10 days in Montreal

I had a great time in the Montreal of 10 days. I really did. But its strange how photos can be more solid than reality. 10 days isnt long , not long at all. 10 days isnt wide, or tall or long, its about the size of a soccer ball, a regulation sized soccer ball. From the moment I arrived it started filling up. I dreamt of now then, how fast it would pass by, I dream of then now, how I got off the plane in mint green tights and a paris print buttonup shirt - and there they all were, the tall people who came to pick me up, my boyfriend, my brother, my sister, my cousin. I think they even hugged me in that order. Blair had a yellow rose in his hand - which he insisted was from Skye - who insisted it was from Blair - I never found out who it was really from. Then we stopped off at Myles and Skye's yellow house, and headed out again to see ' Controller Controller' .
The shock of seeing familiar faces after solitary hours on planes and buses and trains, preceded by months of solitary life on another contintent is two-fold - on the one hand you are shocked by how comfortable it is, how easy it is, how suddenly ITS HAPPENING - you are talking to them, and laughing with them, buying beer with them, making dumb jokes, and it is all just so normal. There is no lead-up, its one second in the alone world, staring out windows, zipping and unzipping bags, wondering about nothing in particular, observing peoples wrinkle patterns and sock designs... and then a sudden, drastic, dramatic slice - - - and they are there, and Im hurtling at a breakneck speed between the world I have with just Blair, the world I have with just Myles, the world I have with just Zoe, the hints of a world I might have with just Skye, the world I have with just Zoe and Myles, the world I have with just Myles and Blair, the world I have with Myles and Zoe and Skye, and most of all this new world of Myles, Zoe, Blair and Skye - the tall people I am meeting at the arrivals gate. And its easy - its there, its moving and gliding and happening - its so easy. But also shocking because its not as easy as it first seems. That is, I may suddenly find myself at a silent moment again, say while in the bar toilet staring at silver graffiti on a dirty black stall wall that says something illegible, and think to myself - who the hell is at the helm of this operation? It cant possibly be that person who was watching peoples wrinkles two hours ago, because this person is totally different. This person has risen up in me spontaneously, from the second I saw the tall people's faces. This person is familiar, is comfortable even, but she is just so different than the one on the plane. But no sorting is going to take place right now - there isnt enough time there isnt enough time, I'm inside Montreal, I'm swimming, my insides can fall into patterns as they will.
But its like a dream, its a dream my present self is having about meeting up with my past self. and that conglomerate of selves is meeting with these tall people I love, and hasnt time to worry about the crashing of past and present.
There are so many details. fresh squeezed apple juice on the stiff fingers day nuns and pyramids of apples and onions men with false moustaches kisses to hide inside and hang onto in rainy days pink fluffy hats and kidskin boots donned and doffed, left on the shelves, dreams of things that never happened but might have, black noodles and the feeling of walking in high heedled boots too long, busrides with lazyeyed susans, leaves and cigarettes, grocery stores and chocolate bars and strangers, unknown streets and songs and feet in the oven and a joint rolled, tubes in the upstairs windows tea cups of tea stomach aches and shoulder bites and overflowing suitcases, cats that look like childhood cats crying at the windows, fig leaves dryly hit the floor the feathered away wood floor and you and you and you and you all the yous I jumped with or missed with or tumbled down hills with, all the shops I passed and carried on from, all the faces I saw but didnt speak to, all the food I wanted but didnt eat, all the hours I wasted sleeping, all the hours I stayed awake but shouldnt have, all the laughs the eyes the curling up toes on a sofa the imaginations of things that happened in Montreal while i wasnt there, all the feelings of WHY ISNT THERE MORE TIME TO PUT THIS INTO - like triple batches of devils food cake in a rice bowl overflowing overflowing overflowing and still im piling it higher and higher Im not big enough why arent I taller, why arent I taller? I want to carefully pull apart the tiny crystallized pieces of the asteroid of ten days and take them to tea ceremony. Eat one a night in silence. let it sink in. let it meet me and let me meet it. I want to take a look at the whole form of a second or two, then look at the details, then look at the whole form again, and then swallow it.
It all happened but before I realized it. Well I realized it but fast enough, not deep enough, I wasnt as real as I wanted to be, I wasnt as awake as I wanted to be, my present self my past self my future self bouncing wildly off big skies, bedsheets, yellow walls, tilted ceilings, dirty mirrors, and blue green brown eyes. Alone in the shower I know whats happening but there isnt time to do anything only keep tumbling. I am not absorbant enough. I am not big enough. There is not enough space in me, there is not enough time outside me. Ten days that blur and wash together into streaks of colors angles of moods unexpected corners of conversation.

and then I have these pictures. so many pictures. they are order, they are selection of seconds, they are the representatives of ten days chosen on pure instinct and random circumstance. they are flags of the nation of 'Ten days in Montreal' They are evidence of times we had, times we could have had, and times we imagined we had, times we ought to have had, times we definitely had, times we didnt have but thought we did, times we didnt have then but will surely have in the future, times we will never have again, and times we will have over and over.

I should spread it all out on paper. Paper is cheap and easy to come by. I can have as much paper as I like.

skye laughing  

two skyes and a blair  

at the car minus zoe  

skye at the park  

Myles and Skye  

the vision  

medeival geeks ?  

me on the ferris wheel  

grocery shopping fun  

nose and ears  

zoe out the window  

fall  

zoe and skye on the ranch  

crackers  

boys on the lincoln  

mt royale boulevarde  

blair at mt. royale  

ugly modelling 20  

ugly modelling montreal

so this was the 3rd installment of Ugly Modelling - ta da! this ridiculous night out where we find the most atrocious outfits possible , not to mention cheapest, and try to convince people we are serious - dead serious - about our fashion statements. Actually noone really gave us a second glance in Montreal ( not like Kerrisdale!) but we had a fantastic time as usual. I think the winner of this year's worst/ best outfit goes to Myles with the quilted brown lounger suit, mint green kneehighs and red spandex runners. But Skye Lee was a close second in those pink pants and office lady blouse. Zoe's jacket was pretty bad, but it is not visible in any of the photos that the print is all of board games - risk, uno, monopoly, etc. Her pants were incredibly bad though - I forgot about those. Sweatpant overalls. Terrible. just terrible. all in all everyone did well, if there was any trend to this years showing, it was probably hosery and also marked the first year we tried involving a random stranger. This lady was a nice french lady with dogs walking near the tennis courts. I think she was a little wary at first, due to our freakish appearance, but she no doubt chalked it up to the folly of youth and was won over by our charming grins ( see photo for evidence) and probably also Skye's fantastic french skills and mind blowingly
adorable dimples. We wrapped things up with an appearance at an odd cafe of the variety that attempts to appear upscale in a way that both impresses, but doesnt intimidate, people who dont normally frequent such places, but feel maybe they will start from now on. An independent cafe that feels like a chain, yet has a jazz trio play wednesday nights, ( which was the reason we went there - to see the fabulous Spencer Day! play sax) charges a lot for its eclairs, and has tacky curtains. All in all it was perhaps just the right sort of place for us to make an appearance. We baffled them ( the staff etc.) only slightly, which is probably the most baffling kind of baffling, and the cafe itself baffled us in much the same way.

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