I am listening to Mason. He speaks of fictional lovers and a rose-tinted life. His fingers press onto strings and strum upbeat chords. A nice accompaniment to his vocals. He is tired of "mary-jane to his left and a forty in his right." ( Tired of writing about train tracks we never had the nerves to cross.) And I sit, nursing my fourth hangover of the week, praying it will be gone before tonight. And then, have another go. I'll continue to press that rewind button. I waste my days, avoid solitude and spend a minimal amount of time on my bed. Because I can, because I am not ready to be ready. Not yet. Not ready to let life play itself. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Yet, my weeks are still without order. Without flow, or direction. Yesterday's excursion was to St-Henri ghetto. Crossing train tracks, climbing fences, to enter a world we weren't ready to witness. Street punks were hosting a free show (The Death House, ha) near Kuba's loft. The crowd mostly consisted of lanky suburban boys sporting five-sizes-too-large leather jackets, and making sure their multi-coloured foot-long mohawks were still in place. I decided to leave the venue when I saw one boy, a bit older than myself, fighting with his mommy on his blackberry, while hair spraying his mohawk. Seriously? On my way back to the loft, a homeless man exposed himself and asked me where he can find a prostitute in this part of town. I averted my eyes, and paced myself to Kuba's. I settled on the couch, and began to consume. Big Names. Jack Daniels and Peter Jacksons and Marijane. I danced, and laughed and spoke to everyone. A few owners of the Death House came to the party, and I recognized one of them. His name was Alex, and he used to live on the streets, specifically on the east side of St Catherine's. Near the Dagwoods and the Dairy Queen. I drank with him during the Jazz festival, two years ago. And protested when he was arrested and brought to a police station. Now, he has a home. He lives with his wife, and friends, and their many dogs. Around One, I had five dimes left, and the amount of trains passing by began to triple. I was slowly sobering up, and although at this point the bartender was giving me free drinks, I wanted to go home. I was sickened by everything. My flirting, my dancing, my clothes and especially that cloud of tobacco smoke that followed me everywhere. There is something so beautiful, so sad about trains and their tracks. Especially coming down a high, at midnight, under a stubborn sky. The storm had passed, but little droplets of rain continued to moisten my face. A train car follows the previous, and the previous follows the one before, and the previous follows the one before, and so on, and then it's the conductor who follows the tracks. My grandmother followed her mother's advice, and my mother her mother's, and I try to follow my own mother's, but my tainted views on life spoil the chain. And I am left whispering I do not want this, but I want this also. If I can let go of that rewind button, and let myself move forwardly. If I can follow those tracks my mother build 18 years ago. If my need to live, and create and experience miraculously shut off. If, if, if, if, I was never born the black sheep, everything would be simpler. If, If, If. But in regards to now, I don't think I would trade in life's struggles for its simplicity. I'd go through the bereavements again and again just to know that everything will be fine in the end.