Looking for the little things.
I've been here twenty three hours. This funk has been wrapped about my brain long enough.
Driving my beloved geekmobile back from the familiar hungarian tune-up place, after a delightful hour of thick-accented chatting, polite questions about my trip, a jovial welcome back, a new car battery, oil change, tune-up and special just-because-you've-always-been-such-an-angel discount, and the news that changing my windshield might only run three, rather than five, hundred dollars...
I drove back here, alone, down tree-lined avenues, past red brick houses and overgrown front lawns.
The effect of spending twenty three hours in my father's company slowly loosing the grip I hadn't noticed was wrapped about my seratonin receptors.
My car smells familiar. It's a beauty to drive. It's just a damned object, and fuck - ecologically some small part of me feels guilt at this, but the sheer pleasure of sliding to a halt and then pulling away from my favourite stopsign on Westminster, hooking my thumbs into an all-too-familiar shitbrown steering wheel...
The little things have begun clambering out of their burrows again.
Or really, the monstre has begun opening her eyes after having shut them rather fiercely in the midst of a well-timed bout of PMS.
Walking into a cornerstore for a cup of coffee and a lemonade for dad, it cost me two-twenty-five. Roughly one euro and a few pennies.
Granted, it was a nasty styrofoam cup filled with brown water, but still.
Little things. I'm a monstre, if I hold on tight enough, I will never stop seeing them.
Montreal, despite the run down towers of NDG, despite your too-wide roads and staggering armies of SUVs, you are beautiful.
And Toronto? I am not afraid of you.
Not I.