Going home after a party in my Civic Coupe.
I love driving at night when the roads are calm, and the patterns of the street lamps pulsate in your vision.
Going home after a party in my Civic Coupe.
I love driving at night when the roads are calm, and the patterns of the street lamps pulsate in your vision.
The blinds are open so I can see outside.
Secretly, I hope a face from one of the windows will appear and look outside, someone who’s thinking the same thing, so that I may not be so alone. A way of comforting myself, when I’m by myself in this veneer of a house.
I’m not sure if it’s working.
It’s on nights like this that I feel especially lonely.
I spent the last two hours looking for an image that would express my mood, but this was the best I could come up with. When I went outside, to see if the street lights would offer me more, I passed by open windows, each one filled with a different coloured light. It made me wonder what the people were doing, who they were with, what mood they were in.
It’s been a day alone. A day without contact. A day of rain and greyness, and living vicariously at Robson Arms.
So here I sit in the dark, with my apple and honey swirl pie and Ovaltine, writing because I haven’t said enough today, listing to songs of love and hate. Feeling like an old soul.
Wondering tonight if I’ll dream, or sleep soundly, or dream without remembering.
I put on my most comfortable hoodie, grab a camera and a tripod. Pass by the mirror and see my eyes are swollen. A baseball cap’ll hide my face.
I put on The Alchemy Index. First is Fire. An anthem of rage, and burning, and fury in the night.
I had Firebreather by Thrice playing here.
The flames will rise and devour me.
Oh, to breathe in fire, and know I’m free.
I find a quiet, winding road, alternating between 60 and 30 max. About eight kilometres down, there’s a small ferry loading dock, with a place to park on the side of the road. I get out and take a picture of the car. Other cars keep passing by, their headlights leaving streaks across my camera sensor.
The road slopes upwards around a bend, and I drive off again to find out where it goes.
There’s a lookout point on a cliff, surrounded by a rail. Across the waves of the Ottawa river is Quebec. People come and go. Three types of people.
The couples here for a romantic view. They park, walk up to the railing, and talk to each other about nothing in particular. The girlfriends get cold and shortly want to leave.
The kids in their parent’s cars, already high or drunk. They sit in the car with all the lights on, talking through their music, oblivious to the serenity around them otherwise.
The men here by themselves, abandoned and alone on a Friday night. They sit in their cars with the lights out, and come out to lean on the railing every now and then. I’m one of them.
On my way back, I skip Water and put on Air. A song about a boy who could fly, about falling upwards and away.
I had A Song for Milly Michaelson by Thrice playing here.
So, here we go.
Hold on tight and don’t let go.
I won’t ever let you fall.
I love the night.
Flying o’er these city lights.
But I love you most of all.
I miss a turn, and find a smooth pavement road that winds through the forest. My eyes are dry and tired. I put on the high beams and cruise control, discovering another way home.
I drove home from class tonight with the windows down and the music cranked. It’s not the songs, it’s not the singing, it’s not the speed, it’s the air that affects you. That smell.
The Operation by Charlotte Gainsbourg is the ultimate night-time driving track when you’re feeling single and electrified.1 The baseline drives you.
I had The Operation by Charlotte Gainsbourg playing here.
i want to explore you
i’m gonna get under your skin
so you can feel me running through your veinsi want to examine
every inch of your frame
the pressure points that cause your joy and pain
When I got home, I showered, got into in my PJs, took Dolly in my arms, and stood out on the patio. I wanted her to feel what I was feeling under that night sky. She clung to my arms, but didn’t make a sound. It was unlike her, because any time Dolly gets picked up she immediately begins purring. The night was too much for her.
I think it’s too much for me sometimes.
For now, I’ll live vicariously through Maggie. Except I won’t be getting drunk on Sparks (the orange kind), I won’t be going dancing, I’ll just keep running into my crushes at every turn, and I’ll keep meeting the asshole, idiot guys they go out with. And like Maggie, I’ll refuse to be that guy. The one who talks shit about other guys, the one who flosses his cash money, the one who drives fast to prove he’s got a dick.
Yes, I’m breaking my post order because of Maggie. It’s like she made me write this. I would totally hoolahoop and make Dragon Ball Z poses with her. I just found out that I don’t know how to spell hoolahoop. Hula hoop. There we go.
Maybe this dry spell is making me loopy.
I think I’ll sleep with the windows open tonight.