011 — The Granny Move
Content note: Contains discussion of suicide and childhood sexual abuse, alongside accounts of violence.
November has arrived in southern Ontario, bringing with it the miserable grey afternoons, the premature darkness, and that familiar melancholy which ordinarily suits me well enough. I've returned from a weekend of extraordinary comfort to find the world much as I left it, with its various troubles waiting patiently for my arrival, and I'm having a harder time reacquainting myself with the whole arrangement than I might have expected.
So I'm sitting in the car, watching the trees, thinking about the things we carry through life and what remains of us after the collisions. There was a time when I fancied myself a stand-up comedian, wandering onto stages without a word prepared and attempting to make something of whatever lunatics happened to be seated before me. I suppose there are worse ways to spend an evening.
I've also been remembering some people from my childhood. Strange old recollections, a few of them considerably more savage than I'd have cared to believe at the time. But there were good boys among the madness, too, and I find myself wondering what became of them.
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