The has been a week of lasts.
The last time I'll go to this restaurant, see this friend, turn this corner, work at this place. And it's not to say that I'll never come back to Victoria, see this people again, turn these corners sometime again. But I think it's the honest recognition that despite the fact that might happen - things will never be the same again. Once I'm gone so are these days, these moments, this time.. it's lost, never again to return.
The city will recede into the ghosty alleyways of memory and these times will be like a dream I'll remember that I once lived.
I'll miss the ocean, I think, and the people, old friends turning to old memories, your life turning into that great monolith known as the past.
However
This is only the week of endings.. there's always next week.
Next week.. a splatterpunk derive through old alleyways, magic heavy crusted thick meat sandwiches discovered in long lost delicatessens, working on two language cylinders again, a rumbly volcano music scene where an eruption of earth and magma could consume you at any moment, cheap beer and liquor sales at the corner store, new hideaways for beautiful losers, a place for snow angels and crisp clear starry winter nights, time for new heartbreaks crying into your poutine, a new city where no one knows you, no one has any expectations, and you can melt into the sidewalk like El Hombre Invisible, observe the world through your old dusty lenses and clench that newspaper wrapped bit of deep fried fish that you're going to go eat dans le parc.
So long Victoria, I'm going to miss you in that quaint quiet way you reserve for certain ex-girlfriends.
Hello Montreal, I'm expecting you like the frantic sex in the hallway with the girl in the AC/DC t-shirt and spiked leather, all sweaty after meeting over beer at the punk show that evokes Rimbaud, and the most frenzied shaking of your most feverish imaginings.
I'll see you all when I'm there.
The last time I'll go to this restaurant, see this friend, turn this corner, work at this place. And it's not to say that I'll never come back to Victoria, see this people again, turn these corners sometime again. But I think it's the honest recognition that despite the fact that might happen - things will never be the same again. Once I'm gone so are these days, these moments, this time.. it's lost, never again to return.
The city will recede into the ghosty alleyways of memory and these times will be like a dream I'll remember that I once lived.
I'll miss the ocean, I think, and the people, old friends turning to old memories, your life turning into that great monolith known as the past.
However
This is only the week of endings.. there's always next week.
Next week.. a splatterpunk derive through old alleyways, magic heavy crusted thick meat sandwiches discovered in long lost delicatessens, working on two language cylinders again, a rumbly volcano music scene where an eruption of earth and magma could consume you at any moment, cheap beer and liquor sales at the corner store, new hideaways for beautiful losers, a place for snow angels and crisp clear starry winter nights, time for new heartbreaks crying into your poutine, a new city where no one knows you, no one has any expectations, and you can melt into the sidewalk like El Hombre Invisible, observe the world through your old dusty lenses and clench that newspaper wrapped bit of deep fried fish that you're going to go eat dans le parc.
So long Victoria, I'm going to miss you in that quaint quiet way you reserve for certain ex-girlfriends.
Hello Montreal, I'm expecting you like the frantic sex in the hallway with the girl in the AC/DC t-shirt and spiked leather, all sweaty after meeting over beer at the punk show that evokes Rimbaud, and the most frenzied shaking of your most feverish imaginings.
I'll see you all when I'm there.
VIEW 11 of 11 COMMENTS
Which Victoria are you leaving?
[Edited on May 03, 2005 11:48AM]