Howl If You Hear Me

(The Hood (part II), 2011)

I remember leaving early from work that day. I biked my fastest without ever knowing what to expect when I arrive. I got all sweaty, took a quiet street up north, and hit the construction-wasted Dundas as far as I could go. I had a vague idea of where I was going, how I was getting there. I remember how slow things were going on Dundas that weekend, the road was practically not there. I remember arriving to the place I was suppose to be, I slipped off my bike and caught my seat with my groin, looked to the window of the cafe, and hoped that she didn't see me fall, I looked very un-slick. I enter, I look around, right there in front of me, there she was. Sitting there, like she always existed here, as if she even lived here, just in this cafe, but there was something about her that said she didn't come from these parts, I knew her before this summer, before I ever entered this cafe for the very first time. I remember that first conversation, talking about html, everyday work. I remember the magazine in her hands, the smallness of the table, how the waitress looked very familiar, was she one of Brooke's friends I pondered. I was very indecisive, I wasn't hungry per se, but I could eat, I was feeling hunger-less, like rest-less, wanting rest, but not able to rest. Our flow was flowing, the words all came out, one by one, never too long of a break, this was good I was thinking. My mental image of her was being broken down and reassembled, she looked different, but not in a bad way, it was like seeing some sort of flower, drawn by an artist who hadn't seen what he was drawing himself, but was given a highly detailed description, and having a visual memory of that drawn flower in your head for years, and then one day, you walk into a cafe and you see that flower in real life. I know it's cheesy to use a flower in metaphor for a woman, but I couldn't say bug, nor animal, maybe the Grand Canyon, but then that sounds too grand, the flower, in its everyday beauty, is something that we could never get sick of, so much so that that those of the rarest flower haunt us, capture our imagination, and drive some men wild in the pursuit of something that happens in nature not too often.

There's a wildness about me that takes over my body. The person; the collective thought and mechanism that composes me socially, is taken away, set in a state of hover, fur grows throughout my body, my teeth become fangs, I howl, I grow thirsty, then hungry, then thirsty again. My eyes roll back, then return and they are now yellow, yellow with passion! My clothes are torn, my hair a mess, I have to go pee. I really have to go pee.