Waving Not Drowning

Drowning in sheets of never ending rain, walls of water coming at them from every direction like a spin cycle on high. Umbrellas pop, hats are ripped from their heads, sneakers are soaked through, feet waterlogged and wrinkled, like wizened old apple dolls. Their mission is to find and purchase affordable yet stylish rubber boots in an attempt to staunch the soaking, at any cost. Well, any cost up to $30, since neither Nancy or Loretta have new boots in their budget. Nancy is kicking herself, having left her fancy assed pink rubber boots at home 600 kilometres away. This day trip into downtown is turning into a bit of a bloodletting financially. Day passes have given way to cab rides and alongeés in coffee shops with sugar fueled desserts while desperately praying for socks to dry out. Short of kicking off their shoes and wringing out the fabric, they're doing everything they can think of to dry out. Up and down the Main, searching for the right pair in the right size that are $19....

She wouldn't let him be who he was. Suzanne is so meticulous and rigid in her space that he felt  unwanted. Too messy and disorganized, too dynamic. Jory asked if he could have his old space back but Karyn had made her home there now and wasn't about to move again. She'd refinished the kitchen floors and resurfaced the cabinets and hooked up a portable washer. He did end up finding a really great apartment, a gorgeous 5 1/2 in the Plateau that came with appliances and had a great little garden with direct light. Rare here. More importantly, he can build his art there and make a joyful noise without feeling like a child being scolded by his mother. Strange how people suddenly become un-engaged. Jory tries to remember what it was that pulled them into each other's kinesphere, spinning tight circles in a rapidly increasing rhythm until they spun out completely, adrift in solar systems universes apart. Light fades. Meaning distorts. Truth wins out in the end, however discom...

Just like that. He's gone. Forever. No more late night calls, spontaneous walks on the mountain, laughing themselves silly until they can't breathe, making fun of the tam tams, the privileged west island and south shore kids who come in on Sundays to feel alternative. Glen would ridicule them behind their backs, aping their pseudo hippie composure, sitting crosslegged in three hundred dollar jeans and playing new djembes they bought from Steve's, badly. A bag of mixed day olds from Fairmont, thirteen for a buck ninety nine, tub of whipped cream cheese and flat of smoked salmon,  Glen and Leo would would grab quart bottles from the dep, share swigs while masterminding their  impending domination of the theatre world, riffing on ideas for festivals and installations, taking the piss out of Cirque and Lepage because hey, who did they think they were. Leo noticed the lump during one evening of too much hash and not enough curry, after two hours of the worst Chekhov they'd e...