La Finestra Di Fronte (2003)

"Don't be content to merely survive....

You must demand to live in a better world, not just dream about it...."

The art of knitting

An oversize scarf

With leaf pattern

Buttons at the bottom.

Glimpses of spring

QE Park @ Cambie St.

Dunsmuir at downtown

春江水暖鴨先知

Venables Street @ Commercial

Beautiful sunny day, prelude to spring, some trees having shyly begun turning green, all kind of greens, nothing but the green. The wind is blowing lightly from the southwest, brush off white caps on the mountains. The air smells of green, literally and metaphorically. The ducks are happy, so am I.

$15. dinner for two, wine is not included

Fresh, must be fresh

Local oysters and smelts

with tempura ale batter

Walala...

Last night dinner, not much effort at all... just simply fresh and easy... yes the fava beans took forever to peel, twice... but at the end it worth it.

4 large oysters $6.
1 lb smelts $3.
1 corn $0.75
1/2 lb green beans $1.25
1/2 lb asparagus $1.75
1/2 lb fava beans $1.25
4 shitake mushroom $1.
total $15. dinner for two

Called this as Intuitive Eating (IE). Trust my body, eat what my body want me to eat. Or simply call this as "craving". Bon appetite.

Joni Mitchell - Chinese Café / Unchained Melody

Caught in the middle/ Carol we're middle class/ We're middle aged/ We were wild in the old days/ Birth of rock 'n' roll days/ Now your kids are coming up straight/ And my child's a stranger/ I bore her/ But I could not raise her/Nothing lasts for long/ Nothing lasts for long/ Nothing lasts for long…

Down at the Chinese Cafe/ We'd be dreaming on our dimes/ We'd be playing "Oh my love, my darling”/ One more time/ Uranium money/ Is booming in the old home town now/ It's putting up sleek concrete/ Tearing the old landmarks down now/ Paving over brave little parks/ Ripping off Indian land again/ How long, how long/ Short sighted business men/ Ah, nothing lasts for long/ Nothing lasts for long/ Nothing lasts for long…

Down at the Chinese Cafe/ We'd be dreaming on our dimes/ We'd be playing "You give your love, so sweetly”/ One more time/ Christmas is sparkling/ Out on Carol's lawn/ This girl of my childhood games/ With kids nearly grown and gone/ Grown so fast/ Like the turn of a page/ We look like our mothers did now/ When we were those kids' age/ Nothing lasts for long/ Nothing lasts for long/ Nothing lasts for long…

Down at the Chinese Cafe/ We'd be dreaming on our dimes/ We'd be playing "Oh my love, my darling/ I’ve hungered for your touch/ A long, lonely time”/ And time goes by so slowly/ And time can do so much/ Are you still mine?/ I need your love/ I need your love/ God speed your love to me/ Time goes, where does the time go?/ I wonder where the time goes?

Joni Mitchell Nov. 7, 1943 

Happy Birthday, Joni! 

The Old Curiousity Shop

2303 East Hastings, Vancouver, BC

$50.

$1,200.

$50.

Good Old Day Priceless

… one of those receptacles for old and curious things which seem to crouch in odd corners of this town and to hide their musty treasures from the public eye in jealousy and distrust. —Charles Dickens

Vancouver Special

Vancouver Special  —Evelyn Lau
Those summer days of searching
for a new house seemed an adventure—
I rode into each castle
on my father's shoulders like a small king,
pointing, nodding, the realtor fawning over me
as if I held the key to my family's future.
I beamed under the attention, busily bustled
from room to room stroking the walls,
the shag carpet, the realtor with his oily round face
rustling up a sweaty mint from his pocket for me.
I remember kitchens with carpeted floors, sundecks,
covered carports, avocado appliances everywhere.
Seventies' sunlight flooded in.
The realtor got down on one knee,
peered into my face as if I were an oracle,
repository of my parents' desires—
I was the firstborn, I sat at the head of the table
holding court, I held their happiness in my hands.
They were marvellous, these boxy modern houses
we might make our own—all except
the last one. Not this one, we can't buy
this one, I cried, peering down
from the great height of my father's shoulders
at the unfinished sink, the hole in the counter.
My scratched legs bracketed his face—
his hands held me in place
steady as a surgeon's.
But who knew where it could lead, this ugly gape
scattered with sawdust, this empty well
into which I could fall forever. Please . . .
The adults laughed, signing documents
with the realtor's gold pen—
the sink would be ready
by the time we moved in.
Nothing could happen here
that wouldn't happen in any other house.

Evelyn Lau is a Canadian poet and novelist.