Far from Home

In Vancouver, my home

I have a favorite, inconspicuous viewpoint in Stanley Park.

Stand there, and only there, and gaze across the waters

you will see the helix structure of the Lions Gate Bridge

blending perfectly with the tree lines between brown and green leaves on the shore across.

In the summer, I visited my cousin in Los Angeles.

she had a pet pig called Bacon.

Bacon’s 7 inches long, 6 months old, straight from a factory farm.

Bacon’s viral, his Tik Tok was shared by Demi Lavato and viewed millions of times.

One morning, he seemed sluggish,

so we rushed him to the animal ER.

A few hours later, the vet reported that his chances of living are grim,

“it could be anything, really, maybe a genetic defect?”

and asked if my cousin would like to continue the ICU care.

It would cost $5000/night.

Bacon was rolled into the room on a metal tray.

He was slump on his sides and breathing heavily

The vet unwrapped the blanket around him,

revealing a respirator connected to an oxygen tank.

The doctor turned a dial on the oxygen tank meticulously, making sci-fi sounds.

The respirator mask doesn’t quite fit on Bacon’s protruded pig nose and the oxygen leaks out.

Seeing Bacon’s fragile state, my cousin broke down in tears.

I wonder if the pig would like to die now.

His circumstance is beyond his comprehension.

If he could talk, he would pribably say

“oink.”

My cousin had the money for the treatment

But in the end, she decided to pull the plug.

In the aftermath of the moment, I was in shock.

I thought this must be a cruel joke.

and all I wanted was to go home.

In the Fall, I visited Berlin,

I went to a sex club.

It had a smoke machine, red lights, and hard techno.

Attendees were naked or wrapped in a few pieces of leather.

Some were having sex in the corner,

most were dancing wildly,

limps swinging to the beat of the music

as if performing an animalistic ritual.

Wearing only a leather top, I soon synced to the rhythm.

You may think I’m too decadent now.

You may cringe.

Let me tell you why I feel empowered and perfectly justified.

At home, I’ve been subject to sexual repression.

I would argue every Christian is sexually repressed.

Say procreation is the divine power bestowed by God on humanity

The church implements rules and taboos to control its follower’s sexuality

Inserting themselves as the gateway to maintain power and control.

But here I am, in this Berlin Sex club, excessively indulgent in sex,

completely out of their control.

Why doesn’t Vancouver have an underground scene like this?

I suspect it’s the numbing effect of its pleasantness,

and the lack of anything eliciting complain or reaction.

As you can see, when I’m away, I often think of home,

and that inconspicuous spot in Stanley Park.

I remember the day I stood there and gazed across the water

And for the first time understood that it's no coincidence that the helix structure of the Lions Gate Bridge blends perfectly into the tree-line on the shores across.

The architects of the bridge recognize the DNA of Vancouver:

Like a structure that blends into trees,

Vancouver is embedded in its surroundings, unimposing, and un-excessive.

Hence even its skyscrapers are mirror-liking,

minimizing the city’s protrusions to nature’s reflection.

Last week, I visited my friend in San Francisco,

He lived in a commune with 59 members of musicians and students.

250 years ago, the house was built by a cult called “One World Family.”

Today the rent is dirt cheap.

The house chores were divided evenly, 5 hours a week.

Rotating, every night, someone would cook for the entire house.

Every night, the