I'm feeling
a little flat this morning. As I open my eyes to the day, I immediately notice
a compressed, two dimensional appearance to the bedroom. My bed faces a
mirrored closet, and as I sit up to look into it, I see a cartoonish world
reflected back... thick black lines outlining the edges of everything,
including me; vibrant colour all over what is normally a neutrally toned room.
I'm peach coloured with yellow hair, sky blue eyes, and strawberry candy pink
lips. As I get out of bed, the polka dot pattern on my pyjamas doesn't fold and
move the way it should; it kind of just stays put, despite my movements. This
is going to be a weird day.
To be
honest, I'm craving a bit of weirdness, since moving house a little over a month
ago. I've traded the colourful idiosyncrasy of city life for the comfortable homogeneity of the suburbs. I've
adapted spectacularly well, which is something I didn't expect. I grieved
deeply the morning we relocated our belongings from the 416 to the 905. Now
that I'm here, I'm relishing the comfort, cocooning myself in the house when
I'm not at work.
But I've
got some errands to run today, and I'm curious how the world outside looks in
cartoon format, so I ready myself to go out. Hilariously, when I open my closet
I see that hanging inside it is not my normal selection of clothing, but the
same outfit on every hanger. My cartoon uniform... you know, the outfit that
cartoon characters never change out of? Shaggy's green shirt and brown cords...
Lisa Simpson's red dress and pearls... April O'Neil's yellow jumpsuit thing...
you get the idea. The fact that I don't even get to pick mine is a bit
frustrating, if kind of telling. So I dress myself in rolled up blue jeans, a
black tunic, a brightly coloured beaded necklace, a pair of mary janes, and of
course my tortoiseshell glasses, which are apparently so deeply apart of my actual
persona that I actually woke up wearing them.
Wanting to
be in the house for not a minute longer, I swoop down the stairs and exit
hastily via the front door. Alighting on the front porch, I stop for a moment
to survey my street. Yes, it looks the same, except in cartoon format. There is
a kid, a boy of about 8 years old, swinging on the tree swing in my yard, just
like any normal day. I wonder if the kid is seeing everything this way too? I
decide not to ask, just in case he thinks I'm crazy and tells the other
neighbourhood kids and then they egg the house on Hallowe'en.
Before fully
embarking upon my errands, I decide to go to the Italian bakery up on the
corner and get a coffee to put into me. I live in a distinctly Italian
neighbourhood now, which pleases me. I grew up with Italians, back in my
hometown, and I find them comforting, friendly, wholesome. Maybe a bit too
wholesome. The Roman Catholic church on the opposite corner is a reminder of
this. Families dressed in their Sunday best file in to the church like the
dutiful, fearful Christians that they are. Hate to remind them what they had to
do to make those beautiful, shining babies in their arms.
In true
cartoon fashion, the sun shines yellowly over the church, with sweetly singing
blue birds swooping above, while a dark
thundercloud forms over my head and the rain begins pouring down on me, my own
personal lightning bolt zapping me over and over as I wait to cross the street.
Even in the cartoon version of the world, I am judged. The light turns green
and I dash across into the bakery. Unfortunately, the rain cloud follows me in,
and a bakery employee tells me "you can't come in here with that". I make a deal with the cloud - it can wait for
me outside if it just lets me get a coffee first. It agrees, and floats out the
open window.
The bakery
smells divine. I get into the queue - probably for the first time in my life
I'm more than happy to wait in line for something. Looking around me, I see
that the bakery is filled with people wearing what I've learned is the local
uniform - the young men in sweat pants, t-shirts, gold chains, and addidas; the
old men in dress pants, undershirts, and socks with plastic sandals; the young
women with big hair, giant hoop earrings, bold makeup, high heels, short
jackets, and yoga pants... just like the
old women. These are my neighbours.
I get my
coffee. It smells good but looks like a hopeless brown liquid here in
cartoonland. I take a sip and it burns my mouth. I blow the inky black steam
swirls away and enjoy the next sip. I was hoping to spend a few minutes sitting
down with it, but the tables are full. Back outside I go, with my own personal
raincloud waiting for me like a loyal puppy.
