rant is where the heart is

diaryland: sirilyan.diaryland.com: entry for 2001-01-07 (11:36:10)
In which our plucky young hero's been there, done that.

Part three in a continuing series. (They say that recurring themes can be the first sign of a bankrupt muse.)

It's not the part of Toronto I think it is, and as snow mocks me with quiet descent, someone tells me that thanks to that damned snow, the part of Toronto they're not in is all of it.

It's Milwaukee, which looks nothing like the brochures. I consider myself very lucky indeed.

It's Boston, and I'm looking at some old thing that would inspire feelings of patriotism and history in my American heart. Except I'm a pissed-off, weary Canadian who just wants to go home.

It's Boulder. Checkmate.

It's Minneapolis, at least for a few hours, and Christ almighty, is that what I think it is?

It's Minneapolis, a few months later, at least for another few hours, and sweet sacrifice of licorice it is.

It's Edmonton and I may just be the only living thing.

It's the Trans-Canada from Abby to Van. Moun-ten?

It's a bus that's transitioned from the middle of nowhere in Saskatchewan to the middle of nowhere in Manitoba with no indication of the actual border save a different logo on the grain elevators, and just as I wonder if I'm going to puke a rainbow breaks through the clouds. And no matter what may happen in the next few days, for that one crystal moment, everything is just all right.

It's my chair in front of my computer, and you know, it's all just all right. I just forget that a lot.

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