Sleep Less. Think More.

26.11.09

Dreamality

He notices that she has a unique and delicate curve in her cheek, which makes him feel a certain sense of comfort. It is as though he is reminded of something embedded in his childhood which he can’t quite recall and might never be able to. Maybe, he thinks, he dreams of it sometimes – but not that he’d ever know. The tiny hairs on her skin are catching the light and shimmering. He thinks of his great-grandmother’s bedroom, and can see sparkling dust hover in the calm of an early sunbeam. He is watching the dust, sometimes trying to touch it. The sun makes the smooth wooden floor look shiny and feel warm, so he sits on it. Her slippers are beside him, the ones she usually wears when she’s sitting in an armchair watching him play. She taps her feet lightly, gently on the carpet, and laughs carefully, always with a mug balanced upon her lap. She did the dishes again tonight, despite mother’s insistence – she says that she enjoys it. He watches her from the floor, a creamy carpeted family room. He is building blocks with his father and his sister, and she is watching him, and smiling, always smiling.

Another day, it’s a girl with a braid. Her hair is pale, so blonde it is almost white. A braid is cresting her forehead, with baby hairs breaking free here and there, twisting softly down around her face. Her skin is pale too, and unblemished. The face is plain, but delicate, with a nose so small that it seems almost incidental. Staring at the braid, he thinks of snow. He remembers a time, which he isn’t sure has come into existence yet, when he lived up north. Up north it was always about cold and mountains and trees burdened by icing snow, standing undisturbed for months and months. The route to town took twenty minutes, travelling down a twisted dirt (but perpetually snowed-over) road. There were trees always, and sometimes fields. The bridge was his favourite part, crossing a half-frozen river that was ever racing and tripping over itself, just peeking up between small cliffs of snow. The forest emanated mystery, pristine stillness and secret. Maybe it went on forever. What is hidden beneath all that snow anyway? And where do all the rabbit prints lead? He liked to think that his own little house was a part of the mystery, half-hidden, half-wood and half-brick, he always felt it was as much a part of the forest as the tree-roots and the ice.

Sometimes he can’t even be sure that it is her hair or face that causes it – once it was a sweater. The sweater was red, a red that he knew well and seemed like a home colour to him. Maybe his favourite blanket had been red, or perhaps it was the colour of the tablecloth his mother had put on the kitchen table every October. The pattern on it seems like home as well, criss-crossing white and black, creating snowflake-like patterns across the shoulders. She wears it with long loose hair, light brown and baby-fine, and with jeans. The red is Halloween. It’s his street, “golden lane” his father liked to call it, on the way home from school. Half of the trees’ leaves are on the ground, and he is scoping out the houses with the best decorations. There is one in particular which always has a string of electric pumpkins upon its railing, and hanging ghosts on its porch that howl and screech, more exciting than frightening. This house is high above all the others, there are at least twenty-eight steps leading up to it, he had counted them. One time when he rang the bell, a boy his own age who he didn’t know had answered. The boy was crying, and dressed like Mickey Mouse. He stops to pick up a perfect maple leaf from the ground, to add to his collection, and continues towards home.

When he comes to again, he never knows what exactly they were. They aren’t something he can control, and certainly cannot force. Occasionally he wonders if other people experience them as well – these momentary instances in which he becomes so paralyzed by a life he isn’t even leading that he loses all sense of his own, and might gladly never return to it. He also ponders their nature – are they reflections of imaginary lives that his subconscious has created, and tucked away in remote corners of his mind? Are they fleeting and fractured glimpses into the folds of somebody else’s life? Perhaps they are just memories, mutated and heightened by the cacophony of experience that is his life. They are like dreams, always, and they feel familiar. The most frustrating thing about them though is that afterwards, he can never be sure that they even happened. They are gone almost before they begin, leaving behind nothing but a nagging sense of something had and lost, and a vague discomfort associated with the loss of a place that felt fleetingly like home.

written by Richard Meconi

20.11.09

Proposing A New Freedom

"I suppose nobody will make identity of persons to consist in the soul's being united to the very same numerical particles of matter.  For if that is necessary to identity, it will be impossible, in that constant flux of the particles of our bodies, that any man should be the same person two days or two moments together." - John Locke

