A Sunday Afternoon

Seurat's, A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, a moment frozen in time and absolutely still.

My thoughts this weekend are of Paris and the urban stroll on a public street. Most of my weekend was spent amongst the gray and endless sidewalks that send a steady stream of imagery into view. Friday I walked Broadway, towards a screening of films at a funeral parlor. I got drunk, went for dinner and ate nothing, finally arriving at a packed OR gallery for the opening of Hurry Slowly. Saturday, it was Granville, gritty, wide, and just a little stinky. I walked Granville street from one end to the next, cutting through the approaching crowd with side long glances. So much can be exchanged between two people in the breath of a quick arrival and departure, which the avenue so often orchestrates. I ended the night at Tonic. I tend not to frequent places that require a weapons check upon entry, but we knew a friend that worked there, and that's the only excuse we needed. I was generally impressed with the amount of liquor being pounded down the young open throats, sprayed with too much cologne, but was disappointed in the women, who all seemed the same. Not only dressed alike, but too familiar with what girls looked like the last time I was in a place like that. Very little has changed in bar slut chic, and I think that's just atrocious.

Sunday was spent on Granville street's alter ego, Robson street. Less on freaks, more on a big eccentric, misplaced, and often tacky sense of lifestyle on display. People were sitting outside drinking Stella Artois in the sun, we get summer early here in Vancouver, it was nice, very leisure. Then I arrived at Denman and Robson, and time stood still for a little while. It was not past, it was not present, it was undefinable, a mixture of the two. It was lovely. Later, after a stroll through Stanley Park, idle, and relaxed, I lazed on a piece of IKEA furniture in a confused state of familiarity, and the unknown. I took chances and was rewarded, but with caution, I don't heed warnings, probably not smart.

I am reading Henry Miller, can you tell? I am making plans to visit Paris, where the arcades are beyond legendary. I simply want to share some karma with the hero's that have lived there. Miller said everyone who is anyone has lived in Paris, and that no one dies there. His writing is very macho, and reading it often makes me feel weak.

The day, and the weekend, ended in a vision that has not left my mind yet. It is Denman street once again, although this time I am departing. It is crowded, and there are people milling about, waiting for the bus, hurrying along with groceries. I dart my eyes around the obstacles while my feet clumsily shuffle sideways to accommodate my twisted torso, and for a second I lock in on my target, milk glass skin and pink hat, then it gets folded back into the crowd, faded from view. Time begins again.