two

i already know what you’ll say.
you’ll say that this is too many ideas not executed well enough.
you’ll say that there are too many characters that aren’t developed enough.
you’ll say there are too many places where lower case letters just aren’t enough.
well, here’s what i say:
you’re in canada now, darling.
and not just anywhere in canada, but montreal.
hold up your peace signs, because frankly, where i’m from, no one gives a shit. my country, my province and i are quite the rebellious trio. we walk away from wars with our disaffected stares. we mess with school systems like some people mess with my head. we mix cheese curds and gravy and we add fries because we want to be like america but with that certain je-ne-sais-pas-quoi.
as this heavy night falls, a lot of my cells are off-kilter. the heat pad attempting to unknot the roots of trees heavy in my back is too warm. this air is too fogged. and most of all, i’m too unsure of where my feet are planted … or if they’re planted at all. so i need to send my mind back to an older place, a place with cobblestones just like here but without the pretensions living in every nook and cranny. i send myself back to my belle province, and wrap myself in warm summer visions of a better kind of heat. eric screams his knotted lyrics through a black wire fan as the temperature climbs up the walls of l‘inconditionnel, and lea, glowing in the humidity, holds her camera poised and ready. it rains down on my cheeks, and i’m riding through the countryside mist on a frosted blue bike, sweatpants and a relationship clinging to my ankles. all these thoughts are safe, but they didn’t hold me down well enough. they didn’t keep me there, in mon beau petit hometown, under warm comfortable gazes and warm comfortable meals and in a warm, comfortable box. however, warmth and comfort seem to follow me wherever i go, in such a gluestick-worthy manner that i couldn’t shake this life if i tried to.
i always say to my heart that at my essence, in the core of this temple, i need to be alone.
however, i’m quick to forget the longer, slippery consequence of that hard, glinting independence: loneliness.
a ce moment, entre la noirceur de hier et d’aujourd’hui, to me manques, montreal. toi aussi, mes amis, ma famille.
i will get you back soon. i will gather it all in my arms and schlep it back up this sleek, water-operated elevator.
you still trust me, right?

one

the great thing about beginnings is the infinite possibilities they hold for endings. births, weddings, ready-set-goes: they all demand a certain exuberant hysteria, under the precedent of celebrating newness and fresh starts. but really, it’s the high-school dropouts, the divorcees and cheaters, the losers gasping for breath in last place that people relish. that’s the stuff of stories. that’s what they’re really waiting to talk about. it’s the shadows that beginnings cast that make them so remarkably enticing. why would you start anything knowing how it’s going to end up?
this book should be read with the full knowledge that the ending was not planned when the first word hit the page, just like our first meeting was in no way indicative of where we all ended up when that first smile hit my eyes.
you were so exuberant, will. you even charmed my mom. you came right up and welcomed me into your oceans of eyes, and i should have known that that was a big flashing indicator of things to come. almost as flashy as your kid robot hoodies.
and i had all these preconceived notions, because that’s what my generation uses as protection. our rubber? facebook profiles. our steel? pictures and wall comments, fashioned into perfectly fitting armour, all this psychological crafting for the simple reason that we think we know exactly what we’re getting before we get it. in this way we keep our fragile souls and even more fragile identities intact. humanity’s newest set of opposable thumbs: there you have it.
so i thought i knew exactly what was on the menu, because as far as a certain petty level of my conciousness was concerned, i was both better and worse than every other living thing i was about to encounter. i think, as readers, you should be aware of how full of contradictions i am. i tell you this because i don’t think that that should in any way compromise our rapidly developing mutual trust. i mean, this story is about you just as much as it is about me, and aren’t we all a little contradictory?
we should probably discuss the “i mean” before we go any further.
its really not that much of a story. its just something my friends and i say to disguise our uncertainties about our words. “i mean…” always softens the blow. consider exhibit a:
your dog just died.
or
i mean … your dog just died.
trust me. it’s a good filler. makes you feel like you’re wrapped up in a warm blanket. you should just be warned that i use it a lot. you should also agree that we soak up the people and things around us with remarkable ease.
in light of this, i mean, i am a house that has molded to its inhabitants.
i am a temple in the middle of a constantly cool, deliciously dense forest that people always seem to be able to find. kids these days are way more determined than they’re made out to be. they’ll slash through rainforest for days to get to the comfort they thing they need.
so the door to twelve oh four swung open over much juggling of keys, and i opened my doors the widest they’ve ever been and let some people in.
you’ll meet them all in good time and better places, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves. a book is like a good meal: you want it to last as long as possible without it being overkill, right? presuming this is a good book, i presume that you are a good reader, and that you’ll bear with me with the certainty that it will all be out in the open, laid down flat on the page just waiting for you to love it, soon enough.
it’s august twenty-ninth, the lights go down in the majestic theater, and i’m howling in my plush velvet seat about impatience.