Today I took an unplanned detour. Moments like these end me up somewhere I’ve never been, exploring a little further, coming across new scents, sights, and angles of the city. My world has felt pretty limited--the weather and surrounding archetechture make for a brutal, soul numbing winter. It feels similar to a wide, brooding airport -- couldn't tell you why. Roadway sounds blend into a cold aerial noise. The whole season is an endurance challenge and my soul takes it the worst. Some people love it. I think they’re lying to themselves, or doing the route of adversary thing. Its a thing people do a lot.

This one time, me and some new friends were establishing trivia to get to know eachother, and we went around discussing our country of origin. My french acadian pitch received an "I hate the french" rebuttle. It was as I understood it - adversary for the sake of a few laughs! I could have went along with it. But I couldn't push past feeling like a bit of a social prop. I couldn't help but ask them why -- which might have been the worst thing I could do. I know these things aren't that serious.

"I hate the French."

I guess what left me dry was how quickly I shrunk into easy banter. I mean, I'm not all that worried about the fate of my heritage since French canadian culture is abundant and well. Its easy to nag on, in that way. The same friend has since mentioned he actually likes the french -- Hoo-ray! I never questioned it. Besides, I was just happy the french-canadian-acadian had been given a second chance. And if my story made any sense, then so should my feelings about so called winter-lovers. Wait, where are we?

The murky aftershower

It’s nearing end April now, and though the roads are finally clear of snow, a coldness still resides. Easter was quickly over with. I hardly even noticed it this year as school kept me hostage in every way possible. Walking down the split between my local mall and suburb, I began to follow a tall barrier that seperated everything from the main highway. This city likes roads.

I’m 15 minutes into my detour, and approach a row of small, haunting apartments. If it weren't for a lease sign out front, I'd have assumed they were abandoned. Soiled greenery wraps around the buildings. Its been raining on and off all week. The colour of the apartments is a washed-out pink. The air smells unnervingly tantric, like walking through dried cranberries, urine, dusty theatre curtains, doused in rotating wafts of expired smell-goods. It smells like a traveling carrivan. It smells like teen girl depression.

The pink colour is hardly discernable on camera.

San Francisco comes up in my queue. I’ve listened to this album a lot since Lily suggested it to me. I'm apphrehensive to share music when all I have to offer are instrumentals, but this is very good. Its walk-appropriate music, simply put. There will be a lot more spontanious music sharing 'round this journal.