I parked my car

I parked my car. Not my car: my parent’s car. Their roughly 2000-2004 silver sunfire came to a halt on a dirt cut-off road from the highway, under the guidance of yours truly, I was just on. The dirt road lead me, if I continued down it, toward a wharf and some docks for the Lake of the Woods—but I turned into a cut-off of a cut-off to keep out of people’s way. I arrived in Ontario about six songs to the end of a flaming Lips album, and a few concertos to the middle of Bach’s Brandenburg concertos before this moment. I had been driving on a highway that would take me into the heart of Kenora (I didn’t know that for sure then, but assumed as much since no other roads were going the same way I thought the direction Kenora was in) and now I stopped at a dirt road overlooking the Lake of the Woods: with its islands, grey overcast clouds, and scattered boats, it looked really nice. I had been wanting to stop for a while by then, and thought maybe I’d take a stop off at falcon lake before I would reach Kenora: but when the turn off came, I was going too fast (I assured myself), and I really didn’t care for stopping at that time, even though I had to use the bathroom pendingly urgent.
As I looked at the lake, I noticed that there was an obstruction in my way of the view: a boat being advertised for sale. I didn’t look at the price or the sign then, but just glimpsed at it. I looked over to where a concrete barrier to the left of the boat, almost completely below the earth like an iceberg on land, with its tip sticking out to tell me it was there and a powerful force that would stop cars if they tried to jump the lake. In-fact, the barrier would most likely serve as a nice launch ramp, destroying the bottom of the car and sending the car either flipping over it down to the little beach below, or sending the driver through the window out into the lake—depending on the car.
I don’t live in a lake community—have never lived in one, only in a sprawling ‘little, big urban city’—so my words at describing the concrete barriers and such ‘lake objects’ are lacking at present.
I went up to the barrier, walked to it, and looked at the lake free from boats in my way. An island was directly ahead of me with a little house on it. The house wasn’t really little. It was bigger than anything I’ve ever lived it, but just looked little from where I was. I thought of how it would be nice to live on an island; thought about the recent floods Manitoba and south of my province were having, wondering if anything was flooded here in relation to that house on the island, but and saw that nothing seemed really wrong or in peril. Everything was in a lazy sort of calm just doing the days work and going on by. Not really thinking about the end, just living in the moment contently and calmly. There were rock cliffs right at the sides of the highway I was on with houses on top of them looking down at the driver-bys, and was excited at the ideas and fantasies if I could live in one of those—to wake up in the morning and look out through your window past the below moving cars towards the glimmering lake in the walkable distance… would be nice. I went up upon the rectangle tip of the concrete-berg barrier and sat upon it looking out again. Just looking. Wondering. Thinking. Not thinking at all. Just looking. Slightly trying to get myself to ponder something, but letting it go by when nothing came.
I then looked down and saw the little beach where the lake jumper’s car would fall and decided to go down there. I started my descent annoyed at my twenty-dollar, piece-of-crap shoes and slid down the steep rise from the lake surface up to the top of the concrete slab.
At the bottom I sat on a log or rock (I can’t remember what exactly) and looked out at the lake from the same level as it. The cold wind blew at me from the right and a couple of boats road past in the distance—too far to create strong waves at my end. A few seagulls flew over head, back and forth—it might have been the same one checking me out (that’s what I thought), but I wasn’t sure: I wasn’t paying too deep of attention to the number of seagulls in my vicinity.
I then thought I should get my guitar out that I brought and start playing down at the beach. I climbed the rise up to the concrete barrier and jumped over. The boat was still there, advertising its purchase, and my car was still parked in its diagonal angle on the dirt cut-off-cut-off from the highway. A quick thought of wonder at what I would have done if the car was gone flashed inside the back of my mind, but it didn’t go farther than that thought exactly. I went to the back of the car and unlocked the truck getting it to pop up revealing the only contents being worth mention: my guitar in its case. I picked up my guitar, slung it on my back with its only remaining right shoulder strap and walked over to the edge of the highlands where I was before. I made my way down the slope careful not to let anything touch the guitar on the way down: if I would fall, I’d take the impact rather then let the guitar.
I played a few songs, mostly just inspirational chord progressions—meaning: I just played noise which sounds to most non-players like music. Some seagulls—again, maybe the same one—few by and started to squawk at me. At least I thought at me, so I started to whistle and sing to them. They kept up their talking, and I copied them, in an imitation of their voice, in the hopes of annoying them. There were no disturbances down at the beach where I was playing. Only one boat came close enough to cause the waves lapping at the shore to grow in size, frequency, and volume; but no people could be heard or cars discerned from the highway just a little above the rise where I sat. After the wind started getting colder, I decided to pack things up and continue on towards Kenora, which I could see in the not far off distance—again, the walkable distance.
When I made my way to the top of the rise from the beach, with guitar shouldered, a man was standing by the boat looking at it. I thought for an instant he was looking at my car too, but I put aside the paranoia and went up to my car. We spoke a few words of introduction about the boat when I neared my car and I decide to engage him—I always was expecting to. I remember thinking that he possibly thought I was the one selling the boat, and seemed to speak to me like I was. I didn’t at first make it apparent I wasn’t, and internally mused over the situation. We then became slightly more personal and spoke about the state of the country, the world, and this area we found ourselves now looking at: the Lake of the Woods. I asked if he lived here, he said yes just a little ways up the highway towards Keewatin, and indirectly asked what I was doing. I explained that I was from Winnipeg and came here for the day… I don’t know why, but sometimes in conversations with people I grow bored and blank: my mind freezes or goes into barely able to focus mode. I have to consciously keep myself looking at them and listening to them… I just want to stare blankly… I started to not want to talk to him anymore and stared at his weird looked glasses and face directing the conversation to a close—subtly of course! This wasn’t a bad thing, this whole conversation, I am just describing it, I enjoyed it, and still do.
After we ended our talk I got into the car. Bach started to play again, and I headed into the city that was only about 1km away from me. Nothing like I remember it being as a child, but still amazingly beautiful and would be great to live in.
I spent a lot of money that day… Money I still am mad at myself for losing… *sigh*