A Sunday Stroll

Sunday, March 13, 2005

Was awakened by a flock of overexcited gulls this a.m. at about 6. Bird gossip must be rich around here. My studio tends to be dark so on this spectacularly bright morning at 8:45ish I slipped into the park by Lost Lagoon in a flash. I passed the tennis courts, a half populated group of 12 courts and this time I noticed that you have to pay $9.50 an hour and book ahead. No poor folk hereabouts going to Wimbeldon any time soon.

Sat down on the rather too rigid park bench facing the green-headed ducks all a dippin' and the two majestic swans, their beaks darting in and out of the ragged shore foliage. A few more people around than last time as this is a Sunday a.m. and quite a good proportion of them are joggers, in groups and pairs mostly. The singles are zoned out on their tunes stuck in the ears and the female pairs are ever chatting, the male pairs more determined and grim-faced. (Their $200 runners demand a solemn comportment.) The sun on the small lake, this nook of it being quite neatly tucked away, threw glittering reflections all around those dear little duckies and with the arched pedestrian bridge spanning just downcreek the scene had a European feel to it.

Took notes on my script, On the Border of Light setting out the storyline for the day Benoit meets Ides, the same day his mother dies. After a bit, I mosied on over to the seawall to let the embrace of the seaweedy ocean swell over me and negotiated among the mommies running pushing their baby carriages, the strollers and the dogs (all unbelievin' as master gets down to scoop. They always knew their shit didn't stink).

I counted six freighters in the bay and imagined all those men layin' about on union wages nursing a hangover or in town somewhere working on one. These people passing me each sporting their own gait, a tell-tale thing for sure. Some look like they're walking into the ground, shoulders thrust forward, defying adversity. Others frumping about long having given up on any notion of suave. Others all a'jiggle, obviously desperate for the running. One woman with her shoulders pinched and her little hands held high by her chest, puffing out with beads of sweat threatening to melt her agonized countenance. One carriage-pushing mom has to hold up her rhythm to admonish baby, "No growling now." Ah, such a joyous lot.

I could make out the mountains in the distance of Vancouver Island shrouded slightly by a dirty air. Off the bench and rounding the corner I check out the artist's rendering of seascapes and faces. Art might be subjective but this guy holding forth about Picasso and Cubism is definitely in the objectively mediocre phase. Davie Street is all a glitter amidst the apartment highrises and I can see all the way up to Thurlow (about 8 blocks). This main artery was host to many of my youthful shenanigans, playing poker with Montreal drag queens at 3 a.m. at George's restaurant right there by the beach. They'd get wailin' drunk and climb up on the table and do some wild version of dancing as they hiked up their dresses and laughed wickedly at the world. Vulgar, pathetic and rich. And generously bad at poker. And I recall conversations with all those Davie Street teen hustlers who are probably dead by now, not having escaped the plague of the '80's, which seems to have migrated successfully to Africa after metamorphosing into a manageable disease here in Vancouver with HIV positives everywhere taking expensive medications, their faces slightly twisted, eyes agog, their necks prematurely roostered.

I catch snatches of conversations and still I hear most people chatting with a defensive kind of anxiety in their vocal manner. I used to have a girlfriend who would respond to almost everything I said with, "But..." and then proceed to set me straight, about the weather even. We didn't last long. "But..." I'd rather listen to those minor waves cascading having crossed the breadth of the whole ocean and now each with a separate story for me. Telling me secrets. So poetic. From whimsical youth to ancient tragedies replayed.

I've been thinking a lot lately about painting. Just noodling in my head about it as though I'm familiar with it from some previous life of brilliant art-making. These images in my head will have to find their manifestation from these keys I'm tapping. Well homeward now and I see someone has spent their artistry on piling a few rocks on top of each other on bases of boulders by the beach and with five of these little precarious sculptures I imagine the artist has made his statement... about the arbitrariness of it all, the haphazard way we each survive, barely managing to brook the wind.