He awakes in the expected fashion: to semblances of his dreams drying up, being absorbed by the darkness he is emerging into. He feels himself forgetting. He remembers the dream’s characteristics, how engaged he was in one and how passive he was in another. He has forgotten his dream character’s names and looks but has retained the attitudes he experienced them with. He has found himself with vague, nomadic feelings. Pushing them from his consciousness, he begins his day. As is his daily habit his first action is towards a well-polished mirror. The mirror is resting on a table, located indiscriminately in an otherwise blank corner of his room. Approaching the mirror, he sets about studying his reflection. He likes the way he looks. In particular, he likes his eyes. He remembers an interview with a philosopher he once watched, in which the philosopher mentioned how the eyes never seem to change in one’s lifetime. One retains the eyes they have as a child while the rest of their body slowly changes. He wonders, looking into his eyes, if they are all that he can assuredly anchor his identity to.

Grown tired of admiring himself, he proceeds to pull out a large, leather photo album. He immediately flips to a page near the end where a series of photographs, all of his own face, are displayed side by side. Underneath each photo is a date. Each photo is arranged in chronological order, with the last photo in the series having yesterday’s date. It is this photo, the most recent, which he takes and holds up beside the mirror. He begins comparing the two photos, first himself and then himself, comparing all the features but the eyes. He searches both selves carefully until he finds a blemish on his own flesh which is not in the photo. It must have appeared overnight. He searches further but is unable to find another difference. His observations are recorded in a small notebook kept behind the mirror. Within this notebook his entries are all very neat, as if he put considerable care into each one. For every entry a date is written in the margin. He writes today's findings: size 2 blemish approx. 3 cm above left eye, slightly red. Hair growth.

His entry finished, he begins flipping through old entries, haphazardly reading about his face’s past. He reads about new hairs discovered in his eyebrows, about blemishes on his face and about his beard’s pioneering journey to claim territory. It is essentially no different than any other normal account of a young man going through puberty. All that is special about this notebook, and he will be the first to admit this, is that it exists. It is significant as a point of reference, as proof of the changes, but not for the details of the changes themselves.

He has finished his morning routine. He is outside, breathing in the air and feeling the sun. There is a breeze which makes him occasionally shiver but apart from this he is quite comfortable and content. He wonders what he should do today. He has lectures to attend, but he is not sure that is what he should do. He knows there is a girl who, he imagines, will be happy to see him, but again he is unsure if he would like to pay her a visit. He thinks about the jar of marijuana he saw in his living room, but dismisses the thought as quickly as he had invited it. He freezes, realizing he has no desire to do anything.

He does not understand himself. Like a celebrity, he knows his own features and general habits, but knows nothing about who he actually is. He feels like he has never had a chance to meet himself. He knows from his own experience that identity is a product of one’s face. He experiences every person he comes in contact with through their face. He looks at their face, he speaks to their face, and he understands his touch through its results manifested in the face. The problem with the face, and he can attest to this, is that it always changes. From instant to next his face changes, and along with it his only recourse to knowing himself. He wonders what his wants are, what he desires. He searches himself, introspectively listening to himself, and finds inward reflection is as problematic as outward; he is always changing.

A young woman approaches him; she looks familiar. He has no memory of her name, but immediately feels a certain attitude grow inside him. He looks to her like he looks to his dreams while awake in bed. She is from his past and so was related to a different face, to a different him. She greets him, calling him a name that seems vaguely familiar in the same way her face did. She is friendly towards him, much like, he has realized, the attitude he feels towards her. We must be friends he concludes. She has begun recounting a story of her and her roommates making a cake the night before. Through this story he learns her name to be Crystal. Engaging in conversation with Crystal, he finds himself walking with her towards a bus stop. It would seem they are going to the school together. ‘I guess I really do want to go to lectures today’ he concludes to himself.

