Heteronym Explanation / Yorkville / Queen’s Park

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A heteronym. That is the best way of explaining it. My name, my real name (here somewhere, undoubtedly, in the archives) is itself a heteronym, a multi-faceted glass jewel. Reflecting all of the people I have known and inhabit. None of these people are dangerous (you’ll excuse me for saying), they are all illusory, and some have stronger opinions than others…

I wander back and forth, back and forth. Yorkville is a venus fly trap. It is a spider and it unfolded its long legs, capturing and devouring Lisa’s bike whole. Where did she park it? Yorkville isn’t the spider, I am. I am a cockroach. Who are these fancy people? A bed of pansies watches me like a nest full of angry owls: purple-yellow eyes, deep-creased blue foreheads. One day I’d like to keep pigeons. They coo in front of me, picking through the gravel: from their clawed, red feet, it is easy to see they are dinosaurs…

Today Pessoa makes my eyes wet, though not with tears. I sit at a table in the gravel on the south side of Cumberland, my metal chair tethered to my metal table. Growing out of the gravel is some kind of sparse willow with bark like peeling cedar– a kind of birch, perhaps. The men and women that pass me look over and seem to say “You don’t belong here,” and I look back and they are unashamed to hold my gaze, and I think something unnatural and out of character to these well-dressed people who openly gawk at my appearance (what is so wrong with it? is my pen offensive? my bicycle helmet?). What I think is this: “I could kill you.” I can’t write, which is why I find myself staring at the people who pass me. The shade from the buildings is gloomy and I wish that I was in the sun, across the street on the patio of the restaurant, where they will begrudge serving me and offer repeated, insolent suggestions that I should leave… A man wakes up from sunning himself on a rock and screams something in Polish.

A while later.

There the atmosphere was bad, and so I changed it. I could feel my internal barometre relax as soon as I stepped off the curb on the north side of Bloor, and it relaxed completely when I passed the Gardiner Museum and its packs of school-children, their calm teachers, a little boy in a Dodgers uniform sitting in the freshly cut grass.

And here, in Queen’s Park… I can hear children shout in the distance– I can smell the trees. I remember coming here, five years ago– a child. Now I do have the peace of an adult, even if that peace is only the knowledge that nothing matters and no one is really interested in anything outside themselves… The world can be mean, and coarse, but it can be nice as well. A squirrel, convinced I have some food, comes to my hand and nibbles gently on my middle finger. Years ago, with bread crusts, I could not get the squirrels to come closer than across the table.

I can write about life or I can live it, and the two are opposite sides of the same coin. I shouldn’t be disappointed if I do as Pessoa did, walking in the streets of Lisbon, the first sunny day after a period of storms: he saw the open-air fruit sellers and their resplendent yellow bananas soaking and reflecting all of the sun– he felt greatly cheered by the bananas, but refused to buy one. He didn’t want to spoil the scene by interjecting with the voice he knew the vendors would find funny, or his worries about whether or not the old fruit vendors would properly handle or pack his bananas…

Of course it is better to buy the bananas, but if you don’t, don’t worry about it. It’s all the same, either way.

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