and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

And so that's the way it goes. With a flurry and a flush Independence day has come and gone and, had I not checked the date when paying my cell phone bill, I would probably not have noticed. Nevermind that I'm in a foreign country, I barely noticed Canada Day on the 1st. Instead it's been a whirlwind of visitors, travellers of all ilks, and long overdue meetings. The kind where you make big plans and, surprisingly, some of them actually happen.

The weekend was split in two, cleaved as if by a giant butcher's knife falling through time and space. Half was spent in a glacial lake, around camp fires, with a wet dog chasing a tennis ball over, and over, and over again. The monotony of which was neither lost on me nor unappreciated. Once again, beer played a larger part than one would hope, as such summer months tend to encourage. That too, over the last few weeks, has been a whirlwind tour. From cheap light american beer in cans to 40oz. of cheap Quebec malt liquor. From the likes of Stella to the lowest dregs of Bud light, and even Michelob Ultra Amber (who the hell bought that shit?).

The second part of the weekend, which served more as two bookends than a whole half, was spent in the heart of the city with the jazz festival in full swing. Crowded sweaty people cheering and laughing, swaying (perhaps from the beer) and wandering around in a huge blocked off area of the downtown core. The usual haunts were employed as meeting places, waterholes, and general debauchery. After a fully drenching downpour (the crowd holding out for longer than one would ever expect) new spots were found that quenched our desires for dancing, gyrating, ridiculously silly motions - the kind that can only happen in a large group of your closest friends, when dancing for that girl a few feet away has no meeting - there is no girl - and all of it is just some made up story in your head; spastic spinng records and beers and sitting, catching your breath on the patio, sweating but not knowing because your soaked from head to toe in rainwater the same temperature as your body squishing in your shoes. But oh, no worries, the bartender serving gimlets and tonics and beers and the sheer mass of your friends driving out the rest of the clientele; older people in town for the festival having wandered in unawares of the impending mosh of people and water and sheer energy.

Too much energy can be too much for anyone. We all have our limits that move daily like the tide. Who knows? up? down? Today we will never know. Toe in the water, too cold. Hand out the window, yes it's hot.

Shorts.

Soccer in the park with crazy brazillian kids teaching you that you don't know the first thing about the sport - the sport you played for most of your life. Loud Portegese and Italian fans honking incessantly down the street, flags flying out windows, out sunroofs, even held between vehicles side by side cruising down the street in celebration of the world cup, the World Cup..

And so that's the way it goes. Summertime, seemingly so serene and smooth everything strung together, night, day, slipping against eachother like wet flesh, it's faster and quicker than you know even though after twenty eight long years, even after almost three decades you'd think you'd have learned something. You'd think.