He and Crystal split up on the busy bus. He is looking out the window, watching scenery pass him by. Again, it all seems familiar but distant. He feels like he grew up here as a child, and is now an old man passing by scenes he hasn’t seen for a long time. It all seems vaguely familiar to him. He begins to wonder how it is he knows anything at all. He knows he is different today than he has ever been. His investigations this morning proved such. He wonders, then, how it was he knew he had lectures, how he knows about the girl he contemplated visiting, even how he knows how to speak or walk. He wonders these things. He tries to picture the girl as an attempt to remember how he knows her. He draws a complete blank, recalling nothing about her but that she exists, and again, the attitude he has towards her. Suddenly he is gripped by panic; he doesn’t even know which lectures he has today.
The bus pulls up to a campus. He gets off and waving goodbye to Crystal starts walking. He walks through halls, looking at the different faces and doors which pass him by. He stops in front of one, and before having a chance to think about it, enters the room. People look at him without surprise. He knows he is in the right place.

He has grown hungry and it’s not long before he has found a food court. He has no money, and so he steals a sub wrapped in saran wrap. Finding after that he is thirsty he returns for a bottle of fruit juice. He has decided to return home. On his way towards the bus terminal he catches a glimpse of a woman who makes his heart flutter. He instantly alters his path to intersect her. She sees his approach and greets him with a big smile. They kiss. They make small talk, and he leaves her with a promise to call later. It was only after he had left that he realized he hadn’t caught her name or number. He walked on.

He awakes in the expected fashion: to semblances of his dreams drying up into the darkness he is emerging into. He sits in bed, feeling his dreams slip. A woman he is in love with, lectures, new friends, they are all washed away by the darkness of his room. He heads towards his mirror.

Outside, a girl waves hello and approaches him. He looks at her quizzically, trying to place her face to a name. She shows him a jacket she has just bought. All the girls on the team have one, she claims, giving him a quick twirl to show all sides off. He catches a glimpse of her sleeve, on which it says her name. “It looks very sharp Crystal” he says, proud of his investigative abilities. They walk on together, and as she talks about some cake her and her roommates shared the night before, he realizes; he does not understand who he actually is.

written by Ben Bousada

The Man, The Mountain

Daryl Fichte waited impatiently for the clock to strike seven, marking the official beginning of his super-charged night of calculated fun. The ball was now rolling. Though it seemed to be moving towards some kind of amorphous emptiness, the importance lay in the motion itself.

Daryl had made dinner reservations for seven thirty at an Italian restaurant downtown called The Villa. He was well aware that the appearance of the restaurant greatly surpassed its financial standards. However, being fairly confident that he could avoid menus altogether by ordering for his brother and his brother’s girlfriend, he felt vaguely assured. His brand new, razor -sharp, black cell phone read seven o’ clock with striking precision. This meant that he could now begin to make his way over to the restaurant, giving him just enough time to arrive ten minutes late. Under this plan of action he wouldn’t have to wait in the bathroom of the coffee shop next door. This used to be Daryl’s method when avoiding the dreaded look of desperation. He eventually realized though that the sounds and smells contacted often affected his appetite at dinner, emasculating his otherwise monolithic being.

His car was parked at the perfect, most convenient stall in the lot below his building. He had claimed it, and his ownership rested upon an underlying mechanical structure built around his strength as a man who was not afraid to make decisions regardless of whether or not they were correct. Daryl retrieved his sleek, stylish ride and was on his way. As he drove, he listened to a soothing loop of pop hits. Daryl felt the fluid of success oozing from each track as they predictably made their way back to the home key. Thoughts of showering under a transparent, thick fluid of success permeated throughout Daryl’s fat skull. This vibrating mental picture distracted him and he momentarily ceased his trademark tailgating. Daryl was an aggressive mammal and vehemently pushed for this attribute to be punctuated in all areas of life. It was important to be a violent driver. Tailgating was proactive, pointed, confident; a smart approach. After shaking this provisional distraction he quickly returned to his vehicular masculinity. Accompanying the pop music was the sound of a British woman on the GPS system that Daryl had often dreamed of sleeping with. Daryl stuck his head out the window, allowing the hot gel in his curly hair to cool off. He was halfway there when he realized that a large vein on his forehead was inexplicably pulsating. Instead of being alarmed he wondered if it perhaps suggested some sort of muscular focus.

Finally pulling up to the restaurant Daryl noticed that his favourite valet Jeff was not on duty. The irregularity was off putting to say the least. The night seemed tilted and Daryl suddenly felt queasy. He quickly gulped a sparkling vitamin water to revitalize his senses, and slowly regained his composure. He would bite the bullet, test out the new valet and simply hope for the best. The valet's flat face made him seem at least conceivably capable. Daryl took deep breaths and thought of his predictable pop music; advice his highly regarded Jewish therapist had recently offered. The valet took his keys and drove his car to the lot.

