as an exercise, and for the CBC writing comp., I rewrote an earlier posting:
Here to visit. Decide to see Hastings and Main. Again.
As teens, we saw movies there – an old vaudeville/burlesque theatre – moth-eaten curtains, velvet seats that snapped like crocodiles. Maybe nostalgia, but I recall tarnished cherubs.
We sat in the balcony, smoked whatever, ate Nanaimo bars, laughed, necked. Saw the international/western film canon. Our philosophies forged in darkness. Afterwards, we’d head to the Joint- a jazz haven that poured “special darks” (rum) – to talk, talk, talk. We’d walk Hastings and Main – past drunks, junkies, prostitutes, sailors off ships, loggers out of camp, all hot to trade paychecks. No one bothered us – everybody left everybody alone back then.
Today, one word loops – shame, shame, shame.
Filth, the sharp knife of atmosphere; skeleton junkies, crack-heads fix, run like rats down alleyways when beat cops arrive; too many madmen within too small a radius; children sleep in garbage; crystal meth piss…
Only one light- the Carnaby Centre – outdoor tables, chairs, where people recreate humanity.
Buy a guy coffee. Apologize.
Want to march citizens through the damned blocks, as Allies walked townspeople through Buchenwald in 1945. Let them see what they turn heads from. Smell the air.