I've had
quite enough of this nonsense. I shake my fist at the rain cloud, spilling hot
coffee everywhere. Miraculously, the cloud dissipates, and I can finally enjoy
my morning errand stroll. Except fuck errands. I need to get out of the 'burbs
and take a visit to the city, where I belong. Luckily, a zone-crossing bus is
pulling up behind me, so I board it with the relief that I will soon be back in
my old neighbourhood, flipping through records in the shops, among the other
city dwellers.
As the bus
zooms toward the 416, I take notice of the suburban environment. It's totally
devoid of any character. The restaurants don't serve food I want to eat. The
shops don't sell things I want to buy. It's a total clash of values. I don't belong here at all. Why, oh why have I
moved out here? Sigh... the things you do for love.
The city
isn't perfect - it's expensive and crowded and you can never get ahead. But
when you're there, you know that. You accept it. Everyone is in the same boat.
How do you describe that feeling of being out on your own downtown and yet
feeling like you are a part of something great, surrounded by strangers who are
like friends, friends who are like strangers...? It's a whole other different
kind of comfort, being alone amongst the many.
Finally, I
arrive downtown at my favourite record store and begin flipping through the
racks. I like the record store in cartoon format. It's like art on steroids.
Already so vibrant in the real world, the cartoon version of the record store
is a feast for the eyes, not just the ears. Like a bitmap image that has been
converted to a vector, the depth is lost, and yet somehow the truth is
revealed.
Out of the
corner of my eye I spot a friend I haven't seen in ages. Our friendship goes
back a long time, and there is every reason to suspect that seizing this moment
to say hello will bring hugs and laughter and perhaps a fun-filled day of
shenanigans in the city. But something is holding me back. I can't tell if he's
seen me, and I am suddenly hesitant to interrupt him. Then he looks up, right
at me. There we are, looking at each other, knowing full well that we have
about 10 seconds to say something before we officially become strangers ...9...
8...
Let him
confirm that he sees me.
7...6...
Okay, well
maybe just move one aisle closer.
5...4...
He's coming
over. We're still friends. Yay!
3...2...1...
And he just
walks right past me, out the door.
Damn. That
smarts. But maybe I should have expected it. I remember telling him a while
back that I was moving out of the city and he seemed sort of... well... done
with me. Those words were never said, but I had definitely picked up a
"nice knowing you" vibe. Maybe he took it personally. Or maybe we've
just outgrown each other.
Sadly, my
return to the city hasn't turned out to be all that I hoped it would be. I
remember it so differently. I desperately want to feel the way it used to make
me feel. But maybe it's true what they say. Maybe you can never really go back.
And maybe I never really understood the whole "home is where your heart
is" thing until now. At the moment, my heart is broken, and home is where
my stuff is. And I kind of miss my stuff.
*****
This album
didn't really take me on fantastic voyage (ha, see what I did there?), but that
doesn't mean I disliked listening to it. Strangely, the album kept me in the
present as it sort of relates to current events in my life, if a little
abstractly. This album serves as a soundtrack to the BBC 4-part television
series The Buddha of Suburbia, which is based on the book by Hanif Kureishi. My
life in no way resembles that of the main character, but that's the cool thing
about art. The creator could have completely different thoughts, ideas,
intentions while making it, but you get to take from it whatever you want,
relate to it however you can.
Having said
that, I didn't write this in such a way that the songs directly relate to the
story. Instead, this was inspired by the overall feeling and messages received
from the album as a whole. Yeah, I've just moved from the city to the suburbs,
a move with which I'm struggling on the inside. Though geographically speaking
I'm only a few streets north of the city I love, the feeling of having turned
my back on it, of having left my friends behind, and of having relinquished a
way of life that I cherish is a lot like walking around with a dark cloud over
my head. Everything in my new neighbourhood feels flat, shallow, and deceptive.
Is it all bad? Of course not. But within me, there is a great resistance to
getting used to it. My values are under attack, and I'd like to think that I
would stand and defend them, if I wasn't so damn comfy.
Obviously,
this is a ponderous time for me, and I can't even begin to guess what my perceptions
will be one year from now. I will say that it's been lovely listening to an
album that feels like it was written for me at this very moment in time, even
if in reality that is not even remotely true. One thing is for certain: The Buddha
of Suburbia is going to bookmark this time in my mind forever.
No comments:
Post a Comment