The In-Between

about a particular "in-between" of the many in memory.

A story to write, but on what? On everything, it seems. I crave the creation of pouring what I feel or think into a mode or channel so known to me, that in the form of words. I want to write not because I have anything to say, but because I want to… write! I want to pray in this form of creation and reflection. How peaceful it is, how known it is to me. I can write in this position for ages and not tire. I can do it all here, like this, and not tire—

Here is the night:

Well, I believe it still is the in-between. I’ve been tracking the day in half-hour instalments. Each half hour seems more promising. The day comes and lives, and another full hour passes.

The studio I have been dreaming of, at least in my own imagination of what could be happening up there, is lively again. To clarify, this is the penthouse loft of the building across my street. It shares my same proximity to the main street but with a side road as its entryway. The loft every night falls in shadows, but illuminated shadows that project onto perpendicular walls and beyond into my window. I poke my head out of my window every once in a while to notice the time of day change within my own world, and within theirs. I can only imagine what world plays on up there.

At least, this is all I see from my home window.

This city has caught my attention this day. It has intrigued me by the silliness it holds, the flexibility it allows, the existence it captures. One of the charms of Montréal is the ability to find yourself at an intersection with a teenager and a Jansport, woman and a baby, man and skis, grandpa with groceries. You will find a man in a large suit, a couple walking to the nearest café, a girl heavily lost in her music, a runner filling his body with endorphins. You find them all here, as if misplaced cartoon characters all in one scene, and around the colours of the city with the murals and stores and artwork and people. You will find the weirdest characters here, with the weirdest stories, in the weirdest of settings. But it is the place to be, should you ever find yourself having lost some lustre for life.

I live in this building that, when I forget so kindly reminds me, lives around me as well. What I mean to say is: the building is under construction. There are noises and changes, and every day of leaving the door means an acceptance and excitement for what is to come. I do not know what to expect in this building after my day. I can only walk up the stairs and trust that my legs know more than my eyes. At moments like these, I must trust my touch more than my sight. But it brings on me an interesting exercise. Every return home is knowingly to a changing home. I know this home is my own temporary place, a studio for myself, a lease that ends in 27 days.

[AUTHOR’s NOTE: The lease ended 1,396 days ago.]

I come back in the building that grows, placing some trust in the walls that break all around but my own, the home that I can warm until the time is due. I believe this is as much stability as one needs, lest they sacrifice the freedom of play for static weight and roles.

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The in-between sleeps, and the morning comes:

I start my day, I wake up to birdcall. It is winter here so the birds come out of my phone instead. I open my eyes and see the grey sky outside—how clean. I close my eyes and feel the warmth of the soft blankets around me. I note not to keep them closed for too long, but the city has awoken and the studio above me sounds about ready to step out the door.

I sleep in a single mattress, thin mattress, firm on the floor of the furthest side of my studio from the door. My studio is small and the main space is a good few of my feet’s paces from my bed to the door and quarter from the wall to the wall. I live alone and have lived here for not too long and soon will be gone, so I do not have furniture. Correction: I own not the encumbrance nor the weight of pieces to fill my small home. I have my couch of 2 black pillows, each on one end of the person-length woven rug. It runs from 2 paces off my bed to 3 paces off my wardrobe, which is my (strategically organized) open suitcase at the end of the studio. Give 1 pace off the right wall for the cable-canister side table, the flat-tired bicycle, the table stand of discarded tiles, my books, records, and guitar, the main space is a good space for rolling off bed straight out the door (I’d give it a few good rolls, perhaps 9 or 10 complete turns, give or take your skepticism of the day.)

I roll out in 1 move. I stand on my bed, take a peek through the window—the cool air is nice. I open my window wide for my home. I put the kettle on the stovetop. Earl grey waits in the metal canister, the mug nearby, the person also waits. My body feels less, I feel I must move it. I step on my bed and wave up to the sky and I fall back down and touch my toes, my floor, and ceiling of the floor beneath me it seems. I look to my suitcase. Large demanding leaps, small crawling toes, swift swirling steps, I jump and I leap and I walk back and forth. My knees wake up a little, my toes so much so, I sense my hips wiggling about and my kettle starts to sing. I walk with confidence to my filling mug, and as I lift the kettle to pour out steam, I notice my shoulders still a bit sleepy, my back still dreaming. Well, I say to myself, I’ve got the day to walk around and stomp around and reach out toward. The body will get its time to play.

[AUTHOR’s NOTE: This was written for no reason in particular except to (1) write and to (2) jot down what a regular “in-between” felt like in that time of my life. Many in-betweens later, I find myself returning to this one in particular for the period of my life this took place in. Reading it brings it beyond reminiscence: it makes it real again, even if for a split second.]