Seine River Twice

Trying to figure out which story of your life should serve to
preface the whole gradient of your life is difficult. There are
only a lot of challenges for someone willing to fight. So many
of my stories have some stupid grudge, that I aim to smother
most of my mental upchuck. I would way rather just imagine
my life happier, I guess.

So I want first off to tell you tales that will soften your guard
to what naturally is well earned scepticism. I now admit that
I am sharing these stories on the chance of self preservation.

In Winnipeg, it was all stares. At the time, White people would say pretty much
anything and feel perfectly justified in it. I heard ‘nigger’ from a 7 year
old blonde girl before I heard any rappers use it, causing me to fall off
my bike. Since my mom’s white, I spent alot of time figuring out how
to convince people that I wasn’t one of those lumbering negro, basketball
bouncing stereotypes, lip size notwithstanding.

Winters could teach you something, I’ve found. They taught our
family something about boredom. I had to shake down my own ego,
my well dressed devils offering me fleeting pleasures, knowing
all the dreams on ice, hoping cooler heads prevail. Intuitively,
you sense when mother earth is drawing you near, and when she
has left you to the streets. You sense that the animal in us is fixed on its freedom.

I moved to Vancouver, after a test trial of TO, I arrived in BC in
1993. I returned to Winnipeg in 2010-2012, after a god awful Vancouver slog
of homelessness, couch surfing, camping and debating the seriousness
of catagorizing anomie.

I often tried to be a good kid. People tell me that I’m obsessed with being black
on occasion, and I think culture is obsessed with being black, and I just happen
to be caught in the cross fire as often as not. I remember having a drink at this
local sports bar with an old friend from boarding school days, after returning to
Winnipeg for the second time. Meeting women in Winnipeg felt like an armadillo
trying to score in the monkey pen, and I was talking with my friend that day
about how girls being into a tumble just because they need to collect the black piece to complete

their trivial pursuit pie eventually is just no fun. His fingers were laced together, and he
said ‘I don’t get it’. He was willing to patiently listen to a more elaborate description
of regret, and responded with another ‘ I still don’t get it.’

Spenser was a big part of some time honored boarding school traditions.
We had late nite ‘ burn sessions’ which we honed our ability to demoralize
someone with a few cruel precise observations. Aside from the occasional
masturbation race, group cohabitation was tolerable. I would tell you some
of the ingenious zingers that flambeed certain kids, but they are likely under
aggressively enforced copywrite.

We are a wordy lot, I’ll admit. The new world is a wordy place for that matter.
Art is sort of the way people have fellowship. It can be like an organ donor
still feeling his heart as his eyes record them carting it away on ice. We share
but we wont be able to share the same way again.

 

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