Vivian
There is a lot I can say about Vivian. Her name derives from Latin 'vivus': alive. She's blonde. She has a laughter that will melt your icy heart. Vivian will tell you everything like the world were her own private snow globe and she'll find herself out of breath and sparkly eyed at the end.
I first met Vivian at the ice rink in my neighbourhood of Junction Triangle in Toronto. She was wearing what appeared to be a Russian fur cap, she knew little about skating, she nodded as I explained the basics and off she went on her own like a baby goat, agile and merry. I turned to Seçil, with whom she'd showed up, and asked "What is this?" "Isn't she lovely?" Seçil replied.
(insert Joel's cell phone pics at the ice rink here if you ever find them)
I lived in two houses formerly inhabited by Vivian. The first one had a huge rooftop terrace. I remember a sleepover in Viv's queen size bed on the floor. As if through the confessional window, she whispered she was a snorer. Between giggles and snippets of daily chatter and dreamscaping in bed, she told me she could talk to the landlord if the place would be available once she left for the desert. For Vivian goes off to the desert. Vivian is no stranger to the Saharawi.
When she came back I was living on Dupont. Nima, Vivian and I camped in my living room one December night like kids around a bonfire. I read them some pulp fiction erotica: "Belle et Soumise".
On new year's day she left for Spain and I remained in Toronto. From the night before I have a vague recollection of piling on the top of one another in a group cuddle on the futon as someone told us fairy tales. I took over her role as roommate number four at Havelock, as non-queer identified but at least a 'woman of colour'. The jargon in my new dwelling and its intricate identity politics were exclusive, unlike utilities.
I haven't seen Vivian in two years. In some other places on earth, Vivian dances. Vivian laughs. Vivian half closes her eyes to beautiful music. It's a little like this:
Click : "Vivian dances!"
And now, in front of this café in Beşiktaş, football fans are screaming from the top of their lungs: "white", "black", "white", "black", "Beşiktaş the greatest!" Car alarms. Hooligan chants. A shot in the air. Is it time to go? I'm finding it hard to keep my word that each day I will write on this blog. Will I let December beat me?
Before I take the Kadıköy ferry with half of these testosterone-drunk men I want to promise myself I will see this face in 2015:
I first met Vivian at the ice rink in my neighbourhood of Junction Triangle in Toronto. She was wearing what appeared to be a Russian fur cap, she knew little about skating, she nodded as I explained the basics and off she went on her own like a baby goat, agile and merry. I turned to Seçil, with whom she'd showed up, and asked "What is this?" "Isn't she lovely?" Seçil replied.
(insert Joel's cell phone pics at the ice rink here if you ever find them)
I lived in two houses formerly inhabited by Vivian. The first one had a huge rooftop terrace. I remember a sleepover in Viv's queen size bed on the floor. As if through the confessional window, she whispered she was a snorer. Between giggles and snippets of daily chatter and dreamscaping in bed, she told me she could talk to the landlord if the place would be available once she left for the desert. For Vivian goes off to the desert. Vivian is no stranger to the Saharawi.
When she came back I was living on Dupont. Nima, Vivian and I camped in my living room one December night like kids around a bonfire. I read them some pulp fiction erotica: "Belle et Soumise".
On new year's day she left for Spain and I remained in Toronto. From the night before I have a vague recollection of piling on the top of one another in a group cuddle on the futon as someone told us fairy tales. I took over her role as roommate number four at Havelock, as non-queer identified but at least a 'woman of colour'. The jargon in my new dwelling and its intricate identity politics were exclusive, unlike utilities.
I haven't seen Vivian in two years. In some other places on earth, Vivian dances. Vivian laughs. Vivian half closes her eyes to beautiful music. It's a little like this:
Click : "Vivian dances!"
And now, in front of this café in Beşiktaş, football fans are screaming from the top of their lungs: "white", "black", "white", "black", "Beşiktaş the greatest!" Car alarms. Hooligan chants. A shot in the air. Is it time to go? I'm finding it hard to keep my word that each day I will write on this blog. Will I let December beat me?
Before I take the Kadıköy ferry with half of these testosterone-drunk men I want to promise myself I will see this face in 2015:
 |
| Viv at Lake View Diner, Toronto |
Comments
Post a Comment