Everything is heavy and still, but on occasion a gust of wind brings the scent of water. From the lake, from the sky, from places unimaginable. This water that will soon rain down upon the entire steaming city. This water from which we are nourished, from which we are comprised, from which we were born. How old is it? Is it forever?
Jones hands me a stick.
“Here daddy, this is your stick and this is mine. We will drag them through the rocks!”
We drag the sticks along the sidewalk. Jones is a shark, I am a laser beam. Earlier he was an astronaut robot dancing to Toots and the Maytals. He is a shape shifter. A shaman. A spirit guide constantly forming and reforming, announcing himself to the world in all his various guises.
A young Asian woman attired in perfectly executed variations of pink passes by. Focused on the phone before her, she does not see us. A ghost floating through the humid day. As real as a cloud. Jones drops his stick and runs into some bushes. He is drawn to every green thing. All the branches, all the leaves, all the flowers, all the replicating versions living within–everything different, everything the same. And he rummages for a minute before emerging with three tiny snail shells cupped in his hands. His eyes so blue, so big.
He knows this is a miracle.
“This one is the daddy, this one is mommy and this one is Jonesy.
Something happens to the weather and it begins to spit and we are beneath a tree, the sound of water drops falling on the leaves above.
The Dinosaur House, he calls it.
The weekends are full of families, and after an hour or so of exhibits, everybody typically ends up at the children’s play area. It is here where Jones’ transformations begin. He becomes a knight in chain mail. A dragon. A Sultan from mysterious desert lands.
A prism changing colour with the light, he is all glittering potential here. The rest of us, the parents, we sit down and exhale, ring the children like a campfire. Try to remember the plots of the lives we’ve been living.
We were meeting a couple and their children there, and I asked the tired-looking husband, who I hadn’t seen in over a year, how he was doing. He sighed, explaining that he no longer worked downtown, but had been moved to an office on a loveless fringe of the city. He couldn’t ride his bike in to work anymore, and found himself transformed into somebody he did not recognize–just another dad commuting to an unremarkable job in an unremarkable corner of the world. All of us now, softly closing doors we will never open again, watching our children begin the future we once lived.
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A cold, open morning passing through us. Jones has a red lollipop in his cheek, the stem sticking out like a cigarette. All confidence and swagger he moves up the street like a gangster. He’s looking for a stick. The right stick. All gatherings of plants and bushes must be explored. He holds back the branches of one bush, “Come, Daddy, Come!” He has opened a door that I must pass through, and together we emerge into a new world, journey mystical realms, enter jungles, descend to lakes with lizards and stars. And then Jones standing there. Watching me looking back, all the branches and vines and climbing things now wrapped around him like they did not want to give him up, like he still belonged to their world and not mine. And the bottle collectors are out this morning. They scavenge in the alleys, the glass clinking in their bags like wind chimes from across water.
A cold morning.
The wind down the empty street invigorating, almost inspiring– a reminder that we are of this world, and not the other. Such deep in the bones gratitude in these moments. The day still brand new, still a kind of wilderness. A field of potential stretching endlessly before us. Jones sucks on a green lollipop. His favourite colour on account of the Hulk, the creature his three year old body most yearns for, and above us the sky is changing. The clouds tumbling. The blue of the sky often indistinguishable from the overcast grey, and all around us the stripped trees and withered vegetation. Jones wants to know where all the leaves have gone, and as I am explaining he sees a tree in a yard that’s been decorated for Christmas. He points and shouts, describing the colours and shapes like the miracles they are. And as we look up and through the tree, a cloudbank rolls away from the sun and for a moment we are struck blind by the radiance, and for the rest of our journey ghost lights flicker before us like answered prayers.
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Notice what you feel:
I am walking back from daycare and I have my eyes closed. It is the morning, still fresh, and I am noticing the fine, barely perceptible sparks of rain that fall on my face. It feels like something mysterious and alive, something benevolent. I am noticing my breathing, how I labour with it and have to consciously inhale through the prongs in my nose. I feel the oxygen tank on my back, how it pulls against my body, my muscles tightening, growing tense. I open my eyes, now concerned that I may be veering blindly toward someone on the sidewalk, and I see my street, a ribbon separating the red, brick homes on either side, and the impossible leaves all around them, jewels spilling from a treasure chest, wet and almost shining.
Notice movement:
I am in motion. All of me, everything contained within and without, and all the world around swirling like mists. Everything in constant motion, even the rocks, everything in the process of degrading and reforming, everything sightlessly churning. I push Jones down the street in his stroller and an airplane passes loudly overhead, contrails streaming behind. Jones yells and points, his pupils expanding in the wonder of recognition. A cat slinks out of a bush and looks at us, considers things, and then begins a cautious journey across the street, each step the brushstroke of a great artist. We pass by a woman walking two dogs who pause to rummage through the rubble of some broken jack-o-lanterns on a lawn. They look up at us like the shadows we are, and then we arrive at daycare and a bird, unseen, chirps smally from a tree before emerging and rising beyond us in flight.
]]>The heat sat upon everything.
