Let’s not think.

Let’s just feel.

(Pseudo-Intellectual) Quote of the Day.

'Start with what is right rather than what is acceptable.'

- Franz Kafka.

Settlements of a Drifter – Part 2

George sat on an old wooden stool in front of a crowd of hundreds. Vast, overhead lights overwhelmed him while he squinted to make out the silhouettes of heads, extending in an ocean as far as his eyes could see. Beads of sweat rolled down his brow and he wiped his damp hands on faded jeans. The auditorium was rumbling, busy and dark.

He was nervous. But he pulled the microphone closer to his mouth and uttered quiet words into it.

“Hi, I’m George. I’ll play a few songs for you.”

The crowd maintained the level of ambience he was listening to before he spoke any words. He gulped and looked down at his guitar. Now or never. He took out the pick from his pocket and steadied his position sitting on the stool. He grabbed it with the sides of his fingers as steady as possible to, but he could feel his fingers losing their grip already.

Now or never.

He lifted his arm above the strings, and played the first note.

The crowd was drowned out by his notes and his voice. It was like he was listening to himself from afar, but he played the song in his head and his hands moved subconsciously with each lyrical line or bar in the melody.

Between closed eyes and fluctuating tone, he could make out a crowd swaying with his music and it calmed his nerves in a way that he hadn’t known for a long time. So he kept playing, because it was the only thing keeping him from not collapsing on stage, and his shoe tapped the foot of the stool, and his fingers pressed the frets before he knew what he was doing, but it was working.

He was surprised it was working.

By the time he had moved to the end of first song, his eyes were completely closed. He wasn’t thinking about the crowd in front of him or the fingertips feeling like they were bleeding or the sweat piling up on his forehead, soaking into his thick toque, and the edges of his hair becoming wetter. He just played.

And kept playing. Because it was all he knew how to do.

“Thank you.” A small uttering over the crowd clapping and cheering.

It was then when he realized everything he had been working for started to pay off. It was a surreal feeling; an unbelievable feeling. He wondered if it was something to embrace or deny, or if it was real at all. But George didn’t want to think about his feelings at that moment. He just wanted to feel. It was working, and working well. He felt the music, the crowd shouting behind his vocals, and the vibrations from his guitar against his body slouched over on the wooden stool his shoe was tapping on.

He lifted his hand again, and he positioned his fingers again. He breathed in deep, and held it for as long as he could to prepare for the future that seemed like it was catching up with him. He didn’t care though. He just kept playing.

He kept playing because someone had told him it was the only thing he had left.

***

George sat backstage against the black wall beside the open area facing the crowd. His toque was off and his hair was matted and wet. He drank water from a large bottle and beside him was his guitar, as worn down as he was.

Various bands and artists greeted him on a good opening act, congratulating him on a job well done and telling him he had a long career ahead of him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to hear any of it, or that he didn’t believe it, because he did; it was one of the things he felt when he was playing with his eyes closed and his voice resonating in front of a large, rambunctious crowd.

It was more that he didn’t want to believe in himself, because the person who told him it was the only thing he had left also told him he would never find anything, or anyone, else. He stared at his guitar once again, and traced the spaces in between the strings with his calloused fingertips. That person was someone who he thought could save him from everything he didn’t want to hear from life. To hear it from a guitar, something you can control and manipulate wasn’t nearly enough. He wanted to hear a human song, one that spoke to him and reassured him and made him feel like someone worth believing in.

He got that, for a long time. When it ended, it was just him and his tools. The faceless, handless tools he had to work with, and up until now, he was just fine with that.

Up until now, he wasn’t thinking of her.

George lets out an exasperated sigh as stagehands and band members from each act carry out equipment and instruments outside into the parking lot. The crowd was dispersed and the lights of the auditorium shined onto a bare floor with scraps and garbage littered all across. He stepped into it, if only for what he thought was a brief moment. But it was empty as hell, and George knew she would like it. She enjoyed emptiness. Loneliness.

He knew it was where she belonged. He knew she was better off wherever she was, than sitting on a stool beside him in front of hundreds of people, tapping his foot with hers, playing chords that harmonized and made each song that much more soothing and mesmerizing and unforgettable.