Daryl entered the restaurant suavely. He made sure everyone in the room absorbed his disinterest and awesomeness. If they didn’t they were either insecure or some sort of social vegetable. Spotting his brother’s table, Daryl swiftly winked, snapped his fingers, and pointed a gun-shaped finger and thumb in their direction. He strolled over, winking at waitresses and pointing his weapon all over the room like a brazen hostage making the last ditch effort. His brother Mark smiled politely and said hello. Daryl opened his mouth and tried to form a smile. Being overly conscious of teeth exposition however, the smile came out awkwardly. Daryl could only afford to repeatedly bleach some of his teeth. He made sure the most visible teeth got the treatment, but unfortunately a natural smile still exposed an ugly tusk or two. Daryl felt confident that the value of bleach-white teeth outweighed that of a natural smile.

He asked if the two had received menus yet. They had not. Daryl called the waitress over to order for his party of three. He stared her down and felt comforted by the conventionality of her blonde appeal. Daryl smoothly asked how she was doing. Rolling her eyes, she politely answered “fine” while looking elsewhere. Daryl asked if she came to the restaurant often. Soon realizing that the question was poorly chosen he attempted a retraction but fell short. He mumbled his name and nervously bumped his knee under the table. Karen asked if they should perhaps order dinner and Daryl snorted with laughter. The waitress approach was in ruins. He would order in shame and try to put the travesty out of his mind. It was okay. He’d get over it. He was much bigger than this charade. He was bigger than the restaurant. Daryl was a gigantic mammoth.

He shuffled in his seat and quickly ordered two porterhouse steaks for the men at the table and a salad appetizer for Karen. Karen looked at Mark imploringly. Daryl was well aware of this wretched facial expression. Relationships were style-crushing compromises that required abandonment directly after copulation. Karen was to go her separate way after dinner, which pleased Daryl greatly. Karen just didn’t get it. It wasn’t her fault. It just wasn’t in her nature to understand. Daryl had an essence that certainly could not be understood. It resisted comprehension, but gracefully accepted worship. When a woman attempted to break that force field and figure out the Fichte she only insulted his infinitely powerful architecture. Her duty was to remain in distant, obscure awe. Daryl Fichte wasn’t just an animal. He had precedence. He was better. He was heavier. He didn’t think: He did. Daryl followed the singular path. He was always right. He had a system, rules, a code, and various lists with checkmarks. He had the right toothbrushes, hair gel, and moisturizers that made him look younger. He had the keen eye and a heartbreaking tongue. He stood taller than all and destroyed everything in his path. Daryl Fichte was an anvil.

Dinner had concluded. Daryl had easily been the funniest and most interesting of the three at the table. He had regaled Karen and his brother with humorous anecdotes about misadventures at the salon and grease monkeys that couldn’t follow directions. He certainly was a charmer. Daryl and Mark were now on their way to a nightclub. The valet had returned Daryl’s stylish ride unscathed. Daryl felt so relieved that he momentarily choked up and lost his breath. If anything had happened to his vehicle, his body certainly would have exploded, spraying restaurant patrons, valets and pedestrians with blood, intestines and brain matter. Thankfully his large body remained intact. Daryl and Mark got in the car and drove off. Daryl glanced at the time. It was only nine o’ clock. Waves of alarm shot through his body. If they showed up at the nightclub too early they would be branded losers, and they would have no choice but to shamefully return to their respective residences. The nightclub was only a fifteen-minute drive away but Daryl needed to arrive in style sometime after ten if he wanted to wake up alive. Mark didn’t feel that it was necessary to wait around until ten o’ clock. Daryl furiously screamed at him. The vein in Daryl’s forehead was now throbbing and imposing. Mark quieted and conceded to wait until ten o’ clock. Daryl whimpered a little bit and then proclaimed that the discussion had officially been adjourned.

