So I got to thinking, after my last post and what I wrote therein, about how I said I thought, or at least hoped, that I’d have written more posts by the end of 1018ossy’s inaugural year. That day and evening, collectively, in which that post was about and later written made me realize what large, inspiring factor had changed from Toronto to here to kill my desire.
I can’t write at home. I just can’t. There are too many distractions. The best that I can hope for when writing at home is an opening paragraph followed by opening up YouTube and yelling at my dog for trying to dig up the balcony. Yes, balcony.
During my tenure in Toronto, I figured out that I was able to get much more done out of the house – with the use of simply a pen and notepad that I carried around in my pocket. In Toronto there was an ample amount of cafes and bars. There was always space for me somewhere, surrounded by people who seemed to be taking part in similar tasks such as myself and seemed to want to be left alone just as much as I did to be able to concentrate. I can’t really be entirely certain why this helped but, regardless, I was getting it done.
In Mississauga, the options are limited. The walls I’ve written within around here have been no muse. Most have made me cringe, proving themselves to be harder to write in than my own home.
It’s glaringly obvious while writing this, inside the location of some chain restobar with some dude beside me who’s arrogantly getting most of his facts wrong while talking to friends and staff all the while sounding as if he’s yet to hit puberty. I’ve seen him before – consistently a poorly-dressed, frail looking self-declared hot shot 20-something with the voice of a care bear.
This sounds odd to say, but Mississauga is just too intimate. Mississauga is not a small city. It is not unpopulated. The difference here is the people and what’s offered to them. Everyone knows each other because they always go to the same places because there are so few places to go to. I go stir crazy easily so I like leaving the house from time to time. But I don’t always leave my house to find company. Yet I find it everywhere. Even strangers have started nodding at me as I walk by simply because of how often I pass by them on the street.
In Toronto, I could go anywhere and not see a repeat face for weeks. Here, I could go some place on any given night and probably be able to tell you exactly who’s in there before I even stepped through the door. Worse yet is that they are usually people I’d rather not associate with. Mostly dude-bros and faux gangsters who can’t get it through their head that Meadowvale is not a place to live and claim you “started from the bottom”. If you grew up here, you have no street credibility. It’s that simple.
I love routine but this place is too predictable – even for me. There is no ability to have those small, impromptu adventures. But in hind sight, I guess moving did what I hoped it would do: it has made Toronto fun and interesting to me again. But, for now, I’m stuck here in this bar listening to squeaky voice explain how the latest photo he uploaded is “so pimp, right?”