Such doom and gloom to be found on the internet about the future of reading, of fiction, of books. And yet. The window washer tells me he likes to read non-fiction, and rattles off a list of recent reads. Biographies of sports celebs, politicians, people’s experience of war. Nothing unusual in this except that he reads at the end of a fourteen-hour working day, or on a rare day off. He works long hours to get by, and when he isn’t working, his favourite thing to do is read.

This morning, after I witnessed an exchange of goods between vendors, the vegetable vendor told me that this job feeds him, and is much needed, as he is a student. There was a pause while I speculated: student of acting, agriculture, assets? “Of what,” I asked.
“I like that,” I said, “the market vendor philosopher.” He looked dismayed. I guess I should have said, “the philosopher market vendor.” Or maybe the problem is with the words “market vendor.” There is probably a jazzier English version for guys who sell stuff at the market. Marketeer?

The Fencer and The Boxer

There’s a pay and display stand in the park parking lot. And it seems to suit the height of nobody. The more elegant man stands with one foot forward, knee slightly bent, arm extended as if he were holding a sword, fingertip stretching for the buttons. More typical is the boxer, who stands with legs apart, knees bent, shoulders thrown back, and from this position positively punches the machine. Thumb punches. The third sort I’ve spied is the lover, the man who embraces the machine with an arm resting atop it while swaying his body out and away so that his face leans into it. An aggressive embrace that ends only when the machine spits out the required ticket.

At least none of them have a purse to ponder. The women also display three poses. The ballet dancer, who simply bends her knees, lowering her torso while keeping her posture straight. The twerker, who thrusts out her behind while leaning her torso forward for an intimate moment with the machine, haunches twitching impatiently. Finally, the yoga balance, the woman whose back is plank straight, and whose purse dangles beneath her chest, a swaying temptation.

Cruella Deville

The half hour before the park closes. Nearly empty of people. At the outdoor cafe, a streetperson, dressed in black, zipping his black bag. The white police van slowly making its way to the far gate. Lovers oblivious to time. Dogs leashed and led away. Peacocks parading loose, the males in full colour. Yesterday one fanned his plummage; white fluffy feathers behind the fan pulsated with the wings’ movement. Emerald and turquoise rainbow. Peahens partied in the children’s playground, swooping from structures.
Daffodils fade in meadows and on banks. Primulas and tulips share beds. Almond and cherry blossoms and others nameless to me cloud the air. Looking up causes me to walk into a congregation of bugs and take one in the eye — midges? gnats? There is probably a word for evening flies. A dog barking behind a tree-bush draws my attention. From the space behind the big bush comes a man walking quickly, not looking back. Then a man’s voice behind the bush, deep, trying to shush the dog, and then saying to it, “Go. Go. Go!” Deep angry voice, I think. The second man emerges with a ball launcher in hand, the dog running ahead to play ball. He too is in a hurry, taking long strides away.
His anger at the dog reminds me of the woman earlier this week, whose dog escaped her attention, ran down the length of the leash-free area to the park entrance, where someone had tipped out a sackful of stale bread. Supposedly pigeon food. The black lab gorged itself frantically. The owner came running. Abandoning the bread, the dog, as best a dog can with its tail between its legs, ran to her. With her open palm she whacked it on the side of the head. It flattened itself to the ground. She then beat it on its ribs with the flat plastic case of the extension lead. Meanwhile, three teen schoolgirls watched from a bench, sandwiches in hand. The middle and tallest girl said, “She hit her dog!” And then, “Oi! Stop beating your fucking dog.” And then, “Leave your fucking dog alone!” The woman, who had been silent throughout, straightened and walked up the path, posture perfect, away from the girls. The dog on its leash behind her. Although I was shocked by the violence of the dog-owner’s retribution, I recognized the look on her face. It reminded me of me, when I have to jerk the leash to yank the dog away from what she considers street food and what I consider to be possibly poisoned probably rotten and definitely going to cause a mess for me to clean up. A look that says, I wish I didn’t have to, it’s complicated, you don’t understand, I am not Cruella Deville.

Unfurling Spring

Is it hunger that makes me see magnolia blossoms as semi-stirred cherry yoghurt, and pink almond blossoms as candy floss? And what’s this ahead, forcing us to cross the road? A group of middle-aged people are gathered on the sidewalk in front of a building under scaffolding. (Construction carries on through the winter here.) Short bearded men stand with women in dark jackets. Just as I am wondering if they are post-renovation buyers, I recognize that red brick, and just as I say to myself, Hey, that’s Radclyffe Hall’s house, what are they doing to it…, I hear the tour guide say, “She was one of a group of upper-class lesbians.” Pause over the British propensity for class classification. Proof of spring: tourists in this quiet street on a week day.

