Riding along the seawall on the south slopeof False Creek at 1:45am after fireworks boatparade has subsided, the silence is surprising and soothing and a grand contrast to last week’s Indyhell.
The water, high, mildly ripples when my face is filled with a misting ofwater.
It seems the parksboard has underground sprinklers in the knolls at the elementaryschool, turned on tonight.
I merely rode through where the wind wastossing the spray my way.
But for one second, while reorientingto the ACtual event, I was no longer alive, I was baptized intoa new dimension of simultaneous explanation: where a False Creekorca pod rises and exhalesfor me, and Puck-like angelsdescend with my houseplantspray bottle lost in my last move, and light clouds divebomb to expire selflessly on my cheeks, and someone’s perpetuallyturned up the nozzles in Safeway’sproduce section to catch us unaware, and my friend in thefront of the kayak —while not TRYingto spray me— mists me every timeher paddle goes in [no complaints], until the tch tchtch of the sprinkler ruins the reverie.
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