It's cold outside. The kind of cold that would make a child want to
stay in bed all day. The sky is weeping small snowflakes, sprinkling
our once-green land white like seedy lime juice over a tax-funded
salad.

The snow has fallen every morning now for several days. Somewhere,
there are probably cars stuck bumper-to-bumper. I wouldn't know. I
have no car, and it's too far to walk to the nearest paved road to
check for myself.

It's days like these that make me thankful to have a friend like
Trevor. I got kicked out of my house a week and a half ago. I couldn't
find any roommates to replace the ones who'd run out on me and I
couldn't pay the full $1200 per month by myself. I almost wound up on
the streets of Vancouver when Trevor said I can stay with him. I've
been here 3 days now. I just don't want to wear out my welcome. I
found myself a hostel, which can be rather expensive, $150 per week.
At that price, it's worth a one-bedroom apartment in the suburbs.
Living is the same, but life seems to get harder every month. After my
week in the hostel, I'll probably stay with various friends until...

I'm glad to be inside. Snow is nice until it becomes a makeshift
bed with neither a pillow nor any other options. I'm glad to be
inside. Without a home and in motion, I'm a nomad. Without a home and
in stagnation, I'm homeless.

I'm glad to be inside. There's a heatlamp near the door. In an
insulated house such as this, it's enough. The glow of the heatlamp
and the flicker of the computer opposite me, serenading whomever will
listen with A Perfect Circle's smooth jazz version of "When the Levee
Breaks", have become secondary companions of sorts to me.

There's a glass table in front of me playing halfway-house to my
vaulted glass of Smirnoff Green Apple Twist, as well as a small
porcelain ashtray, bowl-shaped, decorated with a relief of a chinese
dragon, a remote control which will likely never be used, a copy of
Guitar Player magazine dated four months ago, and an unmarked plastic
bag with a puddle of a white, odorless liquid inside. There are
musical instruments everywhere. Guitars and basses all along the
walls, both electric and acoustic of each, a Yamaha keyboard propped
beside the door next to a television that might not even work, and a
didgeridoo in a brown leather carrying bag leaned in the corner next
to the blue cushion chair I'm sitting on. Trevor has seven amplifiers,
four by the computer, with one on the right side and three on the
left, and the other three against the surrounding walls, with one to
each.

The tranquillity is broken by the occasional cough outside the
house, probably about 10 meters away. Though there are others living
in the area, it's too cold outside to get to know the neighbours. Were
I lonelier, I'd probably go out and ask the fellow what would drive
him outdoors into such cold.

Trevor is in his room with his girlfriend. Even if I wanted
anything more, I still wouldn't bother him to ask. The house is too
cozy in the jazz and the dim light from the white sky reflecting off
the snow into the house through drawn curtains.

The music is quite soothing. It almost makes me wish I were a
smoker, but I don't need substances. I am my own drug. I am the
creator of my own delusions.

Still, the snow is falling. Would it really matter to predict its
end? Would it really matter to predict the weather? There are two days
that I cannot worry about, and one that I must. Today is on my mind. I
can't remember the last time I was warm. I'm glad I'm inside.

04/08/2005

Posted on 04/08/2005
Copyright © 2024 Kourosh Taheri-Golvarzi