December 22, 2003

Two dreamy nights have I spent on the edge of consciousness, hyper beyond belief and pushing the limits of sanity. I fell asleep at 6 in the morning today, after nine continuous hours of arguing, talking, and flinging arms and fingers into the air to demonstrate abstract and self-contradictory concepts.

Mel, who studies philosophy and craves optimism, rejected science and opposed all the reasonable points I made after three glasses of wine. We argued until our voices grew shrill, veins bulging with the pressure of thoughts. Late at night, with Rod Steward playing in the background for some unexplainable reason, I used my most amorous voice while demonstrating that elbows, knees, or flaming cocks can feel pleasure beyond belief.

Mel tried to kill joy, ruthless in her desire to assert that pleasure and pain are nothing more than social constructs. Her arguments made me shiver and I had no choice but to alternately caress and punch Ryan who was sitting between us to show that pleasure and pain are exquisitely beautiful and real. I emphasised each point by slurring my words as erotically as possible, Ryan giggling madly on the corner of the couch indifferent to my tenderness.

Only Brian, who was sleeping besides us, played no part in our ritual of tenderness. He overdid it with the wine, and after barfing over the walls, and sink, and hardwood floors he fell asleep. At two o’clock he suddenly got up, complained about boredom, and unceremoniously left with Ryan. Mel and I went back downstairs to finish the wine, the cookies, and the conversation. As soon as we were alone we both achieved extraordinary clarity and understood each other and ourselves perfectly. For the next four hours we talked quietly about meaning and being, Rod Steward asleep in the background.

Spending the night in an increasingly colder basement with the smell of puke in our nostrils felt surreal, beautiful. I organized the little gathering to celebrate the winter solstice and the longest night of the year, and we certainly found our own unique and sweet way of celebrating — staying awake and alive to the sounds of the house in the dead of the night.

The night before was no less wonderful or full of mystery and walking dreams. Early in the night I was hiking with my visionary Indian friend down a narrow trail towards the infinite darkness of the forest. On a spur of the moment, we ended up in Elora Gorge, and the cliffs of sheer rock that look so impressive in the daylight felt strange, fresh, and dangerous at night.

The forest and the river were alive and roaring. In the middle of winter the rapids look more vicious, dark, and powerful than in the summer, and this icy darkness was seductive, deadly. We lowered ourselves down the cliffs to the edge of the dark waters, and listened, feeling strange and alone. Our feet were nearly touching the water and all around us frozen cliffs trapped the scream of the rapids in their silence.

“Man, it’s like a dream,” my friend said, and I nodded looking at the wall of ice and stone on the other side.

Eventually we climbed back up and ran through the icy trails. After a while our feet barely touched the ground — walking on a slippery trail on the edge of a cliff makes you breathe faster, freer. Everything became instinctive. Deep down inside our brains shut themselves down in fear, allowing us to be free and to fly through the night, branches clawing our faces in the dark and feet struggling to regain balance to avoid a fatal fall.

After hiking in the dark for two hours we stopped and tried to light a fire. It’s impossible to light a fire in the middle of the winter. We made our way back towards the town, and on the way we decided we need a bigger adventure this winter. At the end of December we’re heading towards the furthest and coldest shore: Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, somewhere…

These two consecutive nights filled with beauty made me decide to abjure days in favour of white nights.