Sunday, July 19, 2009
Brick Lane. Wind shirts and lost youth crowding around picnic tables. Searching. I am searching for my friend, for riding boots, for a deep breath. Rattling bicycles, drug addicts selling urban rot on old sheets. Depression glass necklaces I tuck into my bag - for mom, for Canada. Victorian England held by beer drinking hipsters. Rescue a tin type. Rescue air. Sit in buses made into vegan spots with the Metis, with dying connections. Everything in a wind tunnel. Everyone moving around the bricks, made here, toughened here. Records, rags, little design shops. Old friends crawling in to London town from country hideouts, winding our way through sag paneer and dosas, winding our way out of town. Thatched rooves, misty winter scapes, aging DJ's, Canada. My youth coming to a close as their children climb over me like a hill.