George closed his eyes, like he did when he was playing and forgetting about everything but the music that filled his ears. This time, there was only silence. Usually, silence was just like the music he played. Calming, fitting, and appropriate. George opened them. Nothing changed. It had been a while since nothing had changed.

In the past few years, everything about his life had changed, even her. It was a bitter note to figure out that she actually hadn’t. She’d just been hiding underneath all that change, and revealed things he had long forgotten about.

He dragged his feet back offstage and noticed most of it was empty of people. He knelt down on one knee and laid his case on its flat side. It was worn and black, the material stripping parts and the metal clasps rusted from years of use. He opened the inside where red, faded felt protected where the guitar sat. There were three or four stickers. Two of them, she had put on herself. Two others were ones he found that reminded him of her. That was too early to remember.

He had never looked at the stickers for at least two years. And now that he did, it was an entirely different feeling. Everything he felt from when he was playing in front of those people was drowned out by the feeling of not being able to play for her, or with her. He closed the case before any more feeling happened.

Deep breaths. He wipes his hands on his jeans again.

He opened it once more and this time briskly shoved his guitar into it, clasped it shut and picked it up. He moved his way down the ramp and looked at the parking lot with scattered cars and people putting trunks and cases into backs of trucks. He pulled out his keys and walked alongside a row of cars, looking for his own.

He saw the front end, slightly dented, headlights round and archaic, sticking out between a sedan and a minivan. He pointed his keys towards it and pressed a button to unlock it from a distance, jogging towards it as he did so.

“Hey, George! Wait up.”

George turned around to see the concert manager carrying something in his hand and waving it at him. “Where did you go? I didn’t get to pay you.”

“Oh, I’m pretty tired and I wanna get to a place where I can sleep.”

“But I got your pay right here, man.”

He waves the wad of cash in front of George. His eyes don’t move from the concert manager’s.

“What, you won’t take it?”

George frowns and shakes his head.

“Why not? You played a kick-ass act, man.”

George begins to turn around and open the back door, trying to squeeze his guitar in between the sedan and his own car, turning his head slightly to speak to the manager.

“I, uh—I don’t play for money anymore.”

“Anymore—what? What do you mean?”

“I mean, I stopped. I don’t need the money. Thanks for letting me play. But I don’t need the money.”

The manager looks at his old, scratched, and rusted car and examines its headlights.

“Are you sure?”

George shuts the back door and hears something loose when he closes it. He briefly looks inside and shrugs it off, and matches the manager’s gaze at the car’s eccentric headlights.

He chuckles while saying, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”

The manager looks up at him, holding the cash in front of him again. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“There was that eighteen year old kid, the second act? How much did you pay him?”

“Little less than this. You want me to give him a hand?”

George opens his driver-seat door and puts one foot inside. “Hell, this isn’t an easy path. We should know that.”

The manager hits the wad of cash against his open palm while thinking. Then uses it to point at George with an agreeable expression.

“You coming back? Next concert I mean, when I call you. I’ll make sure I call you.”

George ponders for a moment. “Sounds cool.” He closes the door and rolls down his window. The concert manager leans against it.

“I’ll call him too. He was good. You think he was good. After that show, I’ll tell him to meet you. He’s going to want to meet you.”

George smiles at him and turns on his ignition.

“See you next year.”

“You too, George.”

The car’s engine sputters and its exhaust emitted black smoke for a brief moment, but as the manager backed off from the car and waved, George turned in the parking lot and left the auditorium, the tiny fifth door of his faded orange hatchback illuminating the pavement below him with a dim red light.

Beyond the auditorium was a dark road, where cars from concert goers and bands entered and sped down, with not much else in sight for at least a couple of miles. The guitar case and George rattled and shook with the bumpy road as he sped up, following the few cars in front of them until they branched off into the highway. The Bob Dylan bobblehead was bobbling more than usual and George swore he could hear sounds coming from the engine that he most feared when on the road. He gripped his steering wheel tighter and twisted his palms against the furry, zebra striped steering wheel cover.

