July 13, Montreal:
Tam-Tams girl in the blue dress. Guy banging a metal bucket with a stick. The squirrel named Pierre. The guy who asked if we wanted to buy “cush.” Little white dog and the sword jugglers. The guy who asked for water. Crazy samosa lady. Hippie Jesus wearing housecoat and hat with feathers, sandals with socks. Silhouettes dancing under the monument.
I’ll miss the gastronomity. I made up that word.
Sandwiches, baguettes with cured meat and fancy cheese. White bread only, whole wheat is for pussies. Poutine with perfect cheese curds. En Folie, with the girl who always fucks up my order. I think there’s oregano on top.
And dipping my fries in mayo.
My Tabagie. My bookstore. Rooftop pool parties with Adam and Blair. We drank wine and loudly gossiped. And then we went to a restaurant and drank beer and there was a parrot. A parrot.
July 23rd, cont’d…
Supper at Blair’s, pizza and beers. Back door to the patio open, watching hours of spectacular lightning and thunder. Dinner and a show. Discussion of Newfoundland psyche.
This is Montreal.
It’s gross when you wake up wondering what delicious breakfast your roommate is making, cuz it smells great…and then you just realize it’s the smell of the pillow you’ve been borrowing for weeks.
Canada Day, Prague. Paddle boats on the river and singing “O CANADA” with random people found at a beer garden. I stepped off the boat dizzy with alcohol. Kavarna Mlynska and not meeting David Cerny. The Brits who wouldn’t leave us alone. Feeling historical.
Last night I had changed into my pajamas, when my roommate came home at 9 PM and told me people were coming over for BBQ.
The Moroccan, hot Belgian dude, French chicks and cheek kisses. Faced my fear of the roof. Illegally. To the right is an abandoned bar, where tables and chairs still are. We ate burgers and sausages under the open sky, the stars and streetlights our only light. Sat on the floor with Cynthia, while she puffed cigarettes.
Moroccan guy played techno from his phone, me and Ariel watching MJ videos.
Then the tequila shots, the horror of me using the inside of my wrists.
Matt and I walking into Commonwealth, hipster bar. We stand inside the doorway, horrified expressions on our face at the ping-pong tournament occurring. We hear a loud voice, by mic. “Stop staring at us like we’re wild animals, and buy a beer!” So we do. Ping-pong balls kept flying at my face. “Excuse me, darling,” a man says as he bends to retrieve a ball at my feet.
We skipped the train tracks to see the fountain spewing water into the sky, all colourful lights and classical music.
On the way back, three old men cycled past us bicycles, their clothes and bikes lit up with flashing lights and techno music.
I’ll never get that symphony of twisting metal and shattering glass out of my mind.
I am alive, I am alive, I am alive.