from Vancouver, Book One

4 If I were a man – if this were my city – like – I just heard yesterday someone on the radio, the AM station, 1130, I found out about on the Talking Yellow Pages, they have a little ad for it that comes on before the weather – Lock Your Radio – the station I turn on to hear if there’ve been any accidents – the announcer said ‘Capilaino,’ like Denny Boyd says old Vancouverites pronounce it –                     * Nick’s driving                         along Venables & I look at the sun                              this late September afternoon, daylight saving                                         still ‘hangs’ high in the sky                     * This is being written just after noon on September 22, 1999 – probably the last day of this gentle, warm late summer that followed a cold, rainy August.  I’m perched on a welded steel stool leaning on the steel counter of a pomo coffee shop which I guess is called Trees Organic Coffee Co. (at least that’s what it says on my coffee cup – dark Sumatra coffee – the image – the image of the map – of Indonesia – from the Globe & Mail & the BBC on-line – in mind) – east side of Granville just north of Pender – this soft bright sunlight off the young maples on the Mall – light & shadow sharply delineated on the pavement – to right, Sinclair Centre – the old Post Office – where the 1938 demonstration / police riot still goes on, black-coated arm upraised coming down on the men running away escaping down the short flight of steps at the entrance on Hastings St., now Plaza Escada – dress shop – so are we (tuna sandwiches) now at lunch time seated at round tables with red & yellow chessboards on them & painted scalloped edges in two shades of green, behind a low ornamental steel railing – & people walking the Mall, two men stopping to talk between the potted plants, one wearing a madras jacket, hand on hip to indicate mid-morning ennui – bicycles, buses...  I really don’t know what I’m doing – this is not the world.  It’s just my take.  My lucky take.  My sunny day September take. Allen Ginsberg said he once dropped acid & went up on a mountain in Wyoming to sit & experience in sympathy all the suffering in the world.                     * Bright light, sharp outlines                                         of September                     * The boys & girls                             at dawn Their dawn                       Wipe out childhood.                   They aren’t even young yet.                     * Take refuge in a long poem. Avert               inspiration.                     * Write carelessly.                     * On the 210 – tempted now to add a little local colour – as it lags behind the 4 – now passes – signs on fence – on Powell St. – Subway – &           Vancouver Today.com –           virtually all you need to know & now turns north on Nanaimo – once imagined living here – near here – near the PNE – all this too thoughtful – write carelessly, head down, feeling furrow of brow, weight of glasses – peripherally – sunlit street & cars, shadows, going by – head up into no thought, even though all this district – no place to go – the irremediable – gulf – not between being & nothingness                                         Angela Bowering                                         in Kerrisdale,                                         a town Here is no conflict, no choice – the breeze – the Ironworkers Memorial – a colour I used to call Prussian blue – Bridge – the inlet – trees, boats, the forested mountain – bluer mountains behind – just here                                         Angela on her last afternoon                                         spent her last afternoon                                         with the Finnish genealogists                                         exchanging information to be there – by being stop the slide – regretful towards, always a not-ness, a not there – by consciousness, participating in the illusion, that doesn’t just run one way – entropy – but has many mansions, some furnished, some just waiting – for Angela, by insisting on disbelief – to grin.  This is not not, this is where not is exposed, laid open to view & shown to contain precise distinctions – almost the 0 & 1 from which 2 arises – in defiance of pristine order – hors d’oeuvres, instead – start over                     * The pleasure of getting on the 7 in the chill morning                               & something must follow something non-reciprocal stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck all the while the sun – this is still September (last day) – & the long shadows before 9 a.m. – is this all – sometimes the mind                               is just aware of its dumbness – the skull – the unnerving pathos (unjustified, yes, I’ll always scream –                   is that all, just location, location, location – a grid, the special sciences dutiful, perfunctory – & yet a pleasure not to have any ‘meaning’ interfere, long, drawn-out, even before it’s thought.                                                                 Let’s be clear (blank) there’s nothing to say here (quick bump of the tires over the train tracks & now emerging from beneath the overpass, & back to reading Paterson on the Granville bridge                     * She wore a red hat.  Flat-brimmed. She wore a flat-brimmed red hat. It was at Sharon’s place, on West 18th. It was New Year’s Eve.  Michael Ondaatje was there. She wore a flat-brimmed red hat & she grinned. She grinned with delight.  With the delight of disbelief, as if her disbelief had cleared the air.  Like a hailstorm, sweet sun to follow.