I'm clear. Free. Another year of schooling behind me. It feels great. Accomplishing things that have marks attached is such a pleasant conditioned response. But a teacher, like a writer, is someone who DOES the thing. A writer is only a writer when he writes. A teacher when they teach. A painter when they paint. A bum when they bum. I'm currently a writer-by-default, writing every day until something that pays comes up. Toronto School Board jobs start showing up next week. Here's hoping. I was on a moped this weekend, bombing around the northern countryside outside Ottawa. A 1979 vespa piaggio, the smoothest most beautiful sounding machine I have had the pleasure of driving. The sun was out, high, the humidity was unbreathable, my shirt stuck to the sinews of my body like snakeskin. We needed to move.
With my lady's arms wrapped around my waist, we went exploring the old country roads, waving at and being waved to, all the friendly neighbors. no helmets were required. we explored an antique shop, the marshes, the horse farm. It was lovely.
A car followed us for a minute or so, refusing to pass, despite my slowing to 15km. When we crossed the road to force the issue, he drove past with a wildly happy face and "HII!!!"... An old Italian. We were making his day. He was reliving some past I couldn't see, but clearly a joyful one. Mopeds make people feel funny.
They make me feel free.
