Ontario is in the cup of five seas — freshwater dreams rippling in the summertime, carrying fallen red leaves in autumn. It is that combination of being in the cup of water and sprawling north to Openlands. The trucks go east to X City, aka Toronto, aka Dragon City — hauling gravel in large amounts. The tiny stones bounce around. Another marker for summer’s building. Lake Ontario ripples eternally to the east, the tides bringing in the smell of dead fish. The cranes swing round. As autumn descends — my favorite season — the outdoor workers breathe a sigh of relief.
The strong winds of fall are the best. All the trees throw their long hair to the winds. It reminds me of my long hair. The gods of future days are born on such days. They incubate in tree trunks whose bark looks like cryogenic sleep chambers holding wisps of genies.
In winter, the slide-y carooming slush is white like the skin of a favorite fuck-toy. Her tears are the melting avenues on major streets — vektors, by name, with purpose holding up their asphalt.
Last comes spring. The months of March and April have the darkest nights. Their songs are hymns to sharpening knives and breathing last testaments into microphones dangling from commandeered recording studios. May 13 — the exact borderline between spring and summer — was when this website was born, exactly. So Ontario is reminiscent of good things.
But it’s also somewhat of a machine. Ostensibly a heartland figure, it twists you if you enter the machine too much. Vancouver’s much better for leaving my own handprints on. The much-maligned and -mocked “granola culture” of the “left coast” and the “bleeding heart” politics disguise a truly humanist center of a city of three million that is bursting at the seams in its population with everyone wanting to come here (its ranking on the top lists of livable cities in the world is no surprise to those who cycle around the seawall at the edges of the oceanic grandeur).
But Ontario’s cool too.