(last entry from the old journal)
I’m on a Wilson bus — headed west from Avenue rd. to Wilson station, where I’ll board a ‘120 Calvington’ and go pick up a Fender Jazz Bass I learned about through a Kijiji ad. I walked north on Avenue rd. after finally reclaiming one of my Hard Drives I left at a small computer repair shop located right beside my old studio (at the corner of Avenue rd/Fairlawn ave). After 5+ years of living/working/playing there, I left in late 2009 and haven’t been back since.
Wow — thoughts and emotions are on the move; I just mentioned to someone close to me via BBM (Blackberry messaging) that a “soft stirring” had come over me. Nostalgic feelings — the people and places that were set in to play shortly after I began this book in the mid/late summer of 2004. How appropriate to close out on, being that I’m down to my last page or two??
Timing is, indeed, everything, and the ghosts that were awakened pose no threat — all things are safely put to rest in the past with regard to that period during which I called that spot “home”… Still… interesting responses circulating within…
(pause to exit bus)
Sitting on a bench outside at Wilson station — the sun is shining strongly; brightly — feels like April as I wait for the ‘120 Calvington’. I remember being at this station back in the summer of ’04, during a brief stint at a dubious window manufacturing company, but the reason is lost on me now.
And so it’s with a combined sense of nostalgia/deja vu/wonder that I approach — after 6.5 years — the closing of this book, and I could not have — sentimentally speaking — orchestrated a better “send off”:
“Farewell, early/mid 2000s to decade 2 of the 21st century — thank you for the ride; at times bumpy and turbulent; painful and sweet — unbearable and unforgettable… and still mysterious.”
Nearing my exit point, I look around and notice the hooligans and usual characters surrounding me as the bus snakes through one of my least favourite neighbourhoods in Toronto — Downsview and its awful extensions (Rexdale, Humber, etc.). Even so, the sense that no matter how much change we encounter, some things remain the same, is pervasive. And oddly comforting.
After all, how far have I come? How deep, dangerous, exciting, and ultimately redeeming has the trip that this book (partially) chronicles actually been? I’m in many ways an entirely different person than he who purchased this collection of blank pages one hot July afternoon in 2004; in others, still right here. This is the paradox I feel my creative expression is “tuned in to”, and with that awareness, a new book begins in the very near future…
(break @ 3:38pm to acquire Bass)
(resume @ 4:11pm — final entry)
…some endings can be laced with poignant profundity.
Bass in hand, I’m back on the 120 — same driver who dropped me off 35 minutes ago. Skimming through the pages, I do believe I’ve arrived at what is FINALLY the LAST BLANK SPACE I can possibly fill before closing this little friend of mine for good. An odd sense of sadness seems to loom — almost disbelief — yet I’ve learned over the past few years that very few things end in a spectacular or trumped up manner. In fact, most endings are unexpected and anticlimactic. This one is a bit of everything, so that’s worthwhile.
NOTE: I just looked up “randomly” and the bus is passing the (somewhat remote) cemetery where an old friend (Rebecca H.) lies. The last time I recall seeing it was Nov 11 1999. Remembrance Day.
I’ll never forget.
Apparently, in addition to anticlimactic or unexpected, some endings can be laced with poignant profundity.
Goodbye…
(close @4:17pm)
Jon Mychal / Toronto — Feb 18 2011
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