In a recent class, they started discussing ethics, which led to discussing the ethics of people determining what is ethical, which led to some addressing the fact that some were planning on planting shrubs and vegetables, but who knows whether the vegetation wants to be planted. Another person queried whether the street was consulted, before they started filming on it. As if the concrete is a conscious thing exploited unfairly. I started to tremble, any second someone might ask what I thought, and I might not hold back from stating my thoughts that we are all the environment and not separate from it. All of us were born into existence, nobody created life, no one is responsible for it, every right or wrong you jump up and down about – is in your head, where it doesn’t exist (except the endless inner dialogue). And if I blurted it out, I would upset the apple cart, I’ve done it before. Fights or resentments follow about who is right and who is wrong. I got through it silently, hooray. Nodding appropriately like I understood the dilemma of the unplanted grass seed’s real desire and the inanimate feelings of concrete. The part that made me feel most insane is that I do appreciate acknowledging everything as conscious, but framing it as though people are separate (in charge of), foils the possibility of arriving at the destination they pat themselves on the back about heading towards. In the 80s, old drummer Billy Graham lived on Augusta near Spadina in the Kensington Market. Long ago he played with Paul Bley, Sarah Vaughn, Edith Piaf and Charlie Parker. He told me one time, on the subject of Parker, that for certain musicians, it’s worth risking their lives to a heroin overdose, rather than having to experience the unfiltered shock of what the rest of the world doesn’t get about life.