Some friends of mine ask why I don't move closer to the central neighbourhood they live in, themselves. And I tell them I AM planning to re-locate. But I've been planning that for years, and never get much further with it, drag that moving is. I've also been planning to find the partner with whom to consider such major life-choices, another equally stalled project.

But the move wouldn't necessarily be to right downtown. That would deprive me of some of the pleasure of visiting those very same friends, among others. I'm a walker, for one thing. But I also quite like public transit, especially the subway.

I like the way the subway forces me into a smallish space with a largish number of other human beings.

And yet, whenever the train emerges from the depths, I crane my neck greedily to soak in details from the planetary surface. (It's not as though any of my fellow Torontonians were actually engaging me in conversation under there!)

Like, there's a stretch between Davisville and St Clair -- gawd, where do I start? The cemetery, the subway yard itself, the personal history of having once done a stint of work on Merton street...

I like the way traffic on Yonge sometimes freezes in the frame of the subway window, both rolling along at the same, considerable speed. I like the stroboscopic mixture of transparency and reflection, through two sets of windows, when another train passes by at ground level.

Visuals like that often make me think of movie shots. You can probably tell I like to write. In more recent years I've sometimes carried around a little camcorder as an alternate means of expressing the same creative urges. Glorified home videos, really -- do my best to avoid any grander pretensions.

In fact, I've recently begun to wonder why I feel the need to turn it all into some kind of story, or presentation, at all?

If a character in a movie or book were looking out the window of his moving subway, that would be the story all by itself: there's the guy, the life he's on his way to and in the middle of, the equally interesting fellow passengers he's surrounded by. Look at the bright, urban day flashing past outside, or the way reflections play across darkened glass surfaces. If the real, simple beauty of all of that were well captured in a story, it would be compelling enough that you'd be voluntarily drawn into the character's life, would you not?

So why can't I let it suffice in my own real life? Hmm. I'm working on that one.

What are you working on?

I like to meet someone over a drink or a coffee/tea. Been known to shoot a game of pool, as well, which tends to help dissipate some of that first-date, nervous energy.