I pushed the bar of the fire door and fell into: the street, pulsing and groaning, dragging its wretched, cracked face like the furrowed worker, fluorescent jumpsuit, who stands behind, manning the atavistic street gouger, spitting old asphalt into the rear of a truck, biting and chewing, large mechanical mastication, to remove, peel the old offensive scalp of Madison Avenue.
“The cycle starts anew, lets start with 6:9 Bereshit, 1:1 Genesis...” Rabbi Richman utters, as his grizzled beard capers and cavorts after each syllable that is spoken.
HaRishon, stirred envy and admiration amongst the angels; but he was rooted, rooted in something tangible, physical and sexual. And thus his superiority.
Lets return to the cyclical revolutions of "street dermatology"!
But before, I must digress (prudently, as digressions often assume their own vitality and consequently, hubris.)
Ah... well at some other point, I pushed another door and fell out again, this time onto a bustling Bloor. With one fell swoop, I amassed the pedestrians and hurled 'em across the street, yes I changed the colours, red to green. See? More cycles.
Yes. I go up to my bicycle. Me all wrapped up and holding something with cinnamon, providing succor for my parched palate and respite from the iron taste of my tongue.
Whenever someone asks: “Hey this is really good. What’s in it?” the answer invariably is: Cinnamon.
Cinnamon and Caramel. Woooh. As I bend my knees and reach for my combo bike lock, I turn and see him, jump up and perch on the hood of his truck. He's got a toque on, gloves holding a cup of joe. His day is over. I turn to him.
Long day?
- Uh, yeah, man. Been working at it all day.
Shit, well... what you got back there?
-Huh? Oh yeah... I'm in the scrap metal business.
I twist my neck to see jagged and corrugated metal, huddled in the back, looking dark and hopeless. Like shit-out-of-luck mexicans, waiting for the promises of mañana and the next white farmer’s fields that might offer some work for wandering labourers.
How’s that going?
- Well apart from the Waiting… I guess it’s OK.
The waiting?
- The Waiting. We’re waiting for… You don’t understand we are operating at the limit Man! (He was getting worked up. Paused, got off the hood, and addressed me, holding the brown cup to his mouth, like a microphone.) We’re hitting the pavement ‘fore the cracka dawn. (Arms akimbo, twitching his right hand – free of coffee and gesturing like a historian at the podium). My brother, I know the ‘alf of us, “scraps” are shootin’, basing or snorting sulphate. All hours behind that black wheel can do things to a man. Fried, man, and spat out (like old asphalt obviously). We’re operating at a diff’rent level of traffic man. We gotta mutate to survive.
Wow. Uh man… shit... I didn’t realize.
- *chuckles*. So you working at this coffeeshop, aren’t ya? How’s that?
Uh…(mumbles something about lower lumbar pains from standing up all day)…shit man. What can I say.
- Say you ain’t scrappin’ for metal and thank the lord!
Amen!
// Understand the wait, and persuade yourself that you’re merely waiting to turn the corner, from this odd job, onto the real thing, you’re coming up to that juncture, where:
“The Imminent meets the Immanent”