They drove in circles until ten o’clock. Daryl felt dizzy. His mind was spinning and he knew that his speech would only worsen as a result. The solution to this was simply to speak more forcefully. If he could infuse his words with aggression, his approaches would at least be acceptable, even if what he said didn’t quite make sense. Now a little after ten, the nightclub called to Daryl in all his grandeur. The two men sauntered into the club, God’s Martini. The music invasively rumbled and roared, strangely complimenting the bi-polar attack of multi-coloured lights. Daryl swiftly scoped out targets. Across the room was a girl Daryl instantly knew he’d forget as soon as she was out of sight. She was perfect. Not a single distinct flaw. She was blonde but non-descript; just the way Daryl liked them. Daryl wished Mark adieu and made his way over to the girl. He smiled at her, carefully exposing his bleach white teeth. They were so bright one could conceivably spot his large mouth from space. Daryl offered to buy her a drink. The girl informed him that although she had probably already had too much to drink she'd accept more if he were paying. Daryl got vodka for the two of them. He told her friends that the two would meet them out on the dance floor. Her friends went out to dance and Daryl soon escalated his approach with silky, smooth conversation.

The girl was quiet as Daryl talked at her. As he drank his words began to feel slow and strange as they stumbled off his lips. There were only two things he had to keep up though: To convey interest and higher-value. Daryl was enormous, naturally higher-value wasn’t hard to convey. He had to make sure he conveyed enough interest though. He had been insulting her all night to keep her on the line but he feared the method was no longer effective. He leaned in close and told her that she didn’t smell as bad as he thought she did at the beginning of the night. She didn’t respond. She had been mentally absent for a while. Daryl leaned in again and told her that he liked her shiny designer shoes. She asked if he wanted to go somewhere with her. Daryl smiled confidently. He had conquered her. He had crushed her. He agreed and they left together. The girl was barely able to walk but Daryl was too consumed with his victory to notice. They got into his car and drove away.

Daryl’s skin-tight purple dress shirt was thick with manly sweat. The girl was asleep. Daryl was unaware. He turned on his pop music and sang along stupidly. He had done well but the pickup was not yet a done deal. He had to remember to convey masculine power while on the road. It was imperative that he tailgated and drove aggressively. Daryl was drunk and driving like a madman, but more importantly, higher-value was being conveyed to the sleeping girl next to him. Daryl looked over at her, finally noticing that her eyes were closed. He didn’t know what to think. His mind rested on this. Approaching a yellow light Daryl stared blankly; it too meant nothing to him. He continued to tailgate. The car ahead of his stopped suddenly as the light turned red and Daryl violently crashed into it. Both he and the girl went flying through the windshield.

He was bigger than the windshield though. He was more important than this moment. Daryl Fichte was more than just a man. He was a mountain.

The mountain fell.

written by Elias Campbell

19.11.09

Eight Minutes

I step on.

The bright yellow lines contrast the black grids, and guide me as if I were an airplane landing wearily on an airstrip. Instantly I begin judging my best option for a seat. This decision must be made quickly, and as nonchalant as possible. No one likes knowing they were an option not quite good enough. I begin walking to the back of the bus, and I see the perfect spot. Three seats all alone on the very last row, ready for the taking. Before I get the chance to sit, the bus lurches forward and I am thrown a few feet. I steady myself and giggle nervously, knowing I had narrowly avoided landing on my face. I pick the corner spot, so that someone on one of the next stops can take the third seat over without having to sit right next to me. I plan these things, like one chooses which sweater to wear with which pants - always. It is not necessarily my own comfort I am concerned with, but the atmosphere that is formed uniquely and distinctly with each trip on this bus by those filling it and their positions around me. Once I've placed my bag on the floor and levelled my breathing, I allow myself to fade into the window. Three times a week I take this bus, on this route, to a place of higher learning - or so I'm told. Three times a week I watch as images flash by me through a window pane as if I am watching a still life photo flip into scenes like an old cartoon. I feel like I am a child again, watching my morning cartoons before being dropped off at school. First I see a retirement home. It is overly familiar to me because my bedroom window looks out onto its yard. A yard with a gate, with picnic tables chained to fences, with men who have lost their minds mumbling about some kind of indignation - tired of being silenced. I wonder when it became necessary to chain a picnic table to a gated fence. Today, an old man wearing a grey cap sits silently on the wet picnic table and watches the bus drive by. I pass this pink building three times a week and today I realize that I would rather keep my eyes inside the bus.

