contextual connections
Back again in the lovely city, only for a week or so. Jays are still kickin' it though, so life's good!
One of my favourite types of connections to have with people is the contextual kind. That being, the person that you only see behind the barista counter, the library table, or the bookstore cashout. The person that knows nothing about you but your taste, whatever the medium may be.
You never miss the hi, how are you, standard start to the conversation, but the rest is entirely specialized. Your connection is entirely moulded by the walls that surround you.
By virtue of spending almost every waking hour roaming around the city, digging around all sorts of spots (my room is a treasure trove of my outdoor findings, yet rarely actually gets used!), I've amassed a decent amount of such connections. Characters, if you will.
I'll never forget one time this last spring when I visited one of my favourite tea spots after being gone for about 4 months, running into one of the owners. They were bustling around as I sipped away at my drink with a friend, and in a split moment of eye contact, they stopped dead in their tracks. So simple, so serendipitous to see them then, and all they said was it's you! And I to them, there you are!
Oh, to be known, to know, is to be loved, to love!
Wrote this little thing in honour of one of my favourite characters in life.
Patrick & I
I popped by my favourite bookstore the other day, just to say a quick hello.
Patrick: my witness, my confidant, my cashier.
I: The child, the chatterbox, the weary traveller.
Patrick, I want a recommendation, I said the last time I came around.
I want something short and sweet, fantastical,
but not so much so that I can’t begin to picture it at all.
I want it rooted in reality, dripping with sincerity and heartache,
it should linger in my mind and step, in the crunch of the leaves and the biting air.
I won’t be back for a while, and you’re my best bet, Patrick.
Give me something to carry me through to Christmas, when we’ll meet again.
I’ll flip through it on the train, and think on each page how your hands flipped first.
Give me your hometown taste in a neat little package. Can you do that for me?
Patrick, my guide, walks with me, back, back, back, to the literature.
I want you to know, Patrick, you’re the constant for me.
My go-to, my tourist spot, my favourite recommendation.
I want so badly to see every corner of the world,
meet everyone, do everything, be everyone, be everything.
I’ve had my share of daydreams and nightmares.
Many of them have walked with me hand in hand,
down the street away from you, back through your windy shelves,
but none of them have seen me quite like you.
Patrick, my friend, hands me a thick little book, pats it good and sends it off.
I want to keep faith that my calling to the sky will be answered,
and one of these fever dreams will live onto the next day.
I want to believe that my soul is nomadic, that my connection to this city
is only one of curdled comfort and pesky memories.
I will, despite my inner protest, always leave a piece of my heart
in your store, back in the literature, the shelves stacked high.
It steps on cardboard boxes and hunts for treasures hidden within,
it survives only in the care of friends like you, Patrick.