There's only one way, one way...
I’m sitting in the Starbucks near Queen’s Park Tube. I have a large mug of Caffé Mocha beside me and Kevin is drinking regular coffee. A song is playing – a country cover of Nico’s “These Days”. Sometimes, it’s ok to like country music. Kevin is showing me a panel in Bosch’s painting “Flight and Fall of St. Anthony.” He loves Bosch. I suddenly feel self-conscious writing in this notepad I borrowed from Kevin (I was going to bring my notebook but then decided not to; I regretted my decision while waiting for my coffee.)
“The Neverending Story” is playing on television this afternoon. I cried when I saw this movie for the first time (as a 10 year old) and the horse died. Children and horses are spiritually linked. Most great western painters had a childhood fascination with horses. I made that up but I feel that it’s true. There aren’t many people in this Starbucks.
If everyone in this coffee shop were writing into diaries and notebooks, I’d think we were a bunch of pretentious arseholes. A woman, sitting by herself directly in front of me, keeps looking at our table. She wonders whether I’m writing a letter, a novel, or a shopping list. There’s a black SUV parked outside. I hate SUV drivers for no reason at all. Dear God, Rod Stewart is now on the speakers. My mom loves Rod Stewart’s music.
My Caffé Mocha isn’t tasting so nice anymore. It’s sludgy and bittersweet. When I think the weekend is coming to an end, I get knots in my stomach. Kevin suggested I find a career councillor. I think that’s a brilliant idea. Marylin Manson was a journalist by the age of 19; I hadn’t done much by the time my 20s had come around.
I live in a yuppie neighbourhood. A lot of fashion victims, a lot of Gap. But also a lot of drunks sitting at the bus stop all day and ponytails pulling faces out of pink tracksuits. Going to Queen’s Park is like witnessing the sonorous clang of a gigantic biological clock: children everywhere, babies being cradled, couples lost in their cravings to reproduce. Makes me want to adopt children. I’d have fun being a father, taking my kid to the park, the beach, the toy store. Kevin is ambivalent about adopting children. He’d rather have a pug.
“The Neverending Story” is playing on television this afternoon. I cried when I saw this movie for the first time (as a 10 year old) and the horse died. Children and horses are spiritually linked. Most great western painters had a childhood fascination with horses. I made that up but I feel that it’s true. There aren’t many people in this Starbucks.
If everyone in this coffee shop were writing into diaries and notebooks, I’d think we were a bunch of pretentious arseholes. A woman, sitting by herself directly in front of me, keeps looking at our table. She wonders whether I’m writing a letter, a novel, or a shopping list. There’s a black SUV parked outside. I hate SUV drivers for no reason at all. Dear God, Rod Stewart is now on the speakers. My mom loves Rod Stewart’s music.
My Caffé Mocha isn’t tasting so nice anymore. It’s sludgy and bittersweet. When I think the weekend is coming to an end, I get knots in my stomach. Kevin suggested I find a career councillor. I think that’s a brilliant idea. Marylin Manson was a journalist by the age of 19; I hadn’t done much by the time my 20s had come around.
I live in a yuppie neighbourhood. A lot of fashion victims, a lot of Gap. But also a lot of drunks sitting at the bus stop all day and ponytails pulling faces out of pink tracksuits. Going to Queen’s Park is like witnessing the sonorous clang of a gigantic biological clock: children everywhere, babies being cradled, couples lost in their cravings to reproduce. Makes me want to adopt children. I’d have fun being a father, taking my kid to the park, the beach, the toy store. Kevin is ambivalent about adopting children. He’d rather have a pug.