A Corpseflower webcam. (What a great band-name.)
My cluttered white desk is a small island in the cement foyer of the Dance Centre. It tethers me to this place, this screen, this set of keys. Through the glass wall in front of me, a small map of Davie street walks past – blue jeans with cell-phones, dogs, speculative couples, their arms crossed, held, ipods wearing socks with sandals, gore-tex jackets, camouflage, gossip and hoodies against the invariable threat of rain – indifferent. The new leaves on the trees outside are an unrealistic green that goes well with the electronic music surfacing from my computer. The phone stays silent, the building almost empty, there is very little for me to do, but wait and write and read.
I went to dinner with Alastair’s family this week, or some of it. His sister has brought her husband and new-born baby over from Scotland for a week. It is both comforting and strange to finally meet them. I missed them by barely two weeks when they came to visit in California. We went to Marcello’s, then to take pictures off the roof of Alastair’s building, where my cats live. As hard as I could, I couldn’t make the sunset beautiful, so I took pictures of them instead. I had only meant to come by and check in on the cats, (I had them spayed this week), but I ended up staying until eleven:thirty at night.
Standing at the bus-stop after, I found out there had been a shooting up the street, this time at the Roma Café. Street rumour says it was Over a Girl, but had no other details, except that the bus was rerouted and not to wait. The papers, as far as I’ve found, have had nothing to say.
I really like the Roma Café. Along the front windows are painted the NHL logo, the football league logo, the NBA logo, and a blue-robed Virgin Mary all in a row. I was stood up there once by a translator I met at Bukowski’s and it gave me a chance to properly appreciate it, though I hardly ever go. The music clashes with the pure Little Italy décor like plaid with polka dots, all tawdry 80’s and 90’s pop played loud enough to shove irony off a cliff.