Oppressive and exhausting, it slowly disabled the day’s options. You couldn’t go outside. You couldn’t get comfortable. You couldn’t even think straight, and every time you moved it was as if this thing, this heavy, unseen entity, was wrapping itself just a little more tightly around you.
It was a long weekend and most of the people in Toronto seemed to have vacated the city for cottages. As Rachelle, Jones and I drove through the city to the Ontario Science Centre, we passed empty streetcars on empty roads, and on very rare occasion a person—always appearing slightly dazed, as if they’d just forgotten where they were going. There was a distinctly post-apocalyptic vibe in the still, dirty air, and it all felt as much a dream as not.
The Science Centre was very crowded, though, and it was filled with people just like us, people looking for a place that was open to the public, air-conditioned and entertaining for young children. We were all lucky, all of us there, lucky to have such a place available to us, lucky to be able to use it, and lucky beyond the known margins, too, lucky in ways none of us could even imagine.
But still, it wasn’t easy. It was crowded and loud, even chaotic, and Jones was so excited that he ran in crazed and unpredictable zigzags, and after a few hours we felt like cats chasing the red dot of a laser pointer. And as it approached noon, the children, all exhausted and hungry now, began to throw tantrums. It was like artillery going off, like fireworks.
One child would explode into tears, another one would kick a juice box out of a parent’s hand, and another would just flop face first on the floor and begin kicking his feet, screaming. And so it went, a spreading contagion that was simultaneously hilarious and crushing.
We managed to slither and bounce through it all to find a passage that led to descending escalators. There must have been two or three of them, each one travelling deeper and deeper down and through the wooded ravine the Science Centre was built into.
It was like being submerged in a forest, and the air became cooler and lighter as we descended, and when we stepped off into the refreshing, muted light of a wide open museum space, we were transformed.
About fifty feet in front of us rotating light projections were being cast onto the floor from the ceiling. Ladybugs. Stars. Race Cars. Mysterious fish. Geometric patters. All the children dancing beneath and within this light, and everything was beautiful and quiet and astonishing, like we had just been led to an illuminated cave full of dolphins at play in the purest waters.
Rachelle, Jones and I were in the backyard– the adults sipping coffee while Jones patrolled the U-shaped garden that frames the patio where we were sitting. Above us was an incredible canopy of leaves and branches. Somehow, it seemed a deeper and more vivid green than it should have been, and then, cutting through this foliage was the kind of sunlight that makes you think of Bible illustrations, and beyond that, nothing but the rich, blue infinity of a sky that knew everything.
Jones, propelling himself Fred Flinstone-style in a toy car he likes to play in, came over to us. He was the ice cream truck. Cheerfully, almost professionally, he offered us make-believe ice cream cones with make-believe sprinkles. His spontaneous joy in this theatre was a living, radiant thing, and the feeling it gave was not unlike if a deer had wandered into the yard and nuzzled us.
It felt that soft, that pure.
And then after a minute or two had passed, Jones stood up on the one step that leads from our apartment to the patio. The sun shone upon him like a spotlight, and an angelic babble issued forth as he waved his arms about like a preacher in full sermon. The language he was speaking was unknown to us, but it seemed like the right language, the one the voiceless world around him already seemed to understand, and the only one that corresponded to what was shining within.
I was sure Jones was performing a blessing, and it was humbling to feel just how lucky we were to be alive in this flimsy and glittering world, and to be lifted up beyond it by such small soft hands, even if just for a moment.
]]>This is his first press conference:
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3:24 P.M. EDT
Elmo: Hi everybody!
Guess what Elmo is thinking about today!!
Afghanistan!!!
Afghanistan starts with the letter A!!
Do you know what else starts with the letter A??
Attitude! Elmo hopes all of you people in the press have really good attitudes today!!
President Trump is ordering another 4,000 troops into Afghanistan. President Trump took over a mess, and now America, and her global allies and partners, are going to make things a lot messier! Elmo loves to make a mess! Do you like to make a mess? America will be making a mess of terrorists in order to clean up the mess the previous administration made of Afghanistan! So remember, America will not be nation building, America will be killing terrorists!
Terrorists are bad!
Yay, America!!
Can you guess what else Elmo is thinking about today?
Anybody??
No?
Ha, ha! Maybe you want to dance with Elmo? Elmo just loves to dance!
( Elmo dances)
Oh, Elmo so tired from dancing, Elmo almost forgot what Elmo was thinking about! Elmo remember! Elmo was thinking about Fake News!
Boo, Fake News, Boo!
Fake News is just about as bad as the terrorists!! Poor President Trump, he just wants to make America great again, and he has to fight terrorists AND fake news!! Such a hero!! Elmo loves heroes! Let’s all stand up and clap our hands for heroes!! Yay!!!
Elmo wants to say that although it is true President Trump briefly sized up the sun during yesterday’s eclipse, the President is not blind and is in perfect health!
That was fake news!! Elmo hates fake news! Elmo thinks that President Trump has such energy he might live forever! He is healthiest, most patriotic President of all time!! But even if the President had suffered significant blurring and fading of his vision during his encounter with the sun, which he hasn’t, there have been many great blind people in history! Do you like history?? Elmo loves history!
