A new friend, if I can call him that, recently referred to my writing as poignant. I thought that was nice. I like the idea of being succinct in my messaging. Boiling down an idea to just a few lines.
And then I looked up what poignant meant.
It is not the synonym for prescient brevity that I thought it was. Rather, it is closer to feelings of heartbreak, passion, and moving emotions. I think that is very nice, too, though in a different way.
So I started to think, and as often the case, I started to walk. It had been a while since I opened my door and wandered through my imaginary city— since I walked the streets of whose names I had forgotten. On this walk I discovered parts of this city that I did not know existed. In my absence, hidden behind the walls of my apartment, the city had changed. It had grown. It even, to my surprise, became populated.
This is a story of my walk in my city. This time, I will not be brief. I may be poignant.
The walk had no destination. I had one stop to pick up a book from the bookshop, but other than that, my purpose was to wander. The first steps of a wandering walk bring out an exhalation, an “ahhh, this is it,” feeling as you breathe in the crisp outside air. These walks are like coming back to yourself after a long time away. They are a chance to see who you have become in that time.
My thoughts were full. In the early stage of a walk ideas come often. But ideas were not what I was after. It is only after the torrent of thoughts subside that we reach the real purpose of a walk: consciousness of the moment. The feeling of appreciation to just be. But we’re not there yet. My mind was busy and before I knew it, I stumbled upon the bookshop. I could have sworn it was three streets over last time I was here. But that’s the thing about this city. Nothing is permanent. Things come and go and reappear where you least expect them.
I was there with intention. A friend recommended a book to me. Something far out of my usual scope, Hyperion, by Dan Simmons. “It’s like Canterbury Tales but in space. You’ll love it,” they said, appealing to my classics ego. But even though I knew what I would purchase, I still loved wasting time in my favorite bookshop. For someone that never talks to strangers, I have a guilty pleasure of people watching, imagining what books others will buy; their tastes, their own guilty pleasures. I stayed long enough to warrant me taking off my winter jacket. I paced the stacks, fingers grazing the spines of my favorite authors, reliving what it felt like to read The Picture of Dorian Gray for the first time.
One eye on the books, another on the eclectic group of early afternoon bookstore shoppers, I watched what seemed to be a new couple pick out books that they thought their partner would enjoy. I stood on my tip-toes to get a better view of an old man in the romance section, hoping he was buying for himself and not a gift for his granddaughter. What’s his story? What’s he doing in this city, I wondered to myself.
I made my way to the usual suspects: the wall of white Oxford Classics, the philosophy section I know I’ll never buy but enjoy imagining I will, and crouched to the bottom corner of fiction, the beautiful white edition Calvino’s. The bookshop had more than their previous collection of his works. Last month I requested them to ship in his, The Baron in the Trees. I like to think that request was what made them bring in more of his other works. Maybe it was just a coincidence.
I found the book I was after, but greedy as always, I was unsatisfied with just one. I enquired at the front if they had another book in stock that was on my to-read list. The tall man at the reception desk, the sort that could only possibly work at a bookstore, led me to the back corner. “We have one copy left,” he said, “it’s in the humor section.” I didn’t know there was a humor section. I suppose that checks out. I could use a lesson in not being so serious. On my way to checkout, I glanced at a book whose subheading read “mini stories.” In my brisk pace I mistook it to read “minestrones.” Mini stories. Ministories. Minestrones. I think that’s hilarious.
Books purchased, I walked aimlessly for what felt like an hour. There was no telling the time other than my increasingly hungry stomach. I made right turns and left turns. Stayed on streets and quickly turned off others with no particular reason behind each decision. Suddenly, I came upon a harbor. There’s a lake in my imaginary city? Since when? I wondered. I suppose there was no reason not to have a city by a lake in the most Smashing Pumpkins sort of way. I hummed the chorus of Tonight, Tonight as I walked to the edge of the water.
And our lives are forever changed
We will never be the same
The more you change, the less you feel
….
And the embers never fade
In your city by the lake
The place where you were born
The harbor was empty. Any boats that were here have long been put away for the winter. I was sad to have missed them. It was a reminder that to live one must go out. The water was calm in the absence of the boats. It was still and clear and I was suddenly thirsty. But this appeared to be an industrial harbor. Surely the water was not as clean as it looked.
Sometimes I wish that I worked an honest job with my hands. Perhaps in an industrial harbor such as the one I stared into. I like the idea of being “a slave to an age old trade.” As if things are much clearer when you wake up every morning when it is still dark, knowing what the day ahead will bring. So there I stood, my shadow waving back to me on the glassy water, wondering what it would be like to work in a shipyard or ride railcars all day.
I watched planes fly over the water. I wondered who could possible travel to a place like this. But why not? It’s as good a place as any for someone that wants to find themselves in a new city, even if it is imaginary.
Turning to walk home, I decided to take the long way. I passed places I had been before. Places that held memories. Places and people. I think a lot about the last place I ever saw a person. Nostalgia wells in me but on a day like today I cannot help but entertain the image of us sitting on those concrete steps, their head resting on my shoulder, and the side hug goodbye to serve as the last time we ever met.
I continued with a longing for those days. I walked past the church hanging Advent wreaths. The women on the steps worked as if they were born to decorate the church. It certainly looked cozy to me. I remembered the days as a child when this time of year was so much more magical. And so I shed a single tear when I walked past the children jumping on the playground during recess. Their teachers yelled for them to be safe. Little do they know that’s the safest thing in the world. How nice for their only care to be not falling from the monkey bars five feet off the ground. My monkey bars are much higher these days.
I’m now home. The door shut securely behind me. I’m hit with the smell of a candle that I left burning. It’s warm inside. I feel warm. I’m full. Not with food, but of enough thinking for one day. I had been on autopilot for too long. It was a nice reminder that life happens outside our four walls. Who knows, maybe next time I’ll even talk to a stranger that has now moved to my city. That would be wild. For now, it was enough to walk and to wander.
"Sometimes I wish that I worked an honest job with my hands."
There's something pure about this, right?
I don't know if poignant would be the right adjective to describe it. It's special. A mixture of nostalgia and vivid emotions. You describe the scenes with great sensitivity. It's easy to imagine all the settings and navigate through them. There's a distance and a closeness at the same time. I love roaming in your universe.