April 2017 in Metaphors

Metaphors are my favourite. They have literally always been my favourite. They're better than similes because they're more succinct and thus, more poetic, more subtle. Stephen King would probably agree with me. I have nothing to base this on, I just think he would.

Anyway.

I remember being a teenager and thinking of metaphors for everything. Nothing was only what it was. This was true of everything, not just important things or amazing things. This day is a turtle. This science class is a yawning, endless abysm. This spaghetti is a lot of worms. I was a great teenager.

I've sat down to blog about April 2017 probably 200 times since the month began.

The problem is that every stinking time I sit down to write about one thing, something else happens. I cant keep up enough to actually document everything, so I'm going to channel my 17-year-old self and describe the month to you in metaphors instead. I suppose this could constitute vague-blogging, but that term is stupid. No one ever accuses musicians of 'vague-songwriting.' Like, Conor Oberst is over there singing, "Just lately I've been feeling like I don't belong/Like the ground's not mine to walk upon," and no one's mad. No one's like, "WHAT HAPPENED, CONOR? WHAT'S WRONG? SOUNDS LIKE SOMETHING'S UP?"

Sometimes you just want to be melodramatic about a really long, boring science class, you know? I'm pretty sure that's what most of Oberst's songs are referring to. I get him.

Okay. April 2017:

1. April 2017 is a clown car: at first sight, it looks short and compact, but then more and more things keep coming out of it. And as it draws to a close, you think, okay, this is the last clown, and then it's not. It's not the second-last clown or even the third-last. It is, at this point, comical how many clowns fit in this calendar. I mean car.

2. April 2017 is a flavourful sandwich with ghost peppers and bird poop hidden throughout. Think the best sandwich ever (Schwartz's or Italian Star Deli), except every few bites unexpectedly burns your tongue to a stump in your mouth or is unexpectedly disgusting. But also there's jalapeños in there, and they're the great kind of spicy. As a whole: delicious, yet terrifying and at points very awful. But you have to eat the sandwich because the sandwich is time.

This metaphor sucks.

3. April 2017 is a rollercoaster. No. Wait. That's everybody's metaphor for everything. Forget I said that.

4. April 2017 is a...balding man. Because it was more hairy at the beginning than the end. But it's still a little hairy in places. And it's getting old.

That was a great metaphor.

I was going to try for ten metaphors, but let's end there, with that great metaphor. Aren't you glad you read my blog? Don't you wish you were my friend when I was a teenager?

Haunting Myself

I believe in ghosts now—because I saw some on the corner of College and Broad the other day, and they were all me. I was, like, haunting myself.

I was stopped at the red light there, facing west, and I walked right in front of me, pushing teeny-tiny Sullivan in a baby stroller. I was limping a little, because I had these new shoes on and I'd attempted to walk all the way to Vic Park without knowing what they were capable of (not much, apparently).

I looked worried—ghost me, not real me. Ghost me had this big line across her forehead and she was staring straight ahead of her like she was thinking very hard about something. I don't remember what it was, probably something to do with that miniature version of Sullivan, asleep in the stroller. I remember worrying a lot when he was little, because I'd been warned profusely, mostly by the internet, that death was lurking around every single corner for babies. And I really, really liked this baby; I didn't want him to die. So I worried my way through his entire babyhood. And it must have worked, because here he is, not dead.

As I watched myself pass, I saw another me approaching from the opposite side of the road. She was wearing cut-off jean shorts and pushing a more toddler-sized Sullivan in the same stroller, now without the carseat attachment. She looked a lot happier than the first ghost, and she was pointing at trees and birds and cars, chatting away happily with her ghost child. I saw that she had a tote bag under her shoulder and remembered that she was on her way to the Folk Festival. She was wearing the same pair of shoes as the first ghost, but they were broken in now and didn't make her limp.

And there was another, and she didn't have a baby with her but her belly stuck out like a beach ball and she waddled along, much slower than all the other ghosts.

And then I saw another, and another, and another. Some were walking hand-in-hand with Sullivan, some were pushing him in the stroller, one had him in a backpack carrier. Most of them, aside from the one with the very small baby, looked cheerful and content, because this is the intersection I have to cross to get downtown or to 13th Ave, which usually means I'm going to meet a friend for coffee or for music in the park or something like that. Besides, walking in and of itself makes me feel happy and content, and it's always seemed to do the same for Sullivan. We both like to be going somewhere.

How many times have Sullivan and I crossed this intersection in the past three years? That's how many ghosts there were. Maybe hundreds. It occurred to me that in another few years, a future me might stop at this same intersection on, say, the south side, and see the ghost of me today.

Maybe someday, when Sully's all grown up and I miss this stage of life, I'll just go back to that haunted intersection and watch ghosts.