“Come on, Beams, not now,” he whispered under his breath. As hesitant as he was—as scared as he was that the car he had driven to almost two hundred small towns, three hundred festivals, and countless stretches of roads was finally losing its magic, George kept driving, like had always done since that day. And it was rare when he was driving that he would think about that day, and the someone who had told him all those things.

He closed his eyes momentarily to gather his senses, and opened them to begin driving more alert. The sky was dark, and he could make out several stars in the sky when he looked through his sunroof. It was especially bright tonight. He liked to believe that it was a sign. One that demonstrated to him that the feeling he got when in that concert wasn’t superficial or forgettable. It reminded him of the first time he sang into a microphone in front of maybe only twenty people, but he felt exactly the same. He hadn’t felt that in a long time.

He hadn’t felt anything for a long time.

George relaxed. He sat back and rested his hand against the headrest of his seat. He rolled open his window manually with the crank. It was a relic and part of Beams he most cherished, because it also reminded him of sitting in his mom’s car, cranking down the window to stick his head out and feeling the wind blow up his hair and hardly being able to see with all of it rushing into his face. So George cranked it all the way down, and he could feel the hairs on his arms stick up when they were on the steering wheel once again. He wasn’t chafing his palms on it anymore, just firmly holding it, adjusting the wheel to compensate for the bumpiness of the worn-down road Beams rode on.

He stuck out his left hand, the one he used to strum the strings on his guitar with as much passion as cranking down the window of his beloved hatchback. The wind blew it back and he could feel the air resistance and the stream of it go over top of his hand, between his fingers, and around the width of his arm. He put it up and held the top of his window, so the hairs on his arm could enjoy the fresh air. The cool breeze running inside the car now filled it with refreshment and relaxation, coupled with the enjoyment and energy of driving down the highway, with nothing else but a guitar, a busted-up and rusty car, and the hands you most desperately depend on to survive in the world.

Photo of the Week | 3 – Ether, 4 – Headphones.

Because I skipped last week, due to not being able to get any good shots, I have two for this week.

3 – Ether.

Taken March 3rd, 2010. Sony a200. 19-55mm. School soccer field.

Originally, this photograph wasn’t incredibly captivating. I looked up at the sky and found that the cloud formations were peculiar, so I chose one in the camera’s viewfinder and took a few shots of it. I continue to enjoying capturing something in its entirety, free of manipulation of control. The aspect of catching something natural, as it is, as best as you can, is something I enjoy about photography.

The main aspect of this photograph is the manipulation I did to it in Photoshop. While playing with the channels—originally RGB, I hid and unhid individual ones, coming across the effect of leaving only the Red channel visible, leaving this large contrast between dark and white of the sky and clouds, respectively. Because Photoshop didn’t allow me to save a file within a specific channel chosen, I changed the mode to Multichannel, which allowed me to freely select channels to use.

I titled this Ether because I think that’s exactly the effect the finished image invokes. Changing something as simple of as the channels can alter the effect of a photograph so drastically, and even go as far as invoking an opposite emotion or effect than what occurs from the original image, which can bee seen here. The value of the image is only one aspect of its effect, as the shape of the clouds, almost like mist, emits a far eerier tone—even something bordering supernatural allegories; all this can be concluded from just looking at the image with a critical eye, which is what I value most in photography and its applications.

****

4 – Headphones.

Unknown Date. Nikon D3000. 18-55mm. Around Issa’s neck.

This shoot wasn’t as successful as the last ones, mainly because I was struggling with my ability to get any good pictures. I settled with this set of photos, because they were really the only good ones I could take, even if I wasn’t totally happy with how the shoot turned out. I decided that a good way to work around the visually bland image was to turn it into a graphic.

To me, graphics provide an interesting and creative way to manipulate images to as much an extent as one wants, and gives another level to the artistic capability of one’s vision, through the usage of new technologies to achieve that vision. I had to troubleshoot within Photoshop to discover a proper and effective way of turning the photo into a graphic, but then realized another solution. Utilizing other programs to extend creative ability is something I always value, and that includes all programs within Adobe’s Creative Suite, which is made behind interconnectivity behind creativity.

