fix my lighting; make me beautiful
Toronto's beauty depends hugely on the light you see it in. That and your mood.
My room mate comes from Alberta. She shows me pictures of turquoise lakes, picturesque mountains, nature left barely touched by man. She walks down the street and feels surrounded by people. Millions of people she doesn't know. The pollution in her lungs. The cars, trams, music and talking blasting through her ears.
Some days I feel like it's just me and the city, some days I think it's love.
I walk past the porn shops, the pawn shops, a tipped over grocery cart, and I say Gill, "I don't think we're in West Vancouver anymore."
Sure Vancouver has it's edge, what with East Hastings and as many junkies as there are raindrops in the sky. But it doesn't have the nooks and crannies Toronto has. The colorful villages. Halloween night the gay village was streaming with men in drag. Men more feminine than I will ever dream of being. There's Little Italy, Greek town, Kensington Market. Bloor St. makes me drool and feel sorry for myself. The rich and famous stroll though Prada, Chanel, Lacoste, Holt Renfrew, and more, attaining any luxury item they dream of.
One store window has a wall of plates stuck to it, 'Wall of China' written overtop. Somehow I always find this funny.
When I take a break from work to go get a juice or a coffee I walk past Much Music. I try to shut my jaw when I spot a VJ. Not to die in shock when I discover that Ed the Sock, a loudmouth obtrusive, disrespectful puppet, is actually a short harmless looking man.
Sam the Record Man is the token landmark to tell we're nearly home, with the big neon lit record and sign. The World's Largest Bookstore is seconds away, almost as good as the second hand bookstores that lace Yonge St.
Even the homeless seem to smile a little more.
On bad days I can taste the waste. I notice the wind has disheveled my hair so that it looks more like a bad transvestite's wig. I can tune into the cat calls from the sleaze balls on the corner. Sneer at the drunk man who tells me I have a nice ass. Look away from the woman begging me for change. Curse my heels. Curse existence in general.
These days I want home. Residence smells. People talk too much. Journalism is a bunch of crock and I want my bed. Or five coffees.
Vancouver becomes this unattainable faraway land. As if it's somewhere where I'm always happy and it never rains.
But when you're in the right light so is the city.
Even the signs on the strip clubs add to Toronto's evening glow, and you know, you just know, that it will be alright. You've got 50 million night light's outside your window tonight.
My room mate comes from Alberta. She shows me pictures of turquoise lakes, picturesque mountains, nature left barely touched by man. She walks down the street and feels surrounded by people. Millions of people she doesn't know. The pollution in her lungs. The cars, trams, music and talking blasting through her ears.
Some days I feel like it's just me and the city, some days I think it's love.
I walk past the porn shops, the pawn shops, a tipped over grocery cart, and I say Gill, "I don't think we're in West Vancouver anymore."
Sure Vancouver has it's edge, what with East Hastings and as many junkies as there are raindrops in the sky. But it doesn't have the nooks and crannies Toronto has. The colorful villages. Halloween night the gay village was streaming with men in drag. Men more feminine than I will ever dream of being. There's Little Italy, Greek town, Kensington Market. Bloor St. makes me drool and feel sorry for myself. The rich and famous stroll though Prada, Chanel, Lacoste, Holt Renfrew, and more, attaining any luxury item they dream of.
One store window has a wall of plates stuck to it, 'Wall of China' written overtop. Somehow I always find this funny.
When I take a break from work to go get a juice or a coffee I walk past Much Music. I try to shut my jaw when I spot a VJ. Not to die in shock when I discover that Ed the Sock, a loudmouth obtrusive, disrespectful puppet, is actually a short harmless looking man.
Sam the Record Man is the token landmark to tell we're nearly home, with the big neon lit record and sign. The World's Largest Bookstore is seconds away, almost as good as the second hand bookstores that lace Yonge St.
Even the homeless seem to smile a little more.
On bad days I can taste the waste. I notice the wind has disheveled my hair so that it looks more like a bad transvestite's wig. I can tune into the cat calls from the sleaze balls on the corner. Sneer at the drunk man who tells me I have a nice ass. Look away from the woman begging me for change. Curse my heels. Curse existence in general.
These days I want home. Residence smells. People talk too much. Journalism is a bunch of crock and I want my bed. Or five coffees.
Vancouver becomes this unattainable faraway land. As if it's somewhere where I'm always happy and it never rains.
But when you're in the right light so is the city.
Even the signs on the strip clubs add to Toronto's evening glow, and you know, you just know, that it will be alright. You've got 50 million night light's outside your window tonight.
posted by Gillian Young at 11:57 PM
1 Comments:
Vancouver is wet and miserable. It is not a cleansing rain; everything seems filthier. The streets are void of people and energy.
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