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Diaryland

I Start Fires!

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2002-06-19

Piggy's specs were nicked at: 9:57 p.m.

Country and city folk are sometimes intolerant of each other. Thinking a bit on the matter, maybe it's not because of nastiness. One is scared of the other.

I've spent ample time in small towns ... not enough, mind you, for such writing projects as Widerstand, something I'd like to remedy. :) Small towns are nice communities where the Salvation Army Band plays and the children drink lemonade. And the morning seems to last aaaall day.

But when I mention to the old folks on their sun-bleached porches that I'm from a big city, a cold wind blows grey clouds over the sun. "A ... city? But they're dirty, full of violent, angry people and the public schools are pits, packed with tons of influence."

"Ever lived in a big city?"

"...No. But I heard from--"

Etc.

Not to say their fears aren't justified, but they're enormously exaggerated. About 99% of a city's population isn't out to kill you or flash their goods at you. They've just got a job and a home to bitch over. It's a matter of adapting. Sure, traffic sucks. Solution: Don't drive during rush hour. If you must, bike or take the bus (or subways. Subways are magical). All public schools suck. Your child will lose his innocense the second he learns a "pook" is actually a "FART," no matter if they grew up in a crop of skyscrapers or corn. Even private schools, from the many people I've interviewed on the matter, aren't safe havens. If anything, the drug / gang problem is worse. As for pollution ... well, it wasn't the outside air that gave me tuberculosis. It was stale, indoor air. Thank you Christmas shoppers.

So I'm just being a big city bitch, ain't I? Nope, because I have my weaknesses and superstitions, too. I love the country until the small town life drives me batty. But that takes a while. Country nights will dry my brainmeat much faster...

I love city nights. I hate city days, but I love the night. Everyone's gone to bed, and the world belongs to the nighthawks. I walk or I bikeride through a warm ribcage of golden city lights, racing playfully with the odd car that whispers down the road. The night can't drop its curtain on a city. Headlights, traffic lights and office lights drive it back.

But country nights...

They terrify me pretty badly. My grandmother used to live in London Ontario, near London Airport. They were surrounded by vast quantities of trees and nothing. Their porch lights could penetrate only so many layers of the night. A stop sign stood at the end of their driveway, and that was the end of the world. Everything else dropped off into blackness. Their lit driveway was the only area on earth paying homage to humanity. Everything beyond belonged to the godless hands of Satan and the Legions of the Night.

Yeah, I had a lot of trouble falling asleep as a kid.

Here's a matter that didn't help. My mother's friend once lived in a refurbished schoolhouse near Lake Scougog in Ontario. There was no other house like it; you could still make out kids' faint initials from the 1800's on the brick wall.

It was also in the middle of nowhere. One night, my older brother and I took a dare from a boy in the farmhouse across the road. We went with him for a walk in the middle of the night, down the lane. It was creepy enough, being surrounded by fields of whatever long enough for Flagg and his wolves to jump out at you when it was already too late to run. But when we picked up a shadow that started to chase us while shouting drunkenly, I pretty much lost my love for the peace and quiet of the Ontario northlands. And boy shit, did we ever run!

So, you can say I believe it all. The stories of crop circles, headless horsemen, aliens, abductions ... it all happens, but only in the northern towns!

I'm just as stupid as the old people.

Let us educate each other. You teach me not to shit my pants over country nights, and I'll teach you not to lose your dentures over the happy boys and girls who mate in the Toronto parks when spring arrives.