|—|| Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore (via enderkay)
While on the train back to Montreal from New York City, I saw a man wearing a fanny pack. He was the father of two sons and was trying to keep them full of juice and granola bars so they wouldn’t move the seats around, bothering everybody (which they did anyway). Now, I am not putting down the fanny pack, I am sure it is a great help to parents everywhere. You can carry tissues for runny noses, snacks and whatever else is required to make your job a little easier.
My best friend in elementary school had to wear a fanny pack, but that was only because he was deathly allergic to bees and if he didn’t get medication after being stung, he would die. Even under the threat of death, my best friend hated wearing the fanny pack, and would probably not be pleased to see someone wearing it so proudly, when the freedom of a bare waist could be attained so easily.
I guess my main question is, if this man on the train could go back in time and have his 18-year-old self look at his fanny pack-wearing self, would the younger version be stoked?
Would he say, “I knew I would grow up to wear a fanny pack,” or, “What the hell am I wearing a fanny pack for?”
I am thusly settled in the city I am quickly falling in love with. I have done more walking in the past few days than I can ever remember doing. I now have plates, cups, pots and pans in the kitchen, and a room I can honestly say has one of the best vibes of any I have ever been in. I always have great design plans for rooms, but usually get frustrated and end up cutting out pages from my photo books and putting them in cheap frames. About six months later I feel two levels of regret, because I have ruined my books and my wall is a mish mash of my 2009 trip to the beach and 1920s French photography. I am determined to have a little patience this go around. I start work and school the first week of September, and want to do some freelance work before then. For now I am happy to wander the streets, looking around and tasting cheap, delicious food. I am convinced that there isn’t a bad falafel in Montreal!
I have felt very separated from summer today. The higher-ups at my work like to keep the office like a meat locker. It is July and I can see my breadth. I am looking out the window now and I know the air is as thick as peanut butter and I am sure feel intense heat once I step outside. It is just hard to imagine because it is as cold as Cruella de Vil in here. On a lighter note, I have two days off in a row!
Operation “the last time I let my hair grow” has yielded some interesting results. It turns out on the sides and the back I grow the hair of a 16-year-old Herbal Essences shampoo model. On the top though, it is like Jean-Luc Picard. I look like Mr. Burns’ stocky son and the haircut date I set for myself is two weeks away. The results have simply confirmed my belief that short is the best length for the thinning masterpiece that is my hair. On a related note, my beard made short work of the trimmer that I bought, which means when I do go in for a haircut I hope they trim beards as well, because I will look like Grizzly Adams. Enough self-indulgence, back to work.
Well, the man living below me, whom I previously thought to be British now sounds more like he is Irish. Friday is the only day when I have an early class so there was a big thumbs down last night at 1 a.m. when I hear him yelling on the phone. I love noise on Fridays and Saturdays, and even the sound of music playing late on weeknights, but I can hear everything this guy says.
I am convinced he is either an ecstasy dealer, a poetic critic or, – this is the option I am leaning toward – a poetry lover who does a lot of ecstasy. Last night he is reading a piece of poetry on the phone like it was God’s gift to literature. After consulting with my room-mate today, who agreed with me, I feel confident in saying it was really awful.
Since I moved here everyone has been so nice. I walk down the street and get a pleasant head nods or a “Bonjour” here and there. But it seemed as if my life here was missing something … a nemesis! Now I have one and for those out there that know me they can attest, no matter how obnoxious a person on ecstasy can be, they do not even approach the catastrophe that is Paul Fontaine after one to many drinks.
Next time I have my sidekick (12-year-old whiskey) beside me I will do a poetry reading of my own. I have 12 haikus and a couple of epics stashed away for just such an occasion. I will lay on my stomach and yell them out and let me assure you, my drunken ramblings will cut through this hardwood floor like Paul Bunyan’s axe. I will read and then stop and he will think the storm has passed.
But what he doesn’t know is I am actually setting up my iPod player. I will pick the saddest song I know, let’s say Tracks of My Tears by Smokey Robinson, and play it at a high volume. The first time he might enjoy it. He will think about past loves and feel melancholic. That feeling will wash over him like warm water, but by the 30th time he will be lying in the fetal position and I will be singing my hardest, with veins protruding out of the side of my neck.
Or I will call the building manager.