This is kind of hard to explain, but for a variety of reasons, I was invited down to the Much Music building on Queen Street to experience the Dream Machine. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dreamachine) This device was invented by some surrealist beatnik, and through stroboscopic visual stimuli– whatever the hell that means—was supposed to inspire mystical visions in the viewer. I was told that I might touch the face of God.
The thing, which stood about five feet tall, looked like it was made in shop class. It reminded me of something you’d see in the basement of a 1970’s era swinger, or a groovy lamp you might have seen in the alien ambassadors residence on a vintage episode of Star Trek. It rotated loudly and cast off light in an arbitrary manner. I closed my eyes, as I was instructed, and waited for the voices of angels to come to me, but after ten minutes, all I had was a faint headache.
Kind of relieved that I didn’t lose myself to some altered state, I left the building, walking out into a throng of about 150 excited 14 year-old girls. At the same time I was concentrating on the Dream Machine, Taylor Swift– 19 year-old country singing sensation–was appearing in the Much Music environment. Oh, her fans were all so happy. They wore home made shirts and brandished home made signs. They shrieked and smiled and stood in puddles. They took photographs and sent text messages to everybody that they knew.
I tell you, this is the sort of thing that I love about living in Toronto. At any given moment in this city, you might stumble into some assembly of people sharing a passion.
The other week, having stepped out of Tim Horton’s, I suddenly found myself in the middle of 10, 000 people marching against the Israeli escalation in Gaza. I mean, I just wanted a donut, but suddenly, I was swept up in something intense and sincere and real, just as I was when I walked into the Taylor Swift throng.
I crossed the street into Starbucks, which was bursting at the seams with the overflow. Unaware of a universe beyond their dreams, the girls hogged all the tables. Seven of them would be nested around three tables, sharing one drink. They knocked over cups of coffee with their backpacks, shrieked at one another from across the shop and made plans to upload all of their photographs, likely 100’s, onto Facebook. Constantly ferrying themselves between the coffee shop and the street, the door was always swinging open, a cold rush of winter air and girlish screams blowing in. Oh, their eyes spun like pin wheels, and it was like they had never been more alive, for this was a day that would burn brightly in their hearts for decades.
At dusk, a white SUV with a miniature soccer ball dangling from the rearview mirror, pulled up in front of Starbucks. It was full of kids, and the mother at the wheel of the vehicle, had the biggest smile on her face. Three girls emerged from the doorway of the coffee shop. Stepping over the slushy snowbank, they got into the warm car. The mother drove off, shepherding them all safely home, where rich with the stories of the day, they would tell their parents of their adventures—the perfect end to a perfect day.