After the first two stops the bus is usually filling up with people. Today, someone takes the seat I left for them. A redhead, whose face I only just glanced at before she spun around to sit. She is quaint, with bright green eyes and an outfit that is wildly fascinating. She is wearing a big woollen purple sweater, like the kind my Mother would knit in the 90's to fight the chill of a night-time skate. Out of my peripheral vision I see her reach into her bag and pull out a novel. She has bent it in a way that I cannot read the title, and I conclude she must be a reader, a lover, a philosopher. I am tempted to lean over and ask what book or what story her mind filters through, but I can't read her body language and am too nervous to disrupt her. I am envious of her ability to read while in motion; it is something I have never been able to master without getting sick.

While pondering what the book could be called, and imagining exactly what this redhead's life entails, I unconsciously face the window once more. Almost on cue I see the looming walls of the funeral home that the bus speeds by each day. On some days there are many cars in the parking lot, and people with slumped shoulders and black clothes standing outside for a smoke. Even in mourning there is always time for a smoke. On this day it is empty and I realize that it's too early in the morning for a funeral. Three days a week I pass by this and I often wonder if the walls of the funeral home are the very same walls that structure people's nightmares. The two second glimpse of this place of hunched over shoulders sends my mind spinning into dark places. Again, I decide I would rather keep my eyes inside the bus.

I begin searching faces, but what for, I could not tell you. There is no one familiar to me on this bus- I know that for sure. But yet I search, carefully and strategically. I always begin with the shoes. You can tell a lot more than just the weather by a person's shoes. I do this analysis with relaxed eyebrows, as to not raise suspicion in other passengers. Today, a young man's remarkably clean shoes have caught my attention. There is something about this fact that bothers me, they are too clean for a muddy day - and so I choose him. I look at his hands and realize that they look like piano hands - long, lean and rounded fingertips. Once I make it to his face and see his eyes, it is clear that he is playing my game too. He focuses on a passenger for a few moments, stealing glances when least noticeable, then moves on. I am fascinated at finding another, and watch him carefully. I realize too late that I have been staring at him, and our eyes connect. I have been caught. But at the same moment, he has also. We both avert our eyes to the window, with the shame of exposure.

I try to change my thoughts to reduce the guilt that weighs down my arms, and I glance for the third time out my window. I realize that we are quickly approaching the still light photo that I once longed to see each day on this route. We roll past an empty field that lay in between two plazas filled with tanning salons and convenience stores. It is filled with dead orange plants that were left there to freeze in the winter. However, an image of a flawless sunflower swaying lightly in the last days of summer stains my thoughts. Before fall's first frost came and killed, there was a single and tall sunflower in the midst of the failing plants - it was beautiful. I swore to myself each trip that the next time I would bring my camera, to save the image that filtered through my dreams. Then on the third week of a wet September, I perked up looking for the familiar face and it was gone. Ever since the disappearance I have watched the field pass by me, knowing that it has died but hoping that I just failed to see it the last time. Today is no different, I am disappointed. I am tempted to go find its remains. Perhaps once there is a thick sheet of snow on top of the orange corpses I will be able to forget.

I re-enter the life on the bus. Someone has pulled the yellow line that tells the bus driver to pull over at the next stop and I hear the familiar beep. The young man who caught me staring gets up to leave, but not before getting a final glimpse at the strange girl at the back of the bus who knows his secret. I wonder if he will remember me, because only seconds later I have already forgotten his face. The bus lurches forward and is heading towards its final destination. Everyone shuffles, pulling their bags over their shoulders and preparing their bodies for the wet and cold elements outside of the warmth of this metal tube.

I stand up, and wait in the line as the slow progression of exiting passengers begins. It almost feels as though these people, including the redhead who made me nostalgic for the cold face I felt on a homemade rink, are apprehensive about leaving. Shuffling forward through the traffic of people there is a solemn silence, slow steps and lowered eyes - it reminds me of the funeral home. The exiting passengers can all see the bustling, loud group of people ready to step up once we have emptied out and gone on our way. I swear that I hear a long muffled sigh. As I get closer to the exit, I start to wonder if I was not the only one thinking about chaining picnic tables to a gated fence.

I step off.

written by Kailey Morin