Using the Live Trace tool in Adobe Illustrator, I was able to use a threshold and posterization-like effect to add ample visual interest to the photograph, creating clear elements of colour and value that allow the image to be interesting to look at.

Oh, Scars.

From the last time they happened.

Let’s botch some budding movie careers, shall we?

District 9 wins everything (SHUT UP).

Enjoy the Oscars, or rather, the biased, industry-feeding capitalist machine that is the Academy Awards, people. Don’t let your brains melt to mush, at least too much.

Connected Letters.

‘I wonder what you’re thinking of right now.’

You already know the answer.

Necks.

They’re good to hang gold medals around.

Canadian necks work best.

Best necks in the world, apparently.

 

Canada wins. America is our underwear.

GG.

I am Canadian.

And right now, I’m Goddamn proud of it.

Watch out America, we’re coming for you. In hockey, in gold medal count, and in every single other category.

We’re gonna win the shit out of you.

God, I love the Olympics. 

Settlements of a Drifter – Part 1

It was almost fitting. The whole deal with life. Whatever happened, happened. But Al wasn’t like that. She was more, whatever happened, I could have done something to change it. Al was stuck in the past, looking at the future through a wide, tinted window.

And the seat beneath her was kind of hard, and she could hear the wheel beneath the floor rumble on the worn down and dusty road that the Greyhound bus seemed to travel down endlessly and aimlessly. It’s why she liked it. It’s why she chose the Greyhound bus.

Al rested her head against the tinted window, dancing her eyes back and forth between the vast expanses of wilderness and what she swore was a hitchhiker but didn’t bother to look twice. She just kept her head against the window and her eyes on the wilderness. She saw a coyote with three cubs halt in their tracks and look directly at her. At this point she leaned up from the window and stared back.

She didn’t know why, but she waved. Her fingers wiggled slightly and she even gave a small smile. The coyote’s eyes were wide, but they were lucid. Like they were staring past her, and not at her. Al guessed she did the same a lot of the time, and she didn’t know why either. The bus moved past the coyote family and continued down the stretch of dry road, the reddish-brown flats and eroded towers of rocks in the distance.

She looked to her right. The case rattled and shook with each vibration of the bus, and she felt the rattling match the vibrations of herself too. She had so many stickers on it she lost count years ago, but she still thought it amazing how every time she stared at them it was like she was staring at them for the first time ever. She put one hand on the case’s front, and enjoyed the feeling of it against her palm. Each movement of the bus’ shaking gave a sensation down her arm, one that made her feeling just a bit warmer. It was good, because she was getting cold.

Her feet sat on the edge of her seat and her arms wrapped around her knees close together. Her sweater’s sleeves extended far past her fingertips, but the soft fur inside of them gave her hands the warmth they needed. She stuck a few fingers outside of her sweater’s sleeves to pick at the threads of her jeans that were coming off, stretched against the hole against her knees. She tapped her boots on the side of the bus and the clunking sound made her self-conscious if those sitting around her would hear.

They wouldn’t, because no one was around her. A few heads a dozen seats forward. Some guy with a Mohawk. Another person, about 50, was reading the paper. She leaned into the aisle, against her case, and squinted to try and make out the words. They looked Russian. Al let out a pout and blew her bangs up from over her face, but they gently came down again. She leaned back against the window. No more coyotes. Just flats. Reddish-brown. More of it. More bright sun. More bumps. More rocks.

More life.

Al awoke to the screeching brakes of the bus. Her head rested against the fur of the inside of her sweater, bunched up against the window. She put her hand against it and the coldness of its touch surprised both her senses and her mind. The sudden jolt of energy she got made her arm pull away from the window, and she got up immediately, almost banging her head on the bus’ ceiling.

Now a bit scared for her head, she scavenged the seat below her to look for her knitted white beanie. If her hair could talk, it’d wonder why they never saw the full light of day, since that thing was always on, all the time. It must have slipped off her head when she fell asleep. The feeling of it back on the top of her head made her feel warm again, without the sweater.

