Friday, January 09, 2009

Grey January rain. Tank-traps of dirty snow at the curb, studded with gravel, cigarette butts, aluminum pull-tabs. A skirt of bright green grass at the foot of the little tree outside the door. Rain beads on the little tree's branches, on the edge of the shop's awning, on the steel-blue roof of the Honda cozied right into a curbside drift. The woman in the passenger seat briefly contemplates getting out, thinks better of it, scrambles out the driver's door into traffic. Honk of a startled bus.

I'm describing these things because I want to record them. Here in Vancouver, where forgetting is the order of the day.

Water erasing the alluvial fans in the gutter.

Timber erased by glass.

Individuality erased by the consensual hallucination of Lotusland.


Douglas Coupland; Ikea; Eckhart Tolle.

New Broadway condos.

Cooling hollandaise on your Sunday brunch eggs.

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