Dammit, I feel sad.

Gutted.

It’s so stupid I’m not even gone yet. But look at that water… look at the light dancing on that fucking water.

It’s beautiful.  It hurts my eyes and it’s just too beautiful not to look. I’m going to miss it so much.

I’m already missing it and I’m staring straight at it.

I don’t have to go.

It’s almost better here now anyway… now that you need a warm sweater in the morning, and you can't be sure you'll have the chance to take it off all day. But you might, you know? You might even get so hot that you get right into the water hoping for a second you can just dance across those waves yourself when that first cold shock hits your nervous system and slices up your body like a bolt of lightning.

Why do I have to go? I don’t want to go.

You're not even leaving yet. you are still here. Enjoy this you asshole! Stop being so wasteful! Drink it in. Breathe in that scent; breathe it in as deep as you can.

How am I ever going to breathe again back there? How do I survive in that stench? Smog and dust and the odour of a million bodies… a MILLION bodies! All sweating and farting and covered in cologne and drugstore body wash. It’s sick.

DON’T think about it, you aren't there yet. You are ruining this and you won't have it again for months.

I cannot believe I have to turn that key and not see this place again for month... MONTHS!

You can be sad later.  Just sit here in this chair, on this dock, jutting into this lake and BE here. Listen. That water, it’s the best sound in the world. Let it drown out the city and your thoughts. Let it lull you to sleep like a damn baby.  

I could capture this, record it so it's on hand when I can’t sleep, drown out all the traffic, all the static all that background noise. It won't sound as good though, too hollow, or fake like the CD at the massage place. Who decided a pan flute and a loon was such a breathtaking combination?

STOP THINKING! Just Stop, you are messing it all up!  Unclench your hands! You have one more day to enjoy this

And it's so fleeting, it’s flying away like those geese up there. Look at them, in perfect formation. Majestic. You're sitting here being depressed in the middle of a damn Hinterland’s Who’s Who commercial,  in the middle of Tom Thomson canvas. 

Maybe you could  come back up for Thanksgiving. Be gorgeous up here, all the leaves on fire, that sweet smell of decay and roasted bird. Could be amazing.... Except for the set up, and the clean up and that shitty traffic.  F'ing traffic!!! 


And tomorrow I’ll be sitting with all those other ex-pats of the forest making a 7-hour odyssey out of a two-hour trip, lining up for the privilege of taking a piss and eating a donut. 

It will be fine. You've got a full-on country breakfast lined up for tomorrow, bonfire and a few beers tonight. Gonna end it off with a bang, then wake up with a coffee in your college mug on the deck for a little nostalgia, it’ll be scenic as hell.

Remember to turn off the water for sure… and the base heaters, not be the dick that burns the whole place down.... I  could do it all now and be ready, just eat on the road, I'll be up at 5 anyway just to try and escape. Better not drink tonight then, tomorrow's going to be bad enough as it is.

So today’s what you've got, savour it. Look at this place, God’s country, and you've still got plenty of time.

… Fuck it. I’m shutting 'er down. If I leave in an hour or so I can be home by dinner. 

Digging around I found another old gem. You may be interested in my two cents on how social innovation can help reduce "brain waste" on the MaRS Discovery District blog:

http://www.marsdd.com/2012/07/03/reducing-canadas-brain-waste-requires-innovative-approaches-to-employment/

I have been rather remiss in updating this website while spending my time updating the sites of a few great organizations. I'll work on that.

In the meantime here's a link to a website detailing a rather cool project a worked on at the iSchool: www.criticalmaking.weebly.com 
/ 

To risk it all again was unthinkable, and inevitable. Because a man never feels more powerful, more God-like, than when actively destroying his own life.

The girl stands on the front porch of a fashionably ramshackle house in Riverside. She is ten years old. She looks younger from her stature, much older if you look in her face.

It’s early enough in the day that she can see the woman of the house through the kitchen window sipping on her morning coffee with her slippered feet up on the opposite chair.

She knows this woman. She knows of this woman. She wants to know the woman so she can learn to be a writer. So she knocks on the door.