She stretched as much and as far as she could, and let out the loudest yawn she had ever let out in a while, and jumped on her feet. The Mohawk man was gone, and so was the Russian newspaper reader. She looked out the opposite side of the bus and saw the platform. It wasn’t as busy as she thought, but there were still people walking back and forth along it and carrying all kinds of items beside and on them. Some had satchels and others had suitcases and others business luggage. As she put on her fur sweater she wondered what each container held and it if was really something worth bringing with them wherever they go.

And then she looked at her own leather satchel and hung it around her shoulders. The added weight felt natural, and needed. She grabbed the handle of her case, the neck of it straight ahead of her, and the body in front of her legs. Wobbling down the narrow aisle, she saw the bus driver with his cap over his eyes and his arms folded together. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

“Thanks for the ride, sir.”

“No problem.” He dragged the No with as thick a Canadian accent as can be.

Al caught his hand going up and giving a stellar thumbs-up while his head remained under his cap. One of the best Al had ever seen. She was glad he drove her to her destination. It made her feel like she belonged on that bus, with the Mohawk Man and Russian Newspaper Reader. They were gone though, and as she hopped off the final bus step, she looked around and could see no wacky hairstyles or Russian-looking newspapers around any arms. Al didn’t really think it mattered, but she knew it would bother her for the majority of her day. She shrugged it off and walked towards a metal pillar, laying her case against it. The stickers reflected sunlight against the half-shrouded platform, the sun peeking through the metal beams of the ceiling.

She extended one hand out of her long sleeve and opened up her satchel. The folded map revealed scribbles and marks in red, blue and black. Roughly drawn circles and doodles of little characters following the lines of rivers and around the dots of towns and villages. Almost as fast she got it out, she whipped it open with a loud crinkle. Her hands were still in their sleeves as she held it in front of her, her brow furrowed and biting the tip of her pen. Thick in concentration, she scanned the enormous map with her eyes.

“Hmmm.”

She looked up at the platform.

Welcome to Beausejour, Manitoba!

“Glad to be here.”

Al folded up the map, again at a blinding speed, and stuffed it back into her satchel. She exited the platform and looked down the dry road that she sped down only a couple of hours earlier. She thought she saw a coyote, but realized it was just wind. Turning around, she decided that Beausejour looked like an interesting enough place to be.

***

To Al, wandering was synonymous with wondering. Each step was savoured, each breeze taken in, and each ray of sunlight or droplet of rain absorbed with a smile or closed, dreaming eyes. To Al, it was the best feeling in the world. The streets of Beausejour, all four of them as it seemed, provided her with enough of it. She looked down at her red Chucks, their soles now brown from wear and tear, her shoelaces flapping with each hasty step.

She started turning corners, not really aware of what she was turning into, or if there was a turn at the end of this turn, or if turning was a good idea at all, but it didn’t matter. Even if she made four lefts and did laps around a block, it was the steps that she cared about. It was the breeze, and the rays of sunlight and drops of rain hitting her face.

But for the sake of exploration, Al didn’t make four lefts. She made three, and then a right, and then another left, and because the street she was now on was incredibly long, at least by Beausejour standards, she decided to reach the end of it.

And at the end of it, there stood the biggest thing she had seen in Beausejour yet: A hockey arena.

Like a child getting ready to go on the swings for the first time, Al practically skipped past the empty parking lot, even jumping over a few of the compact cars that were there, and pressed her nose against the glass door. The lights were on, but they were dim. She imagined zambonis, thick accents, the smell of ice, and the cold temperatures awaiting her.

She slowly put pressure against the door handle, and it creaked open with deceivingly easy effort. To be honest, she expected it to be closed, like the rink thought it wasn’t her time to go enjoy all the civil liberties of hockey and that maybe she had to strap on a pair of skates or at least learn how to wrist-shot before the hockey gods would allow her to venture into their temple.

But maybe not. The door closed silently behind her as she tip-toed into the depths of the rink. The dark-gray floor let her shoes squeak freely. She stopped for a moment and decided to take advantage of the opportunity. One lean forward, a long squeak. Shift weight back, one short squeak. She contemplated and connived about the things that could be done with her Chucks and this perfectly constructed floor and a few squeaks here and there.

