postcard to toronto II
Dear Toronto,
I feel like I never write home anymore and it’s because there’s too little to go around and at the same time too much: did you hear me gasp as I stepped into the ocean this morning at 11:11, barely able to assimilate the empty shoreline, the early-spring sun, the happiness of life?
A second failed trip to the DMV isn’t failure because I kinda don’t believe in that anymore. There are just events; there are points on a line where you start out driving your car in the sunshine listening to the same three songs for forty minutes over and over, realize you forgot your passport, and find yourself standing in the middle of Astroland abandoned. I’d say I was happier than I have ever been except I kind of feel that way every day.
Peeling paint, rusty fences, sand in my shoes, hot dog stands and shooting galleries shuttered, a cat living in a skee-ball game. I feel like every day is an endless string of tiny miracles, and the way the light shines on things here just blows me away. I can be awake three hours and see enough amazing things and be brimming with enough love to overflow weeks: it is no small wonder I am too tired to do my taxes or listen to voicemail. I love and miss you all. When I come let’s just go to the beach, okay?