I was on a bus once driving back from Stratford. It wasn’t like I was driving the bus or anything. I was simply a member of unwieldly group of giddy juvienile miscreants. We got the day off to cavort around town in the name of of education and exposure to middle-brow interpretations of canonical work. I was writing something, intensely scribbling, about how Shakespeare is taught in schools. I had things to say then. Either way, we got a wonderful tour of South Western Ontario.
It was November.
It was Grey.
The last flush of green making a valiant attempt to be taken seriously.
We passed a field. The sun setting. The world grey and dull … lacking any sort of vibrancy … succumbing to the dullness of the time of year. We passed a field and there was a kid running, rolling a giant tire-wheel. It was twice his size. He was wearing one of those ancient snow-suits. Blocks of colours. Colours you never see in clothes anymore. A distinct blue, a cananry yellow, avacado, burgundy.
He was running through this field, with this tire, next to this highway and all I wanted to do was figure out why.
I was sitting there with my notepad jotting down the short-comings of the TDSB surrounded by upper-middle class philistines. And this kid is running … to where? from what? orphan? trailer-park? Was he safe? Was he being chased by a pack of maddened-hounds (a la the Baskervilles). Who knows.
All I know is that the sun was setting and we zoomed by. The sun was setting into a blurry horizon as a boy decked out in a seventies snow-suit ran through a field pushing a tractor-trailer wheel. It was a moment of inexplicable zen to be perfectly honest.