Contemplation would have to wait, since she heard a distance rumble from within the confines of the rink. The metal double doors looked heavy duty and unwelcoming, but since when as that discouraged Al. She passed by the metal fence-guarded snack bar and stood in front of the double doors. She leaned her shoulder against it and pushed it open.

The temperature dropped by a few degrees. The air was crisper. Her cheeks got redder. She breathed in, and breathed out. The air in the rink was fresh, it was cold, and it was wonderful. She stretched her arms out from her sides and looked up at the bright, large lights overhead. The protective glass shone against it, and she looked down at the case she was carrying, where the stickers reflected just the same.

Looking ahead, she saw a stretch of wooden benches, painted blue and brown at least ten years ago, chipped and stained as far as she could see, all along the rink and ending back towards her. And in the distance, she could see something crawl out of the crew entrance on the other side of the rink. She put down her case, ran towards the edge, and stuck her nose against the protective glass. Eyes were wide and mouth was open.

The zamboni made its way onto the ice, slowly but surely. The man helming it had a scruffy beard to rival the most hardened of hockey players, at least the ones that Al had seen, though she hadn’t seen many. The low rumble of its innards echoed throughout the rink, and her ears took all of it in. It was a giant white blocky turtle, and that scruffy bearded man was riding it. She kept her nose against the glass her mouth agape. It crossed the blue line and Al followed it with her eyes the entire way.

A small Canadian flag was stuck on the side of the zamboni, and Al looked back at her case sitting in the middle of the gateway in front of the double doors, on the floor between the two rows of old wooden benches. Off-center, partially covered by stickers from everywhere, was a red maple leaf, starting to lose its colour and its edges beginning to peel off.

Al went over to her case and picked it up, making her way to the second row of old wooden benches and walked along them. One foot in front of the other, she noticed a very big colour contrast between the faded red of her shoes and the almost indiscernible bluish-brown of the benches she stepped on. The concrete on which these benches sat faired no better, but Al decided to examine it closer anyways, and noticed crevices and graffiti scattered all over.

“Four assists, three goals. Sixty-seven.”

Al’s head twisted to the side to try and read all of it written in black Sharpie beneath the bench she stood over. Interesting way to keep score, she thought. She jumped down and stomped her feet on the cold concrete and sat on her sleeve-covered hands which touched the bench. It felt like worn, smooth wood, corrugated, but sanded down, just like she imagined it would feel.

The zamboni was starting its second lap.

Al turned towards her case that lay still beside her. She got up and knelt in front of it, barely fitting in the row. She undid the metal clasps holding the case together, and flipped it open. The inside cover of the case had even more stickers on it, along with countless scribbles and spontaneous stories and diary entries, plus taped-on photographs and pieces of paper with signatures from across the country, and buttons that had no way of attaching themselves except by duct tape. And some of that duct tape had words on it too, some of it nonsensical, and some of it making just enough sense of Al to understand exactly what it meant.

She let out a nostalgic sigh and brushed her fingers over all the memories that lay inside the cover of her case. And then she brushed her fingers across the neck, the tuning pegs, in between the thick, taut strings, and onto the smooth surface of the guitar. The varnish never seemed to fade; it always amazed her. She took it out and sat beside the open case. She shifted around in her seat and put her hand over the guitar body as limply as she could.

She took her left hand out of her sleeve, and put it on the neck. Ran her fingers up and down it, getting a feel. She stopped on a fret, and got her finger placement down. And then she closed her eyes. The fingers on her right hand rested against three strings. As soon as she hit that first chord, she closed her eyes, and tapped her foot.

The rumble of the zamboni, buzz of the rink, and echo of Al’s melody played a chorus exactly like the rhythmic chants and chaotic chatter of a busy game, and the silence of nothing. She didn’t know what she was playing, but she liked it. She kept tapping her foot, and plucking the strings. She shifted her left hand when she thought she should, and changed plucking patterns when it sounded best. Her eyes were closed, but she could tell when the zamboni driver was approaching her side of the rink, and as it the rumble of it got louder, her hearing and feel and sound got better.