The woman comes to the door. Through the keyhole she can see it is a child in a bright red rain slicker, though it isn’t raining. She is still too tired, to dazed by the process of waking up another day and suddenly too aware of the little bits of sleep scratching at the corners of her eyes to look much closer at the girl before opening the door.

She is staring at her daughter. But it is not her daughter. Her daughter is upstairs sleeping exhausted by all the efforts she pours in to being an angst-ridden seventeen year old. This is her daughter’s sister, her ex-husband’s child.  The one whose unexpected arrival led to the hasty dissolution of what had, up to that point, been a pretty satisfying marriage.

She is an unexpected Sunday morning guest. The woman suddenly feels very much older than her 45 years. Her had grabs the door and she is instinctively about to slam it shut when she remembers herself to be the kind of woman who doesn’t slam the door in faces of children dressed in red rain slickers.

The girl looks at her inquisitively for a few moments then abruptly sticks out her hand almost shouting. “I am Abigail Wilks. How do you do? You have a lovely home. May I come in?”

The woman smiles in spite of herself. Thinks on it a moment, just long enough to drain what’s left in her rapidly cooling coffee cup then replies. “And I am Cynthia Burrows. I know who you are. Are you here to see Lucy? She’s still asleep. She didn’t mention you were stopping by.”

The girl shakes her head and describes her intention. She wants to be a writer. She thinks she’d be really good at it. But she didn’t inherit any talent for it. Not a lick from either of her parents. But Lucy, and Matthew and Ben all got some. And it came from Cynthia, so they keep saying she can’t claim any of it. And she doesn’t think that’s fair. So if she can’t inherit it, she’s come to learn it. And she is hoping Cynthia will be able to teach her. 

Cynthia looks at the child carefully to see the hints of mockery or lunacy around the edges of this plea but can’t find any. Then she looks up and down the street and realized she can’t see of these talentless parents of Abigail’s either.

“How did you get here?” She asks.

“I took a cab.” Abigail answers.

“Your parents put you in a cab to my house?” Cynthia can’t believe it. Then she thinks a little bit on Thomas, something she almost never does anymore, and doesn’t completely rule it out of the realm of possibility.

“Oh no. They don’t know I’m here. I “googled” your address and came myself. My mom wouldn’t let me come here. She says that you think you are soooo much better than everybody else. No offence.”

Cynthia smiles again at this really weird little kid. “So you snuck out of your house to come here to ask me to teach you how to become a writer even though you think your mother will disapprove?”

“Yes. I know that people need to suffer for their art.”

“True.”

“Writing made Dorothy Parker suicidal.”

“Oh.”

 

“I love Dorothy Parker.”

 

“Huh.”

“So… will you teach me?”

 

Cynthia steps out of the doorway back into the house. “Come on in.”

Cupping his hand protectively around the flame he leans forwards to light his cigarette, drawing deeply to ensure enough tiny red embers to keep it going in the strong warm wind. He caresses the lighter, polishing the pewter with a slow rotation of his thumb. It’s a smooth, solid weight in the palm of his hand. Like a river stone. He squeezes it slightly as if resisting the urge to throw it into the water at the end of the dock and watch it skim daintily along the waves, white capped and rhythmic as they make there way to shore.

It’s a healing wind. Warming his cold hands as it brings to him the strong intoxicating scent from the wildflowers in the garden. Drying the small salt droplets that formed in the corners of his eyes when she let go of his hand to take hold of someone else’s. When she looked into his eyes and smiled, then kissed him goodbye.

             He doesn’t remember when she became a woman. He closes his eyes trying to recall when exactly she had grown into her big brown eyes and string bean limbs to and turned into such a stunning creature, the vision of her mother.

            He does remember much. He remembers that she loves sunflowers best and that she was never afraid to worm a hook, not even the first time.  That she has a tiny mole at the back of her knee. That her blood type is B+, the same as his. Oh God, and the time he spent in a hospital bed, needle strapped to his arm as they prepared for surgery after the crash.  And Gillian pacing so frantically in the hallway blaming herself for the bad turn and sure they’d lose her forever. But they didn’t.  Not then. Not now really. It just feels that way.

