The air is all still in this place. Everything feels dead, though I know outside it'll be all too living for my livid lonely likes. A simple concept such as going out to get some food (two slices, piping re-heated) to still my prowling hungers turns into an epic quest. Huh.
It's been more than two weeks now. Fifty to go. I've read two books, though (The Children of Men and The Good Earth) so I'm a whole pile up on last-year-me. Maybe I can translate that into progress in other areas. I contemplated that last night, walking home. Maybe I'll come to love the mayhem. I'm already apparently pretty chill with talking to sans-abris (at least, when they force me to)... maybe in time I'll build up and tear down the respective walls I need to deal with regular passersby. Maybe I'll be better at phone calls. Maybe.
I've gotten some writing done—a short poem, some lyrics, some novelry, this blog—and had Dan over. Briefly I was competent under the spotlight. Now I've wasted two days fiddling, reading, hiding. I need to get over this, get into Pharmaprix and Canadian Tire and the Triada Corp. offices and all that shit. I need to get on the phone. I need clean clothing. I need, I need, I need.
Maybe Mats Sundin will sign a contract with the Canadiens after all. "Would you bargain your ways," Dan once asked me, "for a little taste of silver?" And I would, and I wouldn't. And well, is there such an one who would? And I know that yes, and also no. (At least I can tell my radicals apart, right?) So long as Marc Denis doesn't get the #2 job. Grabovski I can bear to lose, but Grabovski and Halak is too much.
Anyway. I have questing to do. It's like Lancelot's Armor: a solo quest, but easily winnable and it bears much fruit when it comes to dealing with problems. And off, and out I go, into the puny night, indeed.
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