YALETOWN Blue hat, blue stockings, the woman ducks behind the silent-white wedding cake, in the little cake shop, it is a yaletown Saturday, Vancouver, so very post-olympic. The February is not yet full-blown, just slight hints of a year to come. She ponders, is pissed-off, her years have passed her by. Middle age, empty nest, the like, the like. Hints of dislocation, it is time to reinvent yourself. Her films are rejected, her queries ignored. Her paintings rot in the basement. The woman looks at her foret noir cake, lots of whipped cream, the slight, so very petite, so very thin woman behind the counter suggested a cup of water, the cake is too rich, too rich. Lunchtime in Vancouver, grease, sugar, the day marches forward. Time to leave this place, to pay, to catch the bus on seymour, to make one’s way to the other side of the bridge.
GRANVILLE ISLAND A lowly raven on top of the ocean factory, the painter looks up at the bus on the bridge, he takes off his grey and pink checkered jacket, he has to go up to the studio on the fourth floor, put some brush strokes on the small canvas, that hovers in his locker, he ponders if he should change his major. Painting seems too slow, too slow.
RICHMOND The woman in the white shirt types away, types away. Her words are pretty bad, she will never make it in literature land. Dostojevsky she ain’t, that’s for sure. She looks at her chamomile tea, near the black laptop, in the back corner of the starbucks on minoru road,
the one where suburbia is happening, heavily. She should drive down to tsawwassen, visit a friend, but typing seems to be more fun, the possibility to be the next tai yin, the possibility of reading in front of a crowd, appreciative or otherwise, a hiccup in a white pickety existence, for moments, for moments.
YVR The girl with the green and red leggings, in pink rain boots, the black touque, fashionably on the back of the hair, falling down, but still holding onto the scalp, she whushels thru the volumes, a red book, catches her eye, the writer is her age, but he has published seven books already. Talk about prolific, the tale seems to be so very predictable though, regurgitation of blue velvet, of mary chapin carpenter’s house of cards, the eternal story of the chaos, disaster, catastrophe beneath the surface, it is the story of our existence, death lingering under life, dark under light, sorrow after happiness. Or something like that, the girl in the green and red leggings does not know that much about literary forms and if push comes to shove, she doesn’t really give a shit.
NYC He likes this room, very fashionable address, midtown manhattan not quite, more leaning down to the east village, the right kind of address for a literary agency startup. He used to be the darling of the bookworld, he had his own imprint, he was on Charlie Rose. Now, well, e-books did him in. or maybe he did not run fast enough, who knows; he still has what it takes, at forty-four he will find the next talent, how tough can it be, he knows the right people, the right restaurants, the right addresses. He knows, who’s who, the only
caveat being, that he used to be part of the whoâ€™s who. He used to be king, not kingmaker.
YALETOWN The woman in the blue hat is still struggling with the black forest cake, she likes it here, she can look out the window, play around with the crumbs, this seems to be a nice shelter from the rain, which started to drizzle down on the city, the city that is always awash in rain, the blue hat-ed woman likes it here, the smallish coffeeshop, the slight and reluctant day, the sleepiness that is not yet there. She might write a poem, why not, why not, why not?
OAKRIDGE Too much noise, the dragon dancers are a tad too loud, too many people, too many people. Escape down onto the Canada Line, just drive around, just drive. Let the train take you, go, wherever it takes you, you have a baby blue bus pass, a day on the city train, why not, why not, why not?
THE TYPEWRITER The author bangs the keys, she had enough of describing all these different scenes, all these different persons, she knows, there is no narrative, no protagonist, no antagonist, no forceful motioning forward, no gripping story, no cliffhanger, none, zip, zilch. Her words are blah at best, they refuse to make it, refuse, refuse. Her story is a non-story, the drizzles of paint on a canvas on the ground, in a garage somewhere in the Midwest, she
will be suffocated by her inability to choose the right words, the ones that will resonate with a publishing culture that does not want her, she feels like barfing all over the white keybard in the art school, she feels the force of the tears that wanna spurt out, she looks up at the thick steam outta the ocean factory. And she types and types and types some more. Slight incoherent words. Whimpering along, whimpering along.
@ THE LETTERBOX, ON LARCH The woman in the blue hat is wearing a red hat today, her blue hat is tossed into a corner, she slides the envelope thru the slit, maybe THEY will publish her poem. She stomps back home, thru the pouring rain, dreams of fame, of fortune, she weeps slightly, her days pass her by, time to go down to the coffee shop in yaletown, time to dig into the whipped cream of the foret noir cake, somewhere in the back, ducking behind the wedding cakes, while rain pours down, while rain pours down.