Transistor of Time

“What the Hell?”, she thought to herself. “After all of these years, he hasn’t aged a day!”. Anka thought she was in a dream or time-warp having seen former lover with all the glorious memories that come with seeing someone we have previously loved – still love? This must be one of those waking day dreams brought on by being back in a familiar place after being absent for so long. The rush of memories from the tune of the subway warning bells, the smell of crisp winter air off of the lakeshore. She had met him at the same subway stop almost a half-century ago, and here this character was jiving to the same old beat, playing the same jazzed-up melody wearing anachronistic clothing. Since their brief but passionate romance she had traveled the world as a cosmopolitan citizen; achieved, accomplished, and experienced more in life than most could fathom in an imperfect world. Had the privilege to meet, greet, have brunch with, share stories with, some of the brightest souls and greatest minds ever to exist since the golden age modernity. Climbed mountains, crossed behemoth bridges, viewed fine art from Antiquity to the Renaissance to the pissant Impressionists to postmodern hipsters embracing minimalist kitsch avant-garde macaroni arts and crafts. Used the shitter at the most suave museums, sampled exotic cuisine and lost delicacies, swam with wild adventurous loving dolphins, saved the elephants from extinction, taught guerrillas how to fight against poachers; experienced the best that life has to offer. And he was still humbly but merrily busking at the St George interchange terminal with his bass clarinet. Only now there were break dancers on hover mats and the performance included an impromptu ensemble of make-shift instruments; bucket drums, oldschool digital-vinyl turntables, a chocolate saxophone, a kazoo, etc. “Huh, not a single grey hair!”, she thought begrudgingly with perplexity. In comparison to her self-conceptualized image herself he actually seemed somehow younger than she remembered but our memories are good at playing tricks on us depending on our mindsets. “How can this be? It must be his son.”. Was the thought from the rational centres of her mind. There he was all scruffy faced and greezy haired, the free spirited hippie she fell for a whole lifetime ago. He was playing the same riff that caught her attention decades ago when she still danced like nobody was looking but new everyone was because who would deny themselves a glimpse at such a beauty. She started to feel queasy, that youthful zest we lose after life sends us a curve ball, the tragic ironies that help us grow and be stronger for out next challenge conquering the unspoken fears of #terraincoganita hoping not to drown if we venture to close to the river of solipsism and get lost in the ocean of unspeakable delight. We all drink the same sacred water that once was the ectoplasma of the dinosaurs and fertilized the frog and fish eggs. All of a sudden the background clamour all the surrounding pedestrians became silent as a harmonica swiveled on a C# note, the ‘contredanse’ of the bustling people continued but she was frozen in time as she was now a few steps closer and could see the birthmark and scar. No natural creature passes down such markings to its offspring, even if he was a clone or imperfect replicant of what she had presumed was a man. “He was certainly a man by anatomical definition”, her inner commentary read aloud in soliloquy in the empty stage of her mind as she took a deep breathe remembering how he had comforted her with platonic companionship. She was now in a quiet duress in contrite contemplation of existential philosophy of reality. Had she just dreampt all of those glorious memories. She was now in tears and quivering as she seen what looked like a young lady with similar aesthetics as her younger self when she was in her prime scholarly years jiving to the music of life*. She tried to pinch herself to wake-up from the anomaly that was her guardian angle teasing her. Would you trade it all for one true love, or bask into the comfort of taking the path most choose to travel? She had the decision to relive that love affair or continue on in solemn resolution that we only live once and having the knowledge from the countless cultures she had encountered her intuition wasn’t all to curious of the idea of shifting time&space just for another chance to be young foolish and in love once again because at any age we can embrace whatever will make our hearts content and it is always wise to choose a new beginning without toying with the Fates.

Besides she didn’t feel like tasting his halitosis once again.

[Literature / Prose / Flash Fiction / Romance / General / Short Stories]


[commentary: This is from my old writing blog. It’s a second draft. I got the idea for this from one of those fleeting moments. A granny at the bus terminal gave me vague look of spooked familiarity. The setting is Toronto. I miss taking day trips there and wondering around.

The characters name was a tribute to Anka, Paul Albert – Canadian singer and song writer.]

A funny thing happened while walking home from decorum

While on my morning walk. This time from a friends after watching the winning Toronto Raptors NBA game (they are now eastern conference winners and have made it to championship tournament). I experienced the earthy tones of recent rain storms dissipating unto the mild humidity.

With fresh hints lilac.

Which I followed my nose to the blossoming scent of beauty. I hope the property owner is forgiving of foraging urban hikers. (I took a branch to enjoy the smell for the rest of my walk home)

I got a McCoffee and free newspaper. A special edition of the recent win.

Noticed a security guard doing their job likely politely asking loitering vagrant on undisclosed corporate property to vacate the premises. Of course this jovial bloke was a tad grouchy for being woken up from their slumber. Echoing explicit mutters of discontent which muddled my peaceful morning trek.

I don’t understand why people would choose to slumber on the doorstep of a bank. There is a greenspace maybe twenty yards away. Not that I’m for non-permitted urban camping (hobo encampments). However, I haven’t had the misfortune of not having a pot to piss in.

Thank goodness my many irresponsibilities as a millennial adult have not lead my down that road (yet?). I have been known on occasion while returning from a night of over-consumption/indulgence of intoxicating nectar decided to slumber beside train-tracks or other off-the-main road/path (greenspaces). If only to avoid a potential confrontation from my vivid imagination. (I’ve been ‘jumped’ before and have since decided against walking around alone after dark)

Maybe the solution is creating affordable housing with locally sourced recycled materials?

Maybe some people choose the lifestyle and thrive in degenerate behavior which leaves them at the short end of the stick?

Maybe this message will self-destructive?