SUNDAY AFTERNOON

It’s after the rain on a Sunday afternoon in May in Toronto, Canada. It’s 20 degrees in Moscow and another siren goes off – heading north. I never know where it’s going but it makes me uneasy. I smoke and I often pray that the firefighters don’t have a reason to visit me.

On the railing of the brown balcony part of my apartment there are modules of water. The air is fresh and feels good for my lungs.

I’m in love with a monk. I’m in love with someone who doesn’t really like to be outside. I’m in love with someone who doesn’t listen to me because a part of him thinks I’m a dumb kid. He also listens really well and inspires me. He’s 49 and I’m 32.

I went to a funeral three weeks ago for my Uncle Al. He died from Alzheimer’s and diabetes. He fought in WWII. When I was 15 he told me on a golf course in Barbados that I had the “gift of gab.” Obviously he saw something in me I didn’t see in myself. I’m good over the phone. Good in small groups and one-on-one, but my presentation skills still need to be fine-tuned.

As I pick some grit from my nails I ponder on what else to do for this Sunday afternoon I dreamt about in winter. It is spring, the trees are in bloom – I have looming problems, opportunities and romances. The television is on to keep me company and keep me informed with Newsnet. The pen to paper is my form of intimacy. It’s my old-fashioned digital masturbation.

There goes another siren – shorter this time. It’s time for me to inside and smoke and be alone. Trying, trying very hard to learn to love myself.