On my way home: my muscles and sinews cling to my bones longingly, dreaming of summer days sprawled on the beach, in the good company of Les chemins de la liberté, my body bare to the radiant features of Apollo, except for my groins and face, the latter cool and shaded by the undulant brim of an emerald green bucket hat.
I walk past a white land-owner as he waits in the glacial conditions; waiting patiently to deny the bare grass, the warmth of his dog's shit. He will place the polyethylene bag carefully over his hands, nonchalantly thrusting his hand to grasp the newly produced excrement of this overtly fecund, recto-anal canal. I see four separate pieces of shit aligned like the stars on the curbside grass. The dog moves along a bit, not caring to inspect the colour or shape of his production, but to sniff the grass further ahead. Likely to spare himself the stench of a close encounter. This man, however, willingly stoops to clasp the brown manifestations of digestion. Shit, dog shit on the ground, yet he will laugh and scorn at the immigrants who wash their own ass instead of wiping it. He will sit around his poker table, enjoying his brew, speaking of his "paki friend" who uses water to clean his ass.
I walk along, making my observations, moving hurriedly past Cody, outside the frathouse. I move swiftly to the sound of an orchestra, raging in my ears. Here's Mike, he's got a job, he drives a car manufactured in Canada. He stands, slothful, outside the rehabilitation centre for alcoholics. His wife is not with him. She pays a man. Enters a room, decorated to resemble a Hindu temple, as accurately as it can be perceived on Queen street. She's wearing her tight-fitting yoga pants, purchased on Bloor. Now she's doing the upside down dog, and learning the eight pillars of Ashtanga, from the Swami. Swami, goes and takes a bathroom break, as he charges Mike's wife 30 dollars an hour. Swami now washes his ass with water.
I look at Mike, and then move along, still swaying to the voices and instruments in my head.
2 comments:
I'll read the third paragraph in a few years and reminisce about living on Madison Avenue. Love the characters, especially Cody, the token frat boy.
The second paragraph however, too much dog shit. I'll try to forget that one.
Oh! sweet ethnic tensions! Yes yes! those beatific cultural contradictions! Ah! existentialist series! Right on!
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