Tuesday 19 November 2019

South Roncie Blues, revisited

Take a look at a picture of the intersection of queen king and roncessvalles from decades ago.

Nevermind burrito brothers or the two giant posters for jack ryan or whatever this corner essentially looks the same as it has for about a century. So what has changed?

Parkdale, eastern end and urban hub of parkside proper an whole,

so mad to imagine dozen years past, the timeslot and sledge, distance and direction travelled by yours truly, erstwhile woo- and narrate- or, with aid of little but Dufferins bus and allweather walks, not forgetting the boombox, up and down the delicate ways of these parts. Lets try to remember the curves of the so called garrison creek from springmount down to bellwoods, now shunted a few clicks east. Lets never forget our first night by the water, the bouquet you collected, snapshot of you in Sunnyside's dawning light, all moxie and matryoshka, in a Grange Shoppe, your likeness transcribed into my music notebook, somehow actually doing sweet visage justice, beyond my usual fauviste caricatures of Amicos patrons, passersbye. Tho that was where eye first caught sight of u.

Nono, lets stay the course.

Obfuscate while we're young.

Its not too late.

Was it back in the flatlands, on the first day of school, back when I was young and brilliant, sweetly naive?

Was it in Kensington, in the rain at the Boathouse, after one of my worst performances ever, that night someone stole your jacket and I tried to start stealing your heart?

Or way out west, at a cafe near the sight of my greatest art heist, never undertaken, photobombing au Magritte despite myself?

Or was it in yet another kitchen, just a rimshot from Massey hall, twigs in my hair, you at least lusting to link our lanky limbs? I just wanted to stay sober, not be alone. No idea what open field I was walking onto....

or was it at that taco party?


In a dream, maybe. All those dreams in between one world and another, in between death and a life you know you have to leave the same way you came to. I held your hands and tried to memorise your face, even as the home we shared began to disappear.


Still up and down, these dimensions etched clearer to a prairie boys inner ear than to those of this hilly Gotham, slope and grade. Is there, perhaps, no up or down in the town where Kitt's Catwoman dwells?

Or can every intersection in Parkside and beyond be defined by its  lakeward lurch? Could you close your eyes and be dropped on Sorauren, at Abell, down Dunn and simply know, sense without sight where you are on this laughable grid? Do angelic angles reveal thru themselves how every feather has its place on the breath of gods? Does a sliver describe the tree from which comes the fallen log?


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