Four Hour Time Slot
Today, I went to see a film screening of Kanehsatake: 270 Years of Resistance. I’ve seen the film before, but this time watching it, I had more than an emotional response, but a spiritual one. Not to say that the two are distinct or unrelated, but the spiritual affect was predominant within me this time around. This makes sense, considering our current social time. The persistent dis/connection between all forms of existence has been emphasized significantly since the current heaving tides of political governance in the United States have been implemented. The quality of governance being exhibited currently has ultimately accentuated and made distinct the (under)currents of a cultural and socio-political divide.
Yesterday, I walked down The Drive and had three succinct moments of disparity. Moments in which I had wished that time would slow...would slow for me to process what I was experiencing, for time to be slow enough to render that process into wholesome action, for time to slow enough that I could…
But I walked passed the man who was shivering under his coat, lying on the cement.
I silenced myself when the woman at the bookstore wouldn’t consider my Water Is Life poster, even for her own curiosity.
I walked passed, then turned and photographed a sign that read Britannia Community Centre was providing services of warmth and shelter from the cold from 9pm-8:30am until further notice, without walking back to the man shivering a mere 8 blocks away to tell him so.
Today, after the film screening, I reluctantly decided to not attend the in depth conversation with the director and ventured back to my own shelter. On the bus, there was an older man who was incredibly intoxicated. He aggressively stated, I don’t know where I am! I can’t walk! A man standing above him replied, I don’t know what to tell you, man. You’re on the bus, you don’t have to walk.
I have to get to Main and Hastings.
We’re almost there, you’re on the bus.
This man walked to the back and stood next to a woman in a fluorescent vest and said, I can’t work with the stupid. Fuck.
Yeah, the stupid and the dead, I can’t fix em if they’re stupid or dead.
Nope.
Main and Hastings dinged into its stop. The bus driver waited for the drunk man to respond, Hey, this is your stop, he points and shouts at the drunk man.
I can’t walk! I’m drunk! The bus driver waits, insecure about what to do. Insecure about leaving a drunk man on his bus, insecure about potentially having this man as his responsibility.
He waits.
We all wait.
The man slowly pushes himself from his seat and makes his way to the middle door. We are all quietly watching. I close my eyes and tilt my head backwards against the seat, pretending to not pay attention, in part because I am slightly afraid that he will shout aggressive things at me, but in part because he is not a spectacle and I want him to know that. I catch his eye. His cornea are clear but his eyes are wild with drunken bewilderment. He tentatively lowers himself down onto the street, just before the curb, which he tipsily sways towards until he falls smack down onto his face.
I didn’t see how he hit the ground, but his arms didn’t reach out to catch himself. The Asian man next to me stood halfway up to lean over me and look. Everyone looked. Something in me couldn’t bring myself to peer over the windowsill. The bus pulled away, its gasp of exhaust fumes sighing in relief. I watched person after person on the street pointing and laughing pointing and laughing pointing and staring and laughing. Did the man stand up? Did he stay halfways in the street halfways on the sidewalk? Who was going to step in and take care of him? Who was going to…
It took three bus stops for me to figure out what to do. He fell in front of a convenience store. I could have bought him a jug of water, could have told him any story I needed to, to get him to drink it, should have done that and stayed with him until he drank it to make sure his blood, his heart, his spirit was semi-OK.
It was halfway between snowing and raining.
His body was halfway between the street and the sidewalk, the curb a fine line.
I sat on the bus, cold and hungry. Sober and stable, and though, while I didn’t find any of that entertaining, laughable or spectacle worthy, I didn’t do anything.
No one did anything.
When I got home, I made myself something to eat. My body felt weary and I sluggishly made my way to collapse on the bed in my jeans, jacket and scarf. I slept for three hours And in those hours, I dreamt of a voice, not a typical audible voice and not a voice of language, but I was able to interpret the voice into a language. Usually, sound is present in my dreams with an image, but never do I dream without images. This time, I did. The voice spoke to me in soft, slow, utterances. Each utter forced me into a half state of awakeness and dreamscape, in which I shifted directions four times from my right side, to belly, to left side, to back until three hours has past. Each time the voice spoke, I absorbed its meaning, awoke slightly and shifted. My alarm for a half hour nap had long since past and my next class was out of the question. The voice told me, Listen to slow time. Trust and listen to intuition. Take time to rest. When you take time to rest, your ancestors will come and teach you.
When I woke up, I felt the stillness of deep waters and a daunting clarity that I had been recursively avoiding.
When my partner came home, I told her about my dream and my endless task-list that’s been building up and the drunk man on the bus and sidewalk and about the other day on the drive when i cried and prayed for direction and strength of spirit and she responded, Not as a critique, but maybe you’re having trouble with time management.
I went on to say more about the drunk man the three instances on the drive my dream my disparity and my yearning for social love. She said, Have you thought about volunteering? You can find some place that helps you begin to act on the social love that you feel is so important.
That’s just it. Social love isn’t a four hour time slot that fits into my Thursdays. When I pass the man shivering, I care NOW. When the drunk man falls over the fine line of the curb, I show social love, NOW. The rest falls away and that’s what’s scary. Slow time, self-care and rest inherently means that social love is what is imperative right now, in the moment, the rest needs to fall to the wayside. Completing the assignment, the blog entry, the final project, the whatever is secondary, when normally, it is primary. Me first, you second. No. I can’t operate like that anymore. I need to care now.
My partner’s eyebrows furrow in contemplation and concern as she nods her head.
So, when we chat about decolonial love in our class. I may not get to the blog post at the appropriate time, but decolonial love requires time that is slow, process-based and requires rest. I’m on the path and learning how to respect the journey. Priorities are shifting, necessarily, where connection, social love and response-ability are paramount. Where language can (and perhaps needs to) fall away at the helping and care-full hand of our actions. We need each other, more than ever, and I have to believe that by holistically pursuing connection, community and experiential learning, our institutions with have to follow, whatever they may be. Sure, I’m afraid that if I don’t make this “art thing”, or write this “assignment”, or hustle to prove myself “worthy” of getting paid just above minimum wage as a research assistant, that I might not make ends meet...but, then I can’t help but wonder, what ends am I trying to connect, anyway?
