A year of living
Brianna Cheng, 2T6 PB
Artist’s Statement: We all face tensions in our lives. In the daily backdrop of repression and release, there is something coalescing, that which we may not recognize when it is occurring. When we finally see it, that which has been precious all along, we rise above our tensions, hurtling towards something stronger, more durable, more loving.
Photo Credits: Reggie Addae
Fall in love sideways. Like, Willy Wonka style. Like, cartwheel through the second-floor window, not the door. No one expected this. Besides, your track coach had always said to use the J curve approach: parallel to the bar, not perpendicular. Sideways. Then, before you can tell him, before you can embarrass yourself, sew extra pockets and practice putting yourself away, over and over.
Become a regular commuter. You live in these Montréal tunnels now. A violin is sulking close-by. It is arguing with the panhandler who is trying to play Vivaldi’s Spring. He is swearing–recruited his own trio of tabarnak and merde and ferme ta gueule to prop up the sonata. With rough, blackened hands, he scrubs the smooth wood, polishing something you cannot see. You sigh in agreement. You want to love a beautiful thing too. Elsewhere, people dance a shuffle during the intermission. Closer, closer to the platform edge. The owner of the phone case boutique yawns. Our mortality bores him. The train arrives and we get on before the orchestra resumes–a love ballad.
Rediscover an old sport. Because high jump never suited you. Try going horizontally, not vertically. Go really really far on flat ground. Compete in a race. You are a bramble of legs and arms and fluorescent jerseys. You are a double-stitched seam of a 10 kg bag of flour. But you find the thread and pull. Bodies topple, spikes trample, and you realize you’ve tripped a gaggle of serious, serious runners. Goodie.
Explore a new neighbourhood. In the maw of the city, Marché Jean Talon gurgles. It is the throat itself. Blinking the sleep away, it rips tarps from display cases of baklavas. It swallows a dazed parade of tourists at the cheese stall and regurgitates them at the strawberry stall. The owner offers them samples for their trouble, dirt in his fingernails. Nearby, a Portuguese egg tart scuttles into your hands from a crested dome. Animals, all of you.
Bury your running gear. No need for maps or compasses anymore. Things do not always make sense. Roads are not always straight. North is not always true. Sideways, like I said. Go barefoot, that’ll do just fine. And when you get there, knock. Be polite.
