Dear stranger,
Down the road is a bridge over a cement creek. The waters are always very low, except when it rains, then it stays high for a few days. In the middle of the creek, to the side of the bridge, is a supermarket trolley lying on its side, half submerged. I walk over the bridge most days – to the train station, or the shops, or the library – and sometimes I see two ducks standing next to the trolley.
A few times I have walked alongside the creek late at night, when I can’t sleep. I walk and day-dream of my plans for my future. Eventually, I hit houses, I cut through their alleys, and make my way to the 24hr fast food. I always see police, and I’ve been told this area can be dangerous, but I don’t know if I believe it. I’ve never seen anyone else along the creek at night.
Last Friday I went for a walk by the creek. On the way back the crescent moon was nicotine yellow and large. I sat on a bench, by the creek, at 2 o’clock in the morning, behind me a row of identical houses, modern and prefabricated and dark. In front of me, the creek winded to the left then to the right, before turning again and disappearing. Across the creek is grass, then more houses, all dark except for an occasional car. Further along, I can see the spires of an Albanian mosque, all white. And further yet I can see the bridge lit up by a single street lamp, and the yellow, yellow moon above it. I sat there for a while and it was good.
Then I walked back, continuing to day-dream about my future.
My days are mostly carbon copies. Often I wake up with fear and a racing mind. My thoughts overwhelm me until I can’t see them, only a terrifying sense of urgency.
Next to me, in the bed, are books (a black-and-white speckled exercise book for my maths, programming, and Buddhism studies; a brown faux-leather in which I’m trying to write an instruction manual for my life; a blue cloth planner; a black plastic covered art diary and a book on learning to draw cartoons), and next to me, on a table are some books (Thoreau and Kabat-Zinn), a calculator, black fingerless fabric gloves, coloured pencils and pens, keys, a box of tissues, and a leaf.
I picked the leaf from a tree. I was living on a horse agistment and cattle farm. I climbed a tree and picked the highest leaf could reach.
Once I realize that my thoughts are leading me nowhere, I start my morning routine. I take a handful of supplements. They sit on my dresser on the side of the mirror. Next to them, stuck into the mirror’s frame are three post-cards from an exhibit I once saw. I had been backpacking my way north to visit some friends (who live in a secret paradise between mountains and rivers and an ocean) and found myself in a city whose cement and steel and glass and hurry-hurry-hurry tempo bored me, until I saw a poster for an exhibit of art from a Scottish museum. While waiting for the museum to open, I spoke to an old woman about her trip to Uzbekistan and Zoroastrianism. I bought my three favourite works reduced into postcard forms before leaving. They are beautiful.
I shower and so forth. I have the house to myself most days. I sublet with a man from India. Most nights he brings me food from the kitchen where he works, and he tells me about life in India and about his love for ancient Indian music. I have the house to myself most days, so I can take my time, and try and slow my thoughts as I focus on the hot water until my body is red.
The house is quiet except for the soft sound of cars passing on a nearby road, and the fridge which intermittently, throughout the day and the night, begins to beep.