History says that America is great!
History also says that Daredevil was blind! And even blind Daredevil could still destroy all his enemies!!
Maybe Daredevil will visit Afghanistan?! Elmo thinks that would be so much fun! Wouldn’t that be fun?!
Remember to check Twitter to see when Daredevil might be appearing in Afghanistan!!
History also says that the great poet Milton was also blind, as well as musician Jose Feliciano!
And look, here’s Mister Jose Feliciano! Would you play a song for Elmo Mister Feliciano?!
Yay!! But first, Elmo thinks it is important to say that Mister Jose Feliciano is from Puerto Rico, not Mexico as many seem to think!
Elmo loves you Mister Jose Feliciano, thank you for the beautiful song!
Such a fun press conference!
Before Elmo leaves today Elmo wants to say just a few words about Jerry Lewis. That man kept us all laughing for over half a century, and his incredible charity work touched the lives of millions. Jerry lived the American Dream—he truly loved his country, and his country loved him back. Our thoughts are with his family today as we remember the extraordinary life of one of our greatest entertainers and humanitarians. Thank you, Jerry. You will be missed.
Elmo loves you all!!
Kiss, kiss!
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I often pass Hand Job Park as I take our dog Heidi for a walk, and as fate would have it, I’ve become friendly with Billy, one of the men who spends time there.
Because I have really lousy teeth and travel with an oxygen tank, Billy believes that I am a reformed crackhead, and am thus something of an inspiration to him, evidence that you can turn your life around and one day inhabit a beautiful family. As such, he’s always asking me for advice, and I have taken on the unofficial role as Billy’s Life Coach.
Every Sunday, I walk down to the park, talk to him about his week, and give him a written list of daily goals for the next week. This was my last list:
Monday:
Find public fountain and wash clothes.
Scavenge with your head, not your heart. Look for healthy, nutritional garbage opportunities such as a discarded smoothie, for instance!
Say it out loud to yourself, again and again, “My name is Billy and I will Scavenge Smart!”
Walk for at least six hours.
Learn how to tune guitar.
Affirmation of the day: THERE IS A GIFT FOR ME IN EVERYTHING THAT I EXPERIENCE.
Tuesday:
When busking, perhaps do it in front of Shopper’s instead of the liquor store? Why tempt yourself? Remember Billy, GOOD CHOICES.
Stay away from Hyena’s Old Lady. Remember what happened last time she gave you a hand job?
Walk for at least six hours.
Practice guitar for an hour.
Affirmation of the day: THE VOICES IN MY HEAD ARE NOT REAL. I AM IN CONTROL.
Wednesday:
Today I would like you to go some place quiet (perhaps the Green P Carpark) and center yourself with some light stretching and meditation. Be mindful, Billy. Feel the sun upon your skin and hear the birds singing. You are not separate from nature, but are a perfect and integral component of nature.
Surrender to oneness. Think of everything in your life (guitar, Bo Jackson football jersey, etcetera) that you are grateful for and carry that with you throughout the day like it was a weapon in your backpack.
Remember to walk at least six hours.
Practice guitar for an hour.
Affirmation of the day: THE PAST IS OVER AND MY FUTURE IS NOW!
Thursday:
While busking, take an interest in the lives of those passing by. Remember, they’re people, too. However, remember not to take too intense an interest in the lives of the nearby Sorority girls.
Although you may mean “spicy” as a compliment, they may not take it that way.
Just because you’re homeless doesn’t mean you can’t be a part of society. Make inquiries into joining Choir! Choir! Choir!
Walk for six and a half hours.
Practice guitar for one.
Love yourself for twenty-four. : )
Affirmation of the day: EVERY MOMENT I STEP INTO THE WONDERFUL UNKNOWN
Friday:
Treat yourself to a nice wash in a public fountain.
Feel rejuvenated, in love with yourself and the world around you!
As today marks the opening of the Olympic Games in Rio,
why not jazz up business with a Brazilian theme? When strumming your guitar, add some latin flair! Try to scavenge for food that is unique to Brazil, and if one of the voices in your head speaks Portuguese, have a conversation with it!
Today is a reward day, so score some dope or booze if you can and celebrate the beautiful life that is Billy!
Affirmation of the day: REMEMBER TO GIVE HAND JOBS AND NOT JUST RECEIVE THEM!
]]>It was a beautiful day and he was gently tugging at the leaves and flowers of the plants that ring our backyard.
His touch was so delicate, so full of wonder, and above him the tree branches formed canopies through which the sunlight streamed. He, so small, looked up to an infinity of leaves, each one like the next, all coordinated in motion by the light wind, and then through them he’d catch glimpses of a blue ocean of sky and the sun going on forever. A bird was singing, too, the sound isolated and framed, as if directed specifically toward our son, and this conversation that was being conducted was holy. Everything seemed mystical and endless, and Jones wasn’t watching it, as I was, my mind cluttered by the names and functions of things, but he was of it, living beyond time and memory in this moment of gracious, floating beauty.
