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Tuesday, September 28, 2004

wake up to a brand new you!

I woke up this morning and the interminable dark clouds over my head had lifted. At one in the morning a caring email, one in response to my woes, sent me to tears. I forget how publicly I am displaying my pain. But I was able to sleep after. I went to bed my heart still heavy, and woke up feeling lighter.

After a six hour journalism class I took off walking. Walking is my therapy, my escape. I walk my sins away. I walked far down Bloor Street into the university district. This part is eye candy to me, I felt at ease and strangely at home. Organic food stores, small delis, small hippy shops and the autumn air all felt so right. I went into Honest Ed's, a large discount store with over the top theatric lighting covering the building, large bargain signs scrawled in retro print standing in the windows. Something about this store puts me at ease. Maybe it's the prices I can afford, or maybe it's the thought of my dad shopping in this very store in the 70s: shaggy haired and buying a dress shirt for a dollar, trying his best to impress his new mistress (my mother).

On the way home I walked through the University of Toronto grounds. These grounds stretch for miles, with huge ancient buildings, ivy crawling up their sides. It was beautiful and impressive, but also made me appreciate Ryerson. Our close knit school is much less overwhelming, less intimidating; more humble in many ways. I like having the woman in the cafeteria remember me. I like having the two ladies who make waffles thank me for coming back. I like recognizing people and knowing most of my surroundings. I wouldn't mind a big old building with ivy up the sides, but I'm happy with this school.

A UFT student walked part way home with me. He said he thought I might be a girl from his class. Excuse to pick up a girl or not, I love sporadic conversations with strangers, and we walked until we went off in our own directions. I walked home a different way and found a little neighborhood seconds away from my residence. Small streets were laced with small simple homes and old brick building style apartments, the kind you find in New York. In Ireland they're similar, but always more generic and gloomy looking. Most of these had their own character, painted in different colors, some old, some new. At one apartment a young man sat on the steps staring into space. At a house on the corner a girl complained loudly on her phone while she standing on her porch. The area felt young and at ease.

I'm glad to have regained my inspiration. I see a lot of possibility in this city. Every street is waiting for me to walk down. Every face has a story I might get to tell. And I have myself. I can go anywhere from here.


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