time spent offline

Nothing fun happens on the internet, so I learn little by little, I get used to getting used to. I get used to spending weekday evenings out and about because the alternative isn’t a social media feed with endless junk to scroll through until I pass out from exhaustion. The alternative is plenty of time, space, and void— Ample, endless, unrelenting— demanding to be filled with anything, anything but the deafening silence of solitude. So I learn little by little to search for stuff to do IRL, to make the effort reality requires; after work, before a workout class, after an evening out and the night is still young. A fitness instructor once said to me, You either learn to love the pain or love the result. I wonder, can you learn to love both?

That ordinary Wednesday, like all the other Wednesdays before and after it, I finished work at 5pm and I knew admission was free at the Art Gallery of Ontario downtown Toronto, as it is every Wednesday 6pm to 9pm. The only thing not ordinary that Wednesday was it was an unusually warm winter day at 13 degrees Celsius in the middle of February. All day long, I felt giddy soaking up the sunshine, the warmth, on my commute to work and back. I couldn’t get enough, and I wanted more. With internet that died for me years ago, and about four hours to spare that evening before sleep takes its course, on an unusually warm evening in the midst of February, I decided to go to the museum. Instead of the usual 5-minute bus ride, I walked the 20-minute to the train station; with four hours to spare that evening, I was in no rush to get anywhere.

As I usually do, I began my visit at the museum with taking a leisurely stroll through the gift shop. At the shop, they have a special section for Jean-Michel Basquiat’s collection, and earlier that day at work, someone had described Jay Z as he wants to be Jean-Michel Basquiat and despite myself, I laugh out loud with the uncanny description looking through photos of Jean-Michel Basquiat. I stuck around paying extra attention to the collection and I notice Basquiat’s art makes you feel, and abstractness that usually repulses me delights me just then. I also find out he died so young, younger than the age I am at now, and I think to myself, 27 used to be so old, when did age happen to me?

Alone, with nobody to impress, I give myself permission to notice what I notice, rather than try to notice what I’m supposed to notice: What does this art say to me? How does it make me feel? Do I like it? Does it interest me? Do I think it’s cool? The internet makes you hyperaware of everyone’s thoughts, feelings, reactions, opinions and this inadvertently influences your reactions, thought, feelings, opinions. Is this interesting? Is this cool? You can go online and find out. Without the burden of the digital influence, I learn to return to child-like wonder. I look for what feels good, daring, bold, intoxicating, that which invokes, inspires, transports, transforms. Does this make me want to touch, taste, feel? Does it leave me exhausted with wanting more?

I like nature, so naturally, I start with images of the outdoors. I imagine sitting by one of the images above. I imagine myself inside the painting; Would it be cold? I wonder, too, what the artist is like: What kind of person makes art like this? How much patience does it take to create something like this? How much patience do you have? How much do I have? I pull out my phone and begin taking notes in my Notes app: Writing happens everywhere, at the gallery, the cafe, walking down the street, living through one day at a time.

I’m reminded of fall, which feels so far out in the future in the midst of my February blues; I need to get through winter, spring, summer— then fall. Two better seasons in between. I think about how time never stops; it goes on and on and on and on, and on, and I have no choice in the matter but to notice. I notice the snow melting, the days getting longer, warm summer nights, until one day I notice trees changing colours— red, yellow, orange, and it’s fall: I want to cry. I wanted to live, you know, on my own terms, and one day it surprised me to simply know, feel it so deeply that my life mattered just as much, at the very least as much as his, and the earth whispered back, love isn’t enough sometimes: I miss you, I’m so sorry. 

This is the artist: Lawerence Harris, and he refuses to repeat himself— How liberating! I learn a concept: Theosophy: A belief in the spiritual interconnectedness of all things. Theosophy. Theosophy. Theosophy. I hope to not forget, the word, but I know I won’t forget, I will always remember, all things are interconnected.

By now, I can’t stop thinking about fall, my least favourite season. I used to say it was my favourite season because everybody said it was theirs; Pumpkin spice latte memes and all. Growing up, we only had two seasons in Ethiopia: Summer and summer with rain. In that moment, many, many, many years later, it occurs to me fall is my least favourite season. So forgettable. In fact, I hate fall: Everything dies. I tolerate winter, adore spring, lavish in the summer months, but fall? I fall apart. Spring is a much better season to love: A season of beginnings, of rebirth and renewal. I love the smell of fresh earth and warm air in spring. If hell had a season, it would be fall; death.

I prefer the museum alone, less self-conscious and more alert. I can pay attention to the crookedly hanging paintings, the uneven eyes of a boy; Was it intentional? I notice and I wonder, wandering: This is time spent offline in a nutshell.

Can I make a painting like this? I love it so much. So messy, yet so beautiful: Reminds me of a life I call mine. If you zoom in, there is so much texture. I lean in to notice, without getting too close so it doesn’t freak out the museum people.

I want to sit right at the edge in the middle of this one, and stare at the water for eternity; get in the painting, and look out into the distance forever. I can’t wait for summer; to be by the beaches, lakes, rivers, and stare at the water long enough, with sunshine warming my soul and hear the gods whisper, love isn’t enough sometimes. But, there are so many painting about fall: Is it the colours? It’s a very ugly season, beautiful colours though. I don’t want to live with longing. I want to be outdoors, with the elements. I want to feel the textures of earth.

“Kids being kids, reminds me of being a kid,” someone says as we all stand around observing this painting, “Canadian childhood,” another one chimes in. I’m eavesdropping. I love the joy of reminiscing, remembering; even if that childhood had nothing to do with my childhood, but I know, I know, I know; I understand.

After all the colours, texture, lines and engraves, the simplicity of a single black dot is almost overwhelming. Really, it’s love at first sight. I don’t care for meaning lately, I look for beauty: Some things are beautiful, and beautiful things demand attention— Ugly things demand attention too: What makes you pay attention? You choose. 

Green is a nice colour, I guess. I haven’t considered it before but I’m considering it now. Maybe I noticed it all along but I didn’t pay enough attention until this moment, and I consider green to be a nice colour.

Precise, geometric, and minimalist is how post-war paining in Canada is described; and somehow I want my writing to feel this way too. Exhausted with longing, I leave for home. It’s almost 9pm when I leave the museum and by the time I get home, close to 10pm, there is still ample space, time, an unrelenting void remaining, but there is also joy, delight; the pleasure of a night spent out and about getting lost in swarming bodies all over the city, happy to know there is still so much to see, notice, feel, and be inspired by— Still so much of the living happening offline, happening IRL with enough effort.

How much effort is your life worth?