Hauled & Shawled

The mystery of the postboxes is unravelling. Today I discovered talking to the shop owner where one of them has disappeared from that…. hark … it had moved across the road and gained an unsightly pattern around it like a shawl.

Another citizen I talked to suggested all post boxes where now moved to the right hand side of the roads.

The first shop owner told me to call the post office and give them some “boom boom” about the moving and disappearing postboxes, which made me chuckle.

I also learnt from my friend’s 16 year old son last night that there is a postbox just around the corner I had never ever sighted. If the topic of postboxes had never come up I would not have encountered these three snippets.

My friend’s 11 year old also improved my vocabulary by adding the term “trash talking” in news unrelated to post boxes.

Engrossed in Ernest Becker’s death-bed interview at VGH with Sam Keen, which I obtained from The Ernest Becker Foundation.

The man in his moment literally, contemplating living more than dying.

Ah the machine, the machine, it needs oiling.

It’s gone chilly. I briefly contemplated putting on the heat. The temp according to Environment Canada is 14 degrees. Overnight low will be 10 degrees.

er where can I post a letter?

OK Enough is enough. I am now collating the information about where the postboxes (mail box?) in Vancouver once were and are no more. I will record and ultimately google map ’em.

You can visit my new er where can I post a letter in Vancouver? blog at wherehaveallourmailboxesgone.wordpress.com

Canada Post is disappearing the postboxes. There are three gone from where they once were. Where are they going? Is there a postbox graveyard in Vancouver we can raid and replace them?

I am reappraising my opinion on the new swimming pool.

They’ve changed the depth in the shallow end.

It’s magnificent. An intelligent and progressive facility!

The small male agrees. Finally after molto pressure he conceded to visit it with me. Then he refused to go in. This was the second time we’d visited it and not gone in. I said we’d play football in there, then he agreed. It’s v odd playing CFL in a swimming pool that’s all I can say on that. Mainly you just get soaking eyes. Next time I will not be suggesting football.

There’s a great current thing in one of the pools that send you around in a circle. It’s like being trapped inside a massive clock.

Lori and I are working hard on our performance art piece for Open Space.

The nature of some of the research, which I can’t detail here, for I will be deluged with unwanted searches, propels me into constant laughter.

It looks like maybe the first version of my novel Malarky might be published in the Irish language. How exciting.

Ni hea, Ding-a-ling.

Nobody eats or wants zucchini.

Today I collected a bunch of hearty geraniums from a woman in a house out West who offered them on a recycling site to plant in my garden plot. Unfortunately my arms got all scratched up by the vicious zucchini plant, droves of people in red tee shirts entered the garden unable to spell the word marjoram as part of some city wide quiz day, they were scarpering about sweating with blackberrys/ipone’s and by the 25th plus person asking me I told them the solution to the clue was mint. The sun was baking me up, the red tee shirt brigade (I visit the garden for peace and gardening talk not demented joggers on a spelling-bee quest) so I had to abandon ship.

Another tragedy our trolley has been removed from the garden, alas this means it is now three times as difficult to bring the water across to the plots.

Mayor Gregor Robertson PLEASE tell those watery engineers types to turn on the feckin’ water in our garden and stop acting the bollix over a gang of citizens trying to grow flowers and vegetables ensemble.

We are challenged botanically.