Hills of dirt
the joy on the other side of the caution tape
Knob hill food terminal.
Dunno. Something like that.
Eventually became a really nice grocery store.
But still very nice.
Far end of parking lot, fence, train tracks, stumbling late night self proclaimed poetry of youth.
But before the poetry there was the irrational, the absurd, the upsetting of all reality.
Giant piles of dirt sixty feet high.
Is that accurate?
Humungous piles of dirt - one hundred feet high!
That’s not accurate either.
Piles of dirt so vast and piled so high, that they may have been connected to the sanitary septic field of Mount Olympus.
Staggering home from ‘Kung Fu Fridays’ at the Royal, we found ways through the construction barricades and passed through the facade left behind to appease the heritage society and their love of keeping up appearances.
Once through, there they were. The dirt piles.
It was there that we played the greatest game ever invented: Hill Fling
Hill Fling involved climbing to the top of these massive dirt piles and flinging ourselves down the other side.
We were considering calling it ‘Pile Fling’ but decided that was such a funny name, it would need to be used elsewhere.
Moreover, if we skidded down the piles on our arse, the impact of the sand and grit on our buttholes, would create piles of another sort. These ones with all of their pain and itching, likely stretching all the way to Hades.
Either way, Hill Fling was a gas. Being intoxicated, in a place we were not supposed to be doing something we were not supposed to do, in a crowded city with no one else there with us sent our spirits soaring.
In a city of 2.5 million people, exactly three people played Hill Fling. Me, my room mate and his girlfriend.
It’s a pretty exclusive club.
Some might argue that such an activity should be opened up to anyone and everyone, that there’s something about the lack of inclusioning.
What made it fun was that I didn’t have to share the moment was a loud family of seven from the suburb of Woodbridge,
A big part of the fun was knowing that this game was our game. It was something intimate, lovely and playful and ‘only for us’.
And the ‘us’ in question?
We all lived in the same little flat on Roncesvalles Avenue.
Hill Fling lasted exactly three months. After that, the hills were gone, they were gone.
The Dirt’s still there, under the floors of the No Frills near Dundas West and Landsdown - though moving over them likely lacks the gritty, tumbling charm that I enjoyed.
Anyone can pass over them. You can do it with kids, shopping carts and even a family of seven from Woodbridge are welcome.
But the thrill?
The thrill is gone.
As we work for greater inclusion in the world it’s important to remember that no matter how hard we try, or what we do, things are never 100% inclusive or acceptable to everyone.
And that’s not only ok, that’s a big part of the magic of being alive.