Drunk on the view

I became trapped at a friend's birthday party last night - snared by the view from his 11th storey balcony.

It's been so long since I had a room with a view.
I forgot how beautiful Winnipeg is when you rise just a few metres and look out over the elm tree canopy.
I forgot the strange mix of contemplation and voyeurism from looking down at people-shaped ants.
I forgot the tickle of danger from standing by the edge.
I wonder how much our physical position impacts how we think. When we're raised up, buried deep down, wandering far away - do our thoughts match our predicaments?

Library

It's 9:50 am. I need back issues of the Winnipeg Free Press for research. I'm at the Millennium Library, waiting for the iron cage that protects thesauri, microfiche and periodicals to be rolled back by the five - five - security guards on the other side.

There's a strange mix around me. The unoccupied elderly; jittery students; street people looking to fill their hours with warmth and infotainment. There are subdivisions within these groups: the unbathed, unshaven man who naps with his head lolling back, gently mocked by his peers. There's a long haired goth hiding under his hoodie and clutching a briefcase.

The crowd is milling, restless. At five minutes to the hour, on cue, they form a line. I'm an outsider here. These are regulars, chased out at end of day and returning at first opportunity.

The hour comes and passes by a few seconds. No movement from the guards and the lineup's temperature shifts. The aura has changed. It wants its due.

And a guard notices. He groans, poor lamb. Slowly he reaches for the gate, then slams the slats together to push the thing open (the noise is clearly a pleasure). And the line heads in, not quite running, not quite walking, fanning out to pre-claimed nooks.

I love it. I love that there's still somewhere (anywhere) where some people (any people) will politely stampede for books.