Saturday Morning

Paper cranes appear on Hasting Street, a little loveliness. I am wandering with a lamb and a few stray cowboys, hung-over from beers and karaoke at Pub. Feeling as dull as cigarette butts and tattered coffee cups. On Cordova I find my name written in pink lipstick on a shiny black wall. There are signs everywhere.

Small Days

A young man carrying the scent of Listerene fills the room, he is twenty eight and at least a full foot taller than me. Handsome but slightly bewildered. His name he says is "JR", as he grips my hand tighter than death, "I was going to write you a letter, if that isn't too forward". He has seen me before, passed me silently on the street, but half drunk and about to leave town, gives him the courage to tell me that he likes my eyes. I am afraid, and trying to shuffle through these unexpected confessions without letting my fear emerge bird like and frail. He could break my hand as easily as tossing a coin into the air and calling heads. Recognizing that my body is small and fragile rarely happens and when it does I feel as though I have been smashed against a wall and the truth is spilling out of me thick and slippery.
Some of the older Chinese men think I am a prostitute. There are sly sideways glances, and suggestive attempts to catch my attention. At times they will be brave enough to point curled fingers at baggy crotches, an action that is difficult to ignore or pretend innocence. In those moments I feel as though I am trapped in a Tom Waits song, something tragic, perverse, gritty, beautifully written, and haunting.

I can't remember every name. I agree to let one of the ladies help me out in the shop. She is frustrated because she needs to do volunteer work and no one will let her. She thinks it is because her two front teeth have rotted into small sharp nubs. She is probably right. Her attempts at starting some form of church in the alley have failed, the reception she tells me was not favorable. There are too many people trying to sell God, when everyone else seems to just be able to find him. Today I feel as though God has most certainly abandoned this place.

A man with his shirt unbuttoned and the dirtiest chest I have even seen gives me a plant that is almost clinging to this life. When he leaves I watch hundreds of tiny baby cockroaches move like a living carpet along the empty branches. It is I suppose the thought that counts and I am thinking this poor bastard is going straight into the alley. I feel a moment of regret and then a moment of self preservation. You do what you can. I am given gifts almost on a daily basis.

A man in handcuffs is laying, his face sidways, pressed againest the sidewalk, he tells me he likes my boots as I am walking past. I thank him because I am uncertain what else I should say, I stop myself from wishing him a nice day. The contents of his life is tumbled across the concrete; a collection of pennies, a tin sucrets box, a pyrex piece of pipe, three nickles and a dime. In my head I am gathering these things up, thinking it is not enough, placing everything back into the pocket of his jacket which lays forlorn and stripped a few feet away. The two police officers ignore the exchange, nothing is surprising or out of the ordinary, we are all used to the images the varying degrees of dignity and lack of it. I am trying to be harder, tough on the outside, while keeping something gentle wrapped around the soul, a pashima of some sort.

One can not avoid the Night Market. It shines just before the sun goes down and everyone understands that summer might just arrive.

Scratch the paint and there is a tenderness of human spirit that astounds me everyday. Yuen is breaking my heart. The sun is shining and I can feel two tears sitting tight in the inner corners of my eyes. We promise each other that we will travel safe, she is teaching me that friendship is a combination of trust, respect, passion, and longing. My desire to save her, pull her into my arms and hang on, is selfish.
I am given a bulb of garlic, the weak pale shoots sit fragile in my hands. He passes it to me as if it is a jewel, a promise, a small measure of hope. He wants me to care for it, to plant it, to make it reproduce and continue some endless cycle of living. I am reluctant to accept such tremendous responsibility, I am reluctant to make those kinds of promises, perhaps if I believed in a god I would be more willing. He tells me he knew my grandfather, although he has not asked my name, he says, "he was a rich casino owner". What he does not know is that my grandfather like him believed in the papery magic of garlic cloves, the aroma rising from his fingertips filled me with fondness.

the ten consistencies:
1. stolen bicycles
2. shopping carts
3. used needles
4. blue latex gloves
5. hello
6. sirens
7. take out pizza plates
8. black hoodies
9. wheelchairs
10. big red tourist buses

Found by the tracks this morning and yes it is nice to meat you.

Occasionally I get to house-sit in the most amazing place on Main Street. I call it heaven and every time I am there I am not sure if I will change the locks or not. I spent the May long week-end lounging in said heaven...fucking amazing. I am back in the back and those who know me, know what that means, the rest is guess work. I try to spend at least one hour a day sitting on my front step observing the lives that also circle these four small blocks. Sometimes an hour is filled with so much sorrow, but sometimes the joy is overwhelming. I am listening to Damien Jurado's "Bad Dreams"... and I could use a little saving from the fire right now. I am also hoping that no one is listening.

I am fighting my self imposed reclusive behaviour, a life contained in four blocks. I want to document my encounters with these streets, my place in them, my exclusion from them, my tenderness, and frustration. I would choose to be no where else. I am compulsive, I eavesdrop, I love language and I certainly love it's profanities. I must not forget to add I love my dog, her snoring is this last thing I remember every night before I fall asleep. She is fourteen and I fear her death more than my own, I am selfish I can't bear to suffer the loss. Once again it's nice to meat you.

meat meet

peek peak

male mail

horse hoarse

made maid

Eight Things That Happened Today:

1. Daniel hugged me on the corner of Hastings and Main. The sun was shining and it was a perfect moment.

2. Her mother owns a flower shop in Alberta. I remind her of home, I remind her of comfort.

3. A woman abandons a pair of sneakers. Even though I witnessed the action take place, I remain curious of the why. How long will they sit, one on the curb, and one in the gutter.

4. Dean comes to visit. He has five days left in re-hab then he is getting the hell out of here. I lend him ten dollars even though after three years here I know better. I remain hopeful.

5. For the first time in five years I am not in love or excited about the idea. I am satisfied.

6. Yuen walks by, in a baseball cap, white lighter held tight in her fist. She is beautiful despite hard choices. Her face enlightens my afternoon.

7. The bottle lady passes by she wishes me "Happy New Year" in Chinese even though it is May. She will still be wishing in October.

8.The shoes are gone, it took about forty-five minutes. Nothing lasts forever.

Plastic horses on the streets.