History
When I was 12 years old, I would chase rabbits off the road during my nightly walks. I felt a relationship with them. I think about them when I think about Mississauga.
Years later, I lived in Toronto. Greenery lives in choked pockets. Squirrels would often be flattened on the road. I think about them when I think about Toronto.
Years later, I lived in Stoney Creek. I can’t recall many carcasses—I think coyotes cleaned them up quickly. Instead, skunks trotted the streets at night. They left me alone. I think about them when I think about Stoney Creek.
Contemporary
Years later, I live in Ottawa.
I walked along the canal pathway. I saw the frozen shape of a rabbit. Closer, I saw its spine pointing upwards, while its head rested on the ground.
I walked along Echo drive, approaching the Flora footbridge. I saw a fuzzy tail in the dark. Closer, the body was inseparable from the asphalt. My hand gripped my face and pulled it to the side, and I gasped and kept walking.
I walked to Art House. I saw a bird’s foot plastered to the sidewalk. Closer, I saw a maroon or burgundy. I looked away. [refer to notebook].
The next day, I braced myself for the sight as I walked to Art House again. This time, a large crow hunched over the carcass. I thought of a circle. That made me happy.
I walked to work. I reached a busy intersection. I caught my reflection in the window across, and I stared at myself in a window across the street. I heard a thump. Lazily, my head rotated to the right. A bird had fallen out of the sky, and onto the road. My hand grabbed my face, and yanked it to the left.
I think about them when I think about Ottawa.
Am I a dead animal?
Dead animals are an end to biological life in modernity. The failure to adjust, or a fatal mistake. I resonate with material instances of failure.
Above, each place I lived coincided with texture. A dream-like seclusion in Mississauga. That dream’s dissolution in Toronto. Obscurity and metamorphosis in Stoney Creek. Affliction and friction in Ottawa.
Our intestines
Earlier this week, I upset my body with a change to my diet. I focused on the pressure in my lower abdomen. My intestines? I thought about intestines.
The word intestine has an allure to me.
I laid and thought about intestines. Alien, long, bunched up, responsible for feces. Societies often demarcate waste as dirty, disgusting, related to sickness, rot, and ultimately death. I understand why, but it’s also strange to treat the output a body in such a way. My intestines let me live in health.
I think about my intestines, and I think about dead animals’ intestines. I think about dead animals. I let them in. I give them something. They give me something. We share something.
Difference is perspective. Perspective dictates a lot in human life—it’s a choke point.
Animals have perspective, but it’s pure and material. Human perspective is abstract, weak to illusion, and (ironically) often quite dirty.