There is a task before you.
What do you desire from this task?
Describe what happens.

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On Sunday Rachelle and I took our son to his swimming class in Kensington Market.

Walking down the stairs to the pool there’s the heavy, nostalgic smell of chlorine drifting up to meet you, and when it does, something takes place that moves you from one point in time to many others.

Every pool you ever knew is conjured, and you remember feeling a little vulnerable and excited as your bare feet padded toward the pool. You remember diving boards and lifesavers, games and races, unknowably beautiful lifeguards perched above like trophies, and the light catching the water as it swells and dips, glinting.

Everything refracted, everything reframed.

But on this day there were about six parents– each one with their tiny, precious child– forming a semi-circle around the instructor. So comfortable and confident in the water, she was like some mythical sea creature who spoke only in a song.

“Three blind mice, three blind mice, splash your hands, splash your hands,” she encouraged, and all the children kicked and splashed– and that, the water leaping up, became the physical manifestation of their joy. To witness this could have been the instructor’s great passion, the love to which she had given her life over.

And Jones was so happy. Excited, he shouted along to all the nursery rhyme instructions. He was game for anything. Even Torpedo Time, when the toddlers are submerged under water and then pushed through a hoop by a parent only to explode out of the water like the radiant beasts they are. Rachelle, who was smiling so broadly her face could have split in two, swung Jones through the water and then lifted him as strong and high as she could, before swinging him back down and then throwing him up in the air. And Jones, now soaring, was above it all, glowing in a weightless paradise for a moment, before falling back to us and into his mother’s arms.

In front of the Shopper’s Drug Mart there was a busker who likely saw Melissa Etheridge when she looked in the mirror. Wearing a beaten, red leather jacket, her hair was a wild scramble, and she sang with a ferocious, biting confidence. She was middle-aged, and all the songs she was playing were classics from the latter part of the 70s, songs that must have recalled the field parties of her youth when everybody passed joints around the bonfire, nodding along as she sang so fully, her future path seeming so clear.

At Sarah’s Shawarma the woman serving me had big, butcher fingers and the look of a farm worker from Eastern Europe. Her eyes were tender and vulnerable, suggesting that all she wanted to do in this world was help other people. And at the only occupied table in the place sat a thin and pale man wearing a Rush sweatshirt. He was finishing the last of his soup with such a dreamy pleasure that I had no choice but to simply stop and watch—as if bearing witness to a pure and holy moment.

When I stepped out onto the street there was a sudden chorus of Happy Birthday. The voices were in tune, harmonizing, and it was lovely, like music you might imagine hearing from across the water, something passing through time, as if light from a star. I looked around and eventually spotted them, five college-aged boys striding happily down the street singing into a cell phone one of them was holding aloft, “Happy birthday dear Rita, happy birthday to you,” and I thought of Rita in 30 years, one day, for no particular reason, remembering the surprise of this message and those beautiful boys.

It always seemed a little bit like New Year’s Eve to me. I’d feel all sorts of pressure to have a great time, make fancy plans, and then at the end of it all, feel as if I’d been at the wrong place all night, and then bitter and depleted, would end up walking home.

The sheer volume of people who attend Nuit Blanche disassembles whatever plans I had, and inevitably I’d spend most of my time texting lost friends.

Yr @ Dufferin Grove??

U said Dundas, did’t u??

The commissioned works that have the most promise always have endless, Disneyesque lineups that stretch 90 minutes into the future and the ambient art that serves as the connective tissue between the major installations has a souvenir stand feeling to it. In short, it gives me the sense that I just participated in some weird variation of spring break.

And so this year Rachelle and I felt little remorse about skipping the event. Instead, I participated via social media, opening up my Twitter feed to all the glory that was Nuit Blanche:

E-gene

Get ready for a stupid flood of poor-lit photos of unknown subject matter tonight on Twitter and Instagram. #sbnb

MryW

“Let the art speak for itself” — a girl after overhearing my bf’s interpretation of an exhibit. #sbnb

ESTRONG

Man beside me carrying bananas. Art or groceries? #sbnb

KMcKinnon

I’m at a high five competition … Haha #sbnb

Ion

I am supposed to be looking with a critical eye at #sbnb pieces, but really I am just drink drank drunk.

Alfagrrl

It’s the little things during #sbnb that make me smile. Nothing new here but makes me love my city!#sbnb

Petalpusher

Green frogs light up. Sometimes less, sometimes more. In background people scream about vodka. Latter not part of exhibit. #sbnb

Petalpusher

Some ass just fell off friend’s shoulders and whacked me in leg. He then tried to apologize with Italian opera. Yep, #sbnb is now messy

Blackcrown

#sbnb Not going out for Nuit Blanche is the new going out for Nuit Blanche.

cathy martha

if i ever find the FUCKING asshole who stole my seat & straps i will fucking CUT YOU TILL YOU BLEED & take my fucking bike gear back. #sbnb

gameoftombs

Overheard: “Nooo! They are not having sex! They are being hung upside down by fish hooks!!” #sbnb

ashsper

Saw some interesting #sbnb stuff along bloor. Especially liked the ‘choir’ at the church at Walmer/Bloor. Soothing

Friendlyfirefly

“Yo, that sh*t is f*cking sick!” Woman (on drugs?) repeatedly yelling at performers in classroom at end of the world exhibit #sbnb

shannnnon

If you’re on a bike, you better ding that bell. Losers running into streets, taxis are swerving, drunk people barfing on curbs. #sbnb

sytc

45 minute wait at All Night Convenience at #sbnb you know where to find me

shedoesthecity

In Trinity Bellwoods people are playing tennis & renegade dance parties compete with shite #sbnb dance party. Skip park, go to castle!

Overherd

The funny thing is we’re not even looking at art we’re just drunk #sbnb

Anchorman2

Cab Driver: “let’s get the fuck out of here” #sbnb

HelenofCry

CRAZY lineups!!!#sbnb

AnnaVanna

LOVE Nuit Blanche, beautiful art!!!#sbnb

sighfactory

For those of us who have lived here for every rendition of#sbnb, tonight is just a yearly nightmare.

Makhoul

A field of glowsticks. #sbnb

Nina24

I walk #sbnb alone. Much prefer it solo. Ending night on a swing. Sean Paul blaring in background but tranquil here. Love this city.