She played. The rink was empty, save for the zamboni, the wooden benches, Scruffy Bearded Zamboni Driver, her guitar, and the memories.

The Walk.

Originally written for York University’s Department of Film (Screenwriting) Supplementary Application Form. Too long to submit. Shame, really.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Anthony peered out the window of his dimly lit classroom. His head rested on a fist and his other hand held a pen, tapping against the wooden desk. He stared down at the paper in front of him for a brief moment, and looked once again out the bright, white window.

He could see flakes of snow melt on contact and the blanket of white covering the pavement and cars parked along the grassy field beyond. He followed streaks of water race down the windowpane until they reached the edge. Some droplets would meld together and fall slowly down until he could see more snow piling upon the bottom of the frame. He pressed his hand against the window, and could feel the cold, crisp sensation run up his arm.

His trance was broken by a piercing, rhythmic bell. The ambience of classmates talking and jostling movements of those around him came back into focus. He could now hear chairs scraping behind him and footsteps begin to fill the hallways outside his classroom. One final look out the window revealed cars piling into the school driveway, windshield wipers scratching off snow, or tops of cars blanketed with white, much like the pavement outside.

Anthony followed his classmates out of the room and into the crowded, busy hallway. Thick jackets and wool hats bobbed up and down as he pushed his way towards the main atrium, and up the stairs. The first three tries to open his locker were unsuccessful, but the fourth allowed him to breathe a sigh of relief. He put on his own wool scarf, soft and warm over his neck, and slipped his hands into wool gloves, instantly providing a sensation opposite to touching a hand upon a cold, crisp window, but feeling all the same.

It was warm, and it was reassuring. It was the reward for another day completed. He wondered when he would begin counting the days, much like he counted the minutes before the end of each period. As he exited the school doors, the first few flakes of snow fell upon his face, and he smiled lightly.

He didn’t know why, but he enjoyed it. The endless historical dates, math equations, and scientific terminology to remember seemed to exit his head, if only temporarily. It was replaced by the snow sitting on his nose and fingers, and the cold breeze going over his cheek. His scarf waved slightly at his waist. And he began walking down the road.

His walk home was simple. Down the street. One left. Towards the cul-de-sac. Another left. Second house, on the left. It was routine. It was a habit. It was etched in his brain, like the water droplets he remembered that drooped down the window.

Each step he took; each crunch he heard beneath his feet of snow or gravel compressing under the soles of his shoes was a rhythm he always followed. Sometimes he would listen to music, other times he would think. Most of the time he did the two together; the beat of each song matching the steps he took, like a metronome that kept the tempo of his mind, freeing it and guiding it as he made his way back home.

What he thought about wasn’t clear, nor was it always the same. But it was vivid, and it was true. Walking home was a chance, an adventure, a peace. Walking home was a method of freedom, one which he savoured every single day. Despite the fact that he might have failed a test, stumbled during a presentation, or received a bad final. Between the footprints he left in the snow, the flakes falling onto his dark, thick hair, or the cold breeze that blew past him, it was an opportunity to not care.

It was an opportunity to think. Think about what lay in between the bare trees, fallen or taller than the highest houses, what went on inside the homes he would always pass by, and just how many steps it took to get where he was going. He thought about things that couldn’t matter to anybody but himself, and people who he couldn’t possibly matter to. He saw birds fly above him and pondered about their destination, or saw an elderly couple walking up the hill, and wondered how beautiful their experiences must have been.

Most importantly, he thought about stories. The ways in which people told them, imagined them and changed them. How stories can end, but leave beginnings to be opened just as quickly. He thought about his story, and how he didn’t know what chapter it was on, or who was narrating, or what kind of story it would be.

Anthony kept smiling as he walked down that road towards home, and he figured out why he was. Walking home wasn’t just a habit, or a chore, or a routine.

It was a ritual; of mind and spirit, imagination and knowledge, wonder and discovery. It wasn’t a choice. Walking home was a way of life.