just because I liked the memory...

was re-reading some old posts... wrote this one in early 2007... and decided to repost it cuz... well I just like I the zone I was in when I wrote it.

When I refer to my Calgary, I speak of what it is I see when I walk down the street, or drive downtown very late at night.
Stephen Ave. is my first walk when I arrive, always. It takes as long as it takes, sometimes hours, but the stark, almost brutal contrasts that are always present make the artist in me thrill, the untrained social worker in me long to be doing more, and the philosopher in me wax poetic. I have taken photos of Stephen Avenue before, and no doubt will again.
My Calgary is CUPS, The Mustard Seed, The Salvation Army. It is the skuzzy downtown cafes and pawn shops. It is the old architecture, the decaying buildings on which you can still see the old words that advertised what the business was. It is the ghosts of better days on the façade of the Grand Theatre on Stephen Ave, the homeless, the hopeless, the hopeful, the street vendors. It is the man who today, professing to be a “real gypsy, 100 percent, not like those other guys” who read my tarot cards on a bench for $10, really just a good study of human characteristics saying what he thought I wanted to hear.
He watched me when I bought an old native man coffee a few benches down. Easy mark, that’s me.
After he read a few cards, he told me, I am “more man than any man will ever be, and more woman than any man could ever handle.”
I could care less if it is true or not, I am going to run with that one.
What really strikes me about that avenue is that absolute juxtaposition of so many worlds, of past and present, of rich and poor, stunning beauty and contrasting ugliness, of the good hearts and the ones who would happily relieve you of your wallet. More than any other spot I walk in Calgary, it is that Avenue that is my Calgary, so old, so new, so downtrodden in one step and upbeat on the next. There is a whisper on that avenue, one that speaks if you listen closely. But so few will, do, or want to. It tells of a thousand heartaches, even more of laughter, of lovers, and quarrels, and total despair and of unbridled passion. That avenue is like a secret preacher, speaking only to those who truly stop to listen, telling stories only told to a privileged few.
But in my own contrast, my Calgary is also sitting in Devonian Gardens, inhaling the heady, scent particular to greenhouses, earthy and moist. It is the little shops, like Art of My Heart, the owner of which, Howard, has never failed to remember me over the past 10 or 15 years of sporadic visits. It is the bartender at The Unicorn, Greg, who knows, even though I stop in only a few times a year, I drink Oban neat, I like the barstool at the far end corner, and he keeps the drunks away from me. Calls me young lady, like it is my title, though he knows my name is Stephanie. My Calgary includes art galleries, mostly on the Avenue mind you, and the theatres, the Glenbow Museum… still all on that avenue. It is CKUA instead of CJ92, it is The Unicorn at 11 p.m. on a weekday or The Auburn Saloon at 6 p.m. any day. It is in the faces I remember and the ones I will never forget. It is in the ones I will buy a coffee or sandwich for, and the ones I know may need help but are beyond me. It is the old man who walked with contented, aimless purpose ahead of me this morning, smoking his pipe, just going where he was going with no hurry or concern. I stayed a few steps behind him to inhale the fragrance of his pipe tobacco. It is the old woman, white hair down in an up-do with what must be a hundred cans of hairspray, decked out in her old fur, her makeup overdone in 1940s style, all that she owns that glitters on her neck, ears, fingers, her warped feet still thrust into shoes with heels, still carrying herself with a bearing of class and days gone by.
It is the little girl skipping on that brick avenue in the sun, her mother not far behind keeping a close eye on her.
My Calgary has become like a patient and ever forgiving lover, one that amazes me, makes me joyful, makes me weep, gives me both hours of hope and moments of despair, one that will always be there waiting for me, eternally patient and ready to take me in its arms to share its secrets, fill my soul, and bring me home.