I decided to go back to my roots. Way back. This may well have been inspired by my recent attempts to organize and catalog my significant backlog of old digital photos, or perhaps just something to get me taking pictures again. So, rather than try and put together some sort of highfalutin conceptual series on the meaning of urban existence, I went for a walk, brought my camera, and tried to take some pretty pictures.
I absolutely have to get out to the park more often. It’s no real replacement for proper time spent in proper woods, but it’s a damn sight closer than walking down Queen St. After I had walked about two-thirds of the park, cross-wise, I found myself on a narrow path on a gentle hill, sloping down, I assumed, to some part of Grenadier Pond. I had been listening to the latest Hospital Records podcast, but it suddenly struck me to unplug and listen to whatever was going on around me. I was not disappointed.
The intermittent chirp of crickets, very close by. The high treble range of their song, usually lost to distance, rang strange and new over the cicadas’ monotone. Something small fell down, down the path, rustling through the underbrush before hitting the ground with a dry, small thud. As I rummaged through my bag to find a pen to record these impressions, a sagging, be-visored jogger limped around the corner, a pocket full of keys keeping time with his gait. Ah, here I am, in Toronto. The unceasing exhalation of the Gardiner Expressway was obvious to my left, and I finally placed a distant, incongruous sound – the schoolyard clang of metal hardware on a flagpole.
My newly collected mosquito bites were starting to itch, (Is that poison ivy?) so I stowed my belongings, took a sip of water and carried on down the path back home.