It always begins when I’m walking. Generally I have forgotten my music source, although sometimes I think through the music. My head is filled with amazing ideas, stories that go on for hours and could be best sellers. But when I sit down to write them, they’re gone and all I have left are the meaningless occurrences that are my life.
Take for example my pride and joy, my Peugeot pronounced “pueh- go”. A bicycle in case you were wondering, which was rudely removed from my possession a few weeks ago. The gears were very difficult, it was almost a standard bike, if there is such a thing, because I would have to manually move each gear with the shifter using a lot of strength and a lot of hope that it would work. The cup holder was gone, previously stolen. It was a junior bike, my knees would often hit my elbows and my feet on occasion grazing the asphalt. As shitty as it sounds it had won a place in my heart, which is quite the feat. And some person who thought or perhaps didn’t think, decided to sit on my seat and ride it away while I had left it unchained to buy eggs. Maybe they were punishing me, teaching me a lesson for leaving it unlocked. Or maybe they were in some strange circumstance where taking my Peugeot was their only option. Either way it’s gone and I am left feeling utterly depressed. A similar feeling to when my landlord’s son/ the landscaper tore out another small piece of my heart.
My garden, which might as well be called “my child”, is a beautiful piece of art. My first attempt, grown totally from seeds and developed into a lush haven of fruits and vegetables. Early one Saturday morning after being awoken by, lets call him Steven, struggling to start the whipper snipper, who then began his rounds. Boring I’m sure, his job was to remove weeds around my apartment building. As Steven made his way to my front door I assumed he would stay clear of my picturesque garden. This, however, was not the case. Steven approached the 3ft tall giant Atlantic pumpkin plant, that was just about to start producing it’s fruit, and pummelled the 3 inch stalk, the heart of the plant. I was standing inside, in shock as to what was happening, disbelief as it took him several attempts to fully cut it down. I flung open my front door, ran outside screaming as one of my babies had been raped from the garden. I reamed him, told him exactly how I felt, where he should go and where he could shove that whipper snipper. His defence: ‘I thought it was a weed’. Yea right, like I would let a weed grow 3 ft tall in my wonderfully lush garden. I went inside, and paced up and down my small hallway, counted to ten twenty times, took deep breaths and realized what I had done.
The police auction was conveniently being held the day after my bike was stolen. I attended and purchased an eighteen speed Canadian made Supercycle. It has fully functioning gears, and rides a lot taller and smoother than my last bike. My helmet even matches the color.
I apologized to the novice landscaper, expressed my regret for telling a twelve year old boy to ‘fuck off’. I planted three new seeds and am currently crossing my fingers that they will produce before the fall.That’s all we can do… cross our fingers and know that we are all a part of it, one way or another we each take our turn being the asshole.