Life Among the Concrete

I suppose that you wonder where I’m residing. As it happens, I’m shacked up still in rainy Vancouver.  Sounds like a song, no? I think it’d have a heavy rock n’ roll feel, but with a luscious, breathy woman’s vocals, like yours…but I digress. 1

The city hasn’t changed an iota since you left us. The homeless still make a Victorian hell home of Hastings, and the bastard riche of the West Side still putt around Yaletown pretending they’re reading the Georgia Straight because they’re socially conscious, and not for the porno ads they jot down into memory.2

It’s still beautiful too, despite what I tell myself. The eternal rains of autumn, winter, spring and summer trickle a sweetness into the air that still thrills me even now, at my most exhausted. I still venture as far as the waterfront when the weather brings that smelly rain feeling to me. Just for me. It provides my reason for living among all this concrete. I still can’t stand the people though. Perhaps the same would be true of any metropolis I could dwell in, but the pure hypocrisy of the denizens of Van city make what precious little tolerance I have for urbanites disappear altogether. They drive me mad with their social liberalism/fiscal conservatism. If the world ever encounters any political stance more absurd or confounding, then may the irate spectre of Karl Marx devour my jaded soul (and then in turn be devoured by Ayn Rand for esoteric value). 3

Naturally, I wouldn’t have my abode any other way, but it does please me to still be able to kvetch after all these years. Not that there’s anyone important to kvetch to. Certainly my woman listens—more on her later—but she’s never been able to understand the poetic pain that is my existence (God I’m a prick). I’m such a martyr, not that you would have had me any other way. Nor would I you as a matter of fact. I imagine it made our relationship more out of the ordinary than it already was. 4

You know, it’s a very good thing that you’re not here to argue that with me. I suppose it makes me an egoist, but it does bring me bliss that you can’t come back at me, to tell me how wrong I am. Or rather, how wrong you think I am. But I’m rambling. 5

Let me give you something more substantial. 6

Up until recently my literary career has been going as it always did: not at all. Whether rejected by publishing houses, magazines, porno rags or women, the fish weren’t bitin’. As standard, I fell back on my old greeting card job for sustenance and income. It may be insipid, but it pays rather well. Sometimes I try to convince myself that, in some sense, it is poetry. But it’s a dirty kind of poetry. Not in the fun way naturally. Commercialization at its finest, no doubt, but at the cost of my heart and being. I sometimes sit at the unemotionally happy tin desk they supplied me, contemplating the most interesting/exciting way of getting myself canned. Public urination came to mind, but then it occurred to me that I can barely use a public toilet while someone else is using the adjacent urinal…an affliction similar to yours I believe… 7

I’m not implying I’d actually purposely get fired—not yet at any rate—but it’s one of the few artistic outlets my occupation allows for. I should note that I am aware of the two-facedness of having such a job with my beliefs, but you and I know that living comes up much sooner on the long and winding road than do principles.8

But then the Writing God deigned to smile upon me. Someone bought the rights to perform a play of mine. It was one of the older ones, before I really came into my own as a writer. No accounting for taste I suppose. They’re (they being the theatre company that bought the rights) convinced they can make something of it, sparing no expense. I’m somewhat sceptical, but it’s their money, so what problem should I have? Not that I don’t want it to be successful, but I’ve been disappointed before, as you well know. It’s safer to be indifferent wouldn’t you agree? That way victory (if success can be seen that way) is all the sweeter.9