I find it fascinating that something so simple as a walk in the dark can spark so many memories.
How in the quiet, eyes washing over familiar shapes I squint to see, the puke smeared sidewalks, mossy mansions, and spray paint sanctioned scaffolding tug my heart strings with nostalgic quality.
Perhaps it is the moon mystifying the murky marks of meaning in my mind, or the funny feeling walking home brings by making sad goodbyes and fond hellos simultaneous, or maybe it is nothing more than my friends Simon and Garfunkel who dance with me on this warm Saturday making Main and Hastings sing a romantic rumble.
Past the weird parking lot where beautiful bombs clad in Army and Navy thongs huddle in the breeze offering love for small fees.
Past the library filled with books nobody reads and many bags of government subsidized frozen peas distributed on Tuesdays at 5pm in the meal hall on a first come first serve basis.
Past the corner where in the daytime that friendly face, my neighbourhood mexican pimp, asks me every time I walk by “What are you a model?”. Fernando knows how to flatter.
Past the grocery store where I have purchased tonnes of two for one tofu and less than edible vegetables I justified with the promise of freezing or making into soup. In this moment I miss the violent cackles of elderly chinese woman eating produce straight from the bin on their lunch breaks, clutching little pocket knives and overripe avocados quite obviously making fun of customers in plain sight.
Past the strip club whose doors tonight go unguarded by the pushy panhandler with her waxy wigs, wielding a silver walker like a weapon of war. The gaudy SUVs normally parked outside housing pudgy pill pushers have all driven back to their suburban homes for the evening, the curb is left un badgered and barren.
In the mild air I could meander forever, eternally enamored with my own memories. I am quite content in these times, a little lonely and more receptive to all the loveliness around me. Sometimes my neighborhood leaves me heartbroken, hindered by all these majestic moments which make the present seemingly unmatchable.
But without long walks, heartbreak, and reminders of the things in life we deem great well there would be no poetry. New York, Paris, Berlin, and Spain, fuck off, you have enough poems! Vancouver in April around 11:30PM, you are nothing more than dark and dirty, I don’t love you very much at all. But looking up at your buildings art deco in style and medium tall, smelling the rotten oranges, the human shit smeared like graffiti on the wall, the empty corners where me and smiling strangers sneakily recognize each other daily, the stretch of sidewalk where people sell heroin tucked in old sneakers and pawn off family heirlooms, the peculiar foliage fawning over felons, tonight standing in this messy mosh posh part of you tucked away behind shopping malls and yoga studios I feel more than a little attached to your monuments.
With that, a sweet goodnight to my city.
For once in your life, tonight you look pretty.