The sun in the park brings flies to the dog’s coat and bees to the buds and blossoms on trees. There is a haze in the air, of cool and warm meeting in a wet kiss flavoured by the airborne dust of leaf and grass from the tractor mower. Ahead, an alley of trees bright with leaves about to unfurl. Green miasma, I think of this visual haze, but my dictionary confounds me.

Two men approach me jogging fast (or running — at what speed does one become the other?), both wearing a white t-shirt and navy shorts. Bright white in spring sun. One is a head taller than the other, and giraffe bony. The taller of the two sweats more profusely. His run is awkward and in his awkwardness seems to run faster. As if his feet are too far away for him to fully control. The shorter man jog-runs easily, barely sweating. The taller man talks, using an English I don’t understand. I pick out: marketing, contract, go forward. The shorter man listens and does not speak. The taller man’s face is loose, his jaw flopping out his words, while the other’s is tight, a nose-breather, his eyes on the ground ahead of him. He listens and does not speak or nod, his face expressionless. They pass, misting my air with their sweat. Looking back at them, I see that the taller man has black panels on the sides of his t-shirt, under his armpits and along his ribs, making him look thinner from a front or back view. Not identical tees, thus not company outfits. The taller man leans his head down to talk to his mate, angling his shoulders, speaking confidently, confidingly. The silent reception of his words bothers me. Don’t trust him, I want to shout to the tall man. His confidences flow as easily as his sweat. He needs a towel to mop it up, to stop his mouth.
I walk on, consoling myself with the thought that the shorter man may be finding it hard to keep up with the long legs. He may seem tight, locked, he may be silent because he can’t talk and breathe. Or he doesn’t want to inhale the miasma coming off the taller man. Miasma: an infectious or noxious vapour, esp. from putrescent organic matter, which pollutes the atmosphere; a polluting, oppressive or foreboding atmosphere or influence.
Pronounce as: me-asthma (if you don’t say the “th”).

-Thursday 13 March

Mud and Fashion

In the field that was a pond two weeks ago, two boys play football (soccer to Canadians). The blonde one slides on the mud, falls onto his back. He laughs and rolls from side to side in the mud, swishing his arms. Like a child making snow angels. Like the dog scratching her back in the grass. His mate watches, bending at the belly to better laugh. I watch, wondering what kind of yellow his jersey is. Mango yellow? Mustard, marigold? When he stands up and hand-shakes his shirt, still laughing, I see the mud is most dense at his spine, emanates from there. Sunflower yellow, and the mud the colour of the sunflower’s seedy centre. I leave the two boys to their play. As I turn away, I see a wistful smile on the face of a passing young man — 20s? 30s? — who watches the still laughing boys. His open navy trenchcoat frames his navy suit. Although his black shoes click with the swiftness of a busy man, his coat does not flap against him or float behind him because the style in trenches this year is knee-length and tight-fitting. Quite unlike the mud spattered loose jersey.


Out in the rain running errands, I pass a street person shivering in grey sweats, his palms pressed between his knees. I go into the Starbucks next door and buy a big cup of tea, lash it liberally with milk and sugar, and take it out to him. I proffer him the cup. He shakes his head No.

“I don’t drink that,” he says.

Uncertain if he means beverages of that brand or if he thinks it is coffee, I say, “It’s not coffee, it’s tea.” I don’t unbend or retract the cup.
He again shakes his head No. “I don’t drink it.”
Finally, I put the cup down beside him. I say, “Just hold it. It’ll warm up your hands.” He doesn’t move. “Seriously, warm your hands.”
He withdraws one hand from between his knees and feels the cup.
I leave wondering if he doesn’t drink tea or coffee so he doesn’t have to get up to pee, or if he thinks I’ve poisoned him, or offered him the dregs of my own drink, or if he just wants to make the point that he’d rather choose how I spend my money. Or that a big cup of tea will slow him down if he has to move away from the two cops nearby. Or he just doesn’t like Starbucks. His No reminds me of how little I know or understand about the world around me.
When I come to the guy selling The Big Issue, I regret the unwanted tea, shrug and say, “Sorry, no change.”