To some I am an old man, a really old man. It's not always cool that I also know, or am friends with, their parents. How young is old when there are Gov of Can programs for "youth" aimed at up to 34-year-olds (not that I am or pretend to be that age). I have a few hands on that, yet my age is often guessed to be ten to 15 years younger, never older. Perhaps it's the poetry, 'cause it's certainly not the stress o' publishing, that is keeping me youthful. In some groups that I work with or belong to I am clearly the youngster in a crowd of considerably older folks. Or the ones my age look and act a generation older. Sometimes, though, I know I'm downright childish in my artistic temperamentespecially when I'm body &and mind exhausted and somehow operating with only some of my ancient inner id animal mind and my frontal lobes have taken an unannounced break from reality. Don't push me then. I'll be too stupid-stubborn to get out of my own way. Today approached that . . .
Today, I hauled books from the soon-to-no-longer-be-mine-to-use storage cage on Argyle Street to the mailroom in my apartment-office. Somewhere along the sidewalks or streets, I punctured a tire on the handtruck on a T-shaped piece of broken beer bottle glass. Great! Good thing most cartons of books I have only weigh 10-23 kg. After this evening's walk to the No'side Korean Tyre store, I have a rubber patch kit (a tube of Shoe Goo and an athletic cup [tough love calls for protection] for use in known world fighting and not in this mundane world). This afternoon I was also getting the guts of a chapbook printed at the local (now) UPS Store but wouldn't get the covers printed because I don't trust the staff's competency and will only work with the franchise owner (who was not available, so I have to got back on Monday). Yes, ship-ups do happen. This runaround meant several walks by the decaying-into-the-ground former Fredericton train station pictured above. It's hurting. Hurting bad. It's owned by one of the Irving clan. The city has no teeth with which to make the Irving(s) restore the train station, or to expropriate it as a historic or cultural site in the city. Shame, shame, shame.
Walking back from No'side I took out the digital camera and, with the auto flash off, started taking pictures of the bridge and the night traffic while walking, not stopping. This is one of my favourite images from the walk.
shirt: fading burgundy long-sleeve T
loc: comCtr aftrhrs
temp: 1 C
sound: Runrig, The Stamping Ground