I found this on my computer and don't remember writing it, although I remember the Queen's park incident:
There’s no difference between your kitchen and my kitchen except for the materials. And I can’t cook anyway. So I don’t need better materials. I thought these things as someone was killed in a nearby neighbourhood. I thought these things as somebody came in a nearby apartment. I’m always thinking these things.
I can’t answer homeless people anymore. I don’t trust those with money or those who appear to have none. I sometimes shout at them but I never feel proud of myself.
I shout at cars. I shout at people shouting at cars. I can’t get over the mutability of perspective or my own implication in the things I hate.
The other day I was in Queen’s Park and at least three hundred, maybe eleven thousand different people at different times were taking pictures of two squirrels that were inordinately friendly and stayed there all day enjoying the attention. But they were really just squirrels with nothing more to offer than inquisitive postures, and yet they captured tourists like Honest Ed’s. It got funny to watch. I was distracted and took our Frisbee in the jaw. She has a stronger arm than it would appear.
I grew up for this. I started thinking of art or science or language. And now I think of other people having sex nearby, and I don’t give anything to charity. I used to paint and now I draw. I used to understand meiosis. So I walk a lot instead, and explore narrow bands of the city. Really narrow. Rags. Geographic bandages.
