over it's as if they're looking over the wall at the parade of humans going by below them; mocking us for our Monday drudgery and wondering why we don't have the sense to hang about in a sunny garden instead of going back to the office after lunch.
Sitting on my building's roof in the brand new camp chairs, looking at the lake, the boats, the planes, and nothing in general after a good walk in the city.
Jen: I'm just thinking about what I'm going to make us for supper.
Ceri: What is it?
Jen: (coy) I'm not telling.
Ceri: What the hell?
Jen: It'll be good.
Ceri: Does it involve onions?
Jen: Of course.
Ceri:AH HA! I KNEW IT! .
After the excess of the holiday season, I've been craving simple, and turned to the same dinner the past two nights running.
I know you're jealous.
…lurking about in the wee hours. An advanced visit, presumably to inspect my non-traditional Christmas Tree, under which he was standing. I think he approved because there are some gifts.
This morning it’s deeply overcast; one of those rainy mornings when you wish it was Saturday but it’s really Thursday and so you drag yourself out of bed, late, and don’t care about what the clock says because everybody is late on a rainy day.
The atmosphere has an indigo-charcoal cast and soft, smoky clouds are obscuring the tops of the buildings. It’s warmer than usual and it’s raining lightly but it seems like the rain is coming down hard because of the thrusting winds.
I walk outside and one of those winds sweeps up smacks me wet in the face and so I look at the streetcars approaching the stops outside my building. One going east to Union Station would be a relatively fast ride, and then I could navigate my way through the station and walk the underground malls all the way to my office. I’m gauging the favourableness of that as opposed to the 25 minute blustery rainy walk when I get a look at the steamy windows of the streetcars and I think about the vacant, rude, blackberry punching humanity crammed inside, and that times a hundred teeming through Union Station, and I open up my polka dotted umbrella and tilt it into the wind and walk up into Spadina Avenue for my journey north-east to work.
Right away I smell the rain on the city and I’m glad I’ve chosen the walk, even though gusts blow up one side of me and down the other and I’m hanging on to my umbrella wrestling it back to its job. I get up to Front Street and other people are wrestling their umbrellas too and some are crouched up tight in their hoods and scarves. On King Street the streetcars are glistening behind the swishing windshield wipers and the streets are shining under the rain and the clouds seemed to have sunk down to encompass the coffee shops too.
I get close to Bay Street amidst all the suits and black umbrellas and while I’m waiting for a light I imagine all of those bankerly types suddenly swooping up into the air like the would-be nannies in Mary Poppins, high heels flying off and scarves fluttering; and I imagine them flipping and whirling, getting smaller as they move off past the cloud draped buildings and over the lake toward Niagara Falls.
I get to my office with mashed up hair and a runny nose and I prop my dripping umbrella next to my desk and get myself a cup of jasmine flavoured tea and know that my wet ankles will dry before long.
Walking down to Sugar Beach today we came upon these tiny mushrooms. Aren't they the loveliest things? Don't you just want to escape into this tiny netherworld? I do. But then I'm inclined to think the faery world isn't affected by concerns like politics, angry drivers with horns, deadlines, retirement savings plans and fluffy pop stars.
But who knows? I could be wrong. I haven't escaped into that netherworld.
Tiny mushroom netherworld – beautiful thing number fifty-three.