I liked hiding. That was my game. Darting around the city on my bike. Looking for my next hiding place. Often I would find myself in High Park, combing the untouched forest for some hovel or nook to cover me up. I especially liked the woods where it got real thick and all manner of life could remain out of sight, except for their own.
Being part of many worlds, many spaces. A creative wilderness surrounding and within. I felt safe there. I felt understood at a time where many could not, would not.
I come out of my hovel for fear of being discovered and off on my bike again. I’m heading downtown. From Grenadier I get to Sorauren, Dundas and then College. I’m going fast and the world is pushing me, free. But sometimes inner and outer sight don’t match up.
Today was to be that kinda day. I collide with a white van parked on the south side of College in front of a pub in Little Italy. My right index finger splits in half, my chest sinks, and my right leg gets a hematoma that takes a month to heal.
My finger never totally healed. I call it FrankenFinger and let it remind me of places I’d rather not be.
Not without consequence.