abandoned draft/ purge
Blame the lapse in blog updates on reasons other than sheer laziness? Yes, I’m trying. The man’s absence prompted daily e-mails about the nuances of my life; anecdotes about who said what, when and why; forced optimism with lonely undertones. A brief encounter with fleeting freedom to relocate some misplaced perspective.
I'm anxious. Ancestors from the motherland sink into the grave. Rainy burials wash away their humbling faces. I miss the sound of broken English. Discipline incarnated. 60 years of something from nothing. I wish I could do the same, but I already have bags full of buttons. Instead, I’m left with cultural assimilation, lost language, and impending litigation. I’m a xenophobic foreigner whose roof has never changed.
I retreat to the city on Saturday as a member of the suburban binge-drinking influx. Today, I’m here for a sample of punk rock before it dies too. Roadblocks and sweat stains on pavement; strobe lights under the setting sun. Substitute sidewalk traffic jams for empty alleyways and midnight dinner just to catch the last ride home. End of the line.
7 days later, I'm in a zombie wasteland. Privileged citizens protest against the presence of leaders without names. Anarchists wield destruction to muffle the message of NGOs. Listen to Craig Kielburger's interview for redemption from embarrassment. We receive a post-dinner police escort to safety. “Stay off the street.” Burn down our home.
I offer fashion crimes in the absence of spirit gum. Sober after a week of food poisoning. No I don’t feel like narrating 10 years of my life to random stranger on the dance floor, but I appreciate the kind words. Stiletto blisters send me to sleep.
Overcast Sunday bike ride to the beaches, followed by a cruise around the city to counteract a week of sedentary living. I hit a red light on Queen at Simcoe. An officer informs me that I missed the bike rally. When I questioned the cause he wasn't sure,
“Something about reducing gas consumption, I think.”
“Did they have disposable plastic water bottles?”
He laughs, “Good point. I didn’t check.”
Light turns red. I ride west.
I'm anxious. Ancestors from the motherland sink into the grave. Rainy burials wash away their humbling faces. I miss the sound of broken English. Discipline incarnated. 60 years of something from nothing. I wish I could do the same, but I already have bags full of buttons. Instead, I’m left with cultural assimilation, lost language, and impending litigation. I’m a xenophobic foreigner whose roof has never changed.
I retreat to the city on Saturday as a member of the suburban binge-drinking influx. Today, I’m here for a sample of punk rock before it dies too. Roadblocks and sweat stains on pavement; strobe lights under the setting sun. Substitute sidewalk traffic jams for empty alleyways and midnight dinner just to catch the last ride home. End of the line.
7 days later, I'm in a zombie wasteland. Privileged citizens protest against the presence of leaders without names. Anarchists wield destruction to muffle the message of NGOs. Listen to Craig Kielburger's interview for redemption from embarrassment. We receive a post-dinner police escort to safety. “Stay off the street.” Burn down our home.
I offer fashion crimes in the absence of spirit gum. Sober after a week of food poisoning. No I don’t feel like narrating 10 years of my life to random stranger on the dance floor, but I appreciate the kind words. Stiletto blisters send me to sleep.
Overcast Sunday bike ride to the beaches, followed by a cruise around the city to counteract a week of sedentary living. I hit a red light on Queen at Simcoe. An officer informs me that I missed the bike rally. When I questioned the cause he wasn't sure,
“Something about reducing gas consumption, I think.”
“Did they have disposable plastic water bottles?”
He laughs, “Good point. I didn’t check.”
Light turns red. I ride west.