            He jumps as a door slams and he hears feet pattering down the driveway.  He turns expectantly, waiting for her to find him here, her tired and already lonely old man, waiting for one last chance to hug her goodbye when he sees her veer for the deck and pop into the house. He hears her voice calling out to the other love of his life. “It won’t be a honeymoon without a passport!” And watches her come back out into the garden victorious and exhilarated. She waves giddily before turning back to the car disappearing inside its tinted panes of glass.

            He watches until these is nothing left to see but the tracks left in the dirt country road. Then turns slowly back towards the sparkling waters, holding his face up to the sun.

Three inches. It’s the same three inches that have been making me feel inadequate for most of my adult life. No I’m not talking about my penis… I’m feeling just fine about that… and it does work, in case you were wondering. It’s amazing how many people don’t know that it can.

I’m talking about the three inches of dirty beige cement ready to bring me to my knees at every turn, every time I leave the house; the sidewalk curb.

That’s the thing in this wide, wheel-bound, world of mine that I just can’t get over… and not just literally, God I hate a pun.  It’s the thing I can’t accept, can’t forgive.  The thing that makes me so angry I’ll smash the side of my fist against the wheel frame. Why I swear in public, even if little kids are around. Why I’ll drink too much when I’m out with a client. It’s the reason why so many people think I’m an asshole. Those that don’t see the chair and just assume it’s because I’m mentally delayed.

I can’t walk. I get it. I can’t go up stairs. I can’t hop fences. I can’t climb mountains and I am a pain in everyone’s ass on the subway. I get all of that. I’m actually cool about all of that. Now. It’s fine. Short dudes can’t reach the top shelf at the grocery store either. Fatties have to wedge themselves between the hand rests at the movies. Everyone’s got problems.

But crossing the street? I should be able to do that. Losing that small privilege is something I haven’t been able to wrap my head around. Something I can’t let it go and don’t think I ever will. Because in a world where we can land scientists, and rich people, on the moon, why hell can’t I get across the street? Why, for the sake of a few damn inches do I always have to stop at the light, go the extra block over, wait. Why must I always suffer the indignity of telling other people to go on without me, that I’ll catch up. Resenting them if they leave me behind, resenting them more if they stay. Hating myself for once more being the special case, the problem, the accommodated.

I am a busy guy too. I have places to go too. I’ve go things to do, family obligations, no patience. I am just as willing to break the law and jaywalk as the rest of them. The flesh is just as weak and prone to temptation. But weak as it is, my flesh isn’t the problem. It never wa
It was my bones that were broken.  While you may have the innate sense that diving headfirst into a pool of water without checking the depth is a bad idea, I can confirm from experience that you are correct. They healed up nicely though. Unfortunately when they fractured they managed to pound the life out of a good chunk of my spinal cord. That’s the reason why I sit in this chair day in and day out. That’s the reason why I haven’t had an itchy ankle or foot cramp in six years.

But it’s not what I blame for having to wait here already late for my next meeting at this desolate street corner in the rain waiting for the light to change.  For this, I blame the city, and those people within it who have never even thought about how easy it is for them to access the freedoms allowed them in this place. How near impossible it is for others.

And I blame these three damn inches.  Just low enough to make me want to say screw it and give a run at it, and just high enough to ensure I’ll fail.  I know this for fact, because I’ve tried it; more than once.

But not since the day I hit hard enough to fall out of the chair onto the pavement. The day I lay there for seven excruciatingly long minutes before someone came to help me up, apologizing as they did it, never meeting my eye. The day my chair skittered back into the street and was nearly run over by a cab driver with a lead foot and little sympathy for the “cripple” that dented his fender. No, not since then.  But I’ve thought about it. Every day since then, everyday since I landed in this chair to begin with. A prisoner not of my body, or this chair, but of this town, all towns, held paralyzed by three damn inches.

She had become so fixated the knot in the centre of the interrogation room's scarred oak table that her whole body leaned into it like a tree in a wind storm.

So intent was her focus it seemed all consuming, causing the detectives to jump inside their sweat-soaked blazers as she snapped her head up to say, "You couldn't kill anyone wearing flip flops."

"Excuse me?" said the shorter of her two interrogators.

The good cop she assumed. An assumption based solely on the fact that he was the larger of the two men (his partner being a freakishly tall man who could not have weighed much more than she did). Blame Santa but she couldn't help but equate fat with jolly.

Though to be honest neither of them had been overly friendly towards her, not at all like on T.V. The heat in the station was making everybody cranky and on edge.

She turned her eyes towards them, trying to ignore the magnetic pull of the table knot, then silently stood up and began a slow march around the table. The detectives watched her in a silence broken only by the hum of the overhead fan and the sound her leather sandals made as the slapped against the heels of her feet.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. To a sum total of 32 thwacks before she was back at her chair, looking up at them expectantly. She was rewarded with more silence and a raised eyebrow from Detective Tall.

She was a bit surprised. These men were supposed to be cracker-jack crime fighters, but it appeared further explanation was in order.

"He was shot from behind, you said. At close range, you said. Well you can't just sneak up on someone if you are wearing flip flops. They are WAY too loud."

A full minute went by as the detectives looked at her, then at each other, then at whoever was behind the one-way mirror filling the back wall of the room.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Marshall. But I think we're having a misunderstanding here. We brought you up from the holding cell because you told us you had an alibi," said Detective Tall.

"Yes," she agreed.

"Ma'am, it's late and I'm tired, and frankly, I'm sweating like a pig. So maybe we you can just go on ahead and give it to us," said Santa Cop in a tone that made her think perhaps he wasn't the good cop after all.

"I just did."

"Ma'am?"

"My flip flops. I've been wearing them all day. Even at supper time when Ethan was shot. He was shot around supper time, you said."

Santa sat down at the table and ran his hands through his hair, then down along his pant legs to dry them off. She tried desperately not to look as disgusted as she felt.

"Ma'am, were you or were you not in your house around 5 O'clock?"

"No. I wasn't"

"You weren't?"

"No... I was in the garden."

"So when your husband was being shot in the den, you were not in the house but directly behind the house. Is there anyone besides you and your dead husband to attest to the fact that you were not the one doing the shooting?"

"But it couldn't have been me! You heard the noise these shoes made. How could you kill anyone in shoes like these? Especially someone like Ethan, who everyone knows could hear a tap dripping from four rooms away?"

"So ma'am what you are telling me is that in fact you do not have an alibi. You have a dead husband, a murder weapon in your car, and million dollar life insurance claim to send off. But you do not have an alibi," said Santa, becoming Grinch-ier by the minute.

"Well it's an excuse then, whatever," she said allowing some annoyance to creep into her finishing-school perfected voice.

"And this "excuse" is the audible volume of a pair of sandals you may or may not have been wearing at 5 o'clock today? I have that right," he said leaning across the table.

For a wild minute she thought he might be sucked into the vortex at the centre of the table knot. But looking at him stuffed into his large rayon suit she knew it would taking quite a lot of sucking on the part of the vortex to accomplish that feat. So she was forced to rebut.

"Of course I was wearing them then! I've still got them on haven't I?" she said, now using the frosty tone usually reserved for her housekeeper and nanny.

From the corner of the room Detective Tall made a gesture into the mirror and walked over to the table.

"O.K. Well I think we are about done here Mrs. Marshall. We're sending someone in to take you back to holding."

"Holding? You mean you're keeping me here?" she said looking confused. What part of this were they missing? She tried one more time to explain.

"You just wouldn't kill your husband wearing flip flops. Barefoot surely, in trainers or even stilettos if you were a little kinky, but you just cannot kill a man wearing flip flops!"

"Be that as it may Ms. Marshall, if I were you I'd seriously start thinking about a meeting with my lawyer," he said opening the door for a uniformed guard who took her arm in his clammy hand and helped her to her feet.

"Oh this is just ridiculous!" she snapped as she was turned towards the door.

"Well ridiculous or not, I'm thinking you might be getting a little scared just about now," he said, a small smile playing on his lips as she was led out of the room.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

"The innocent have no fear detective."

Thwack.

"Nor do the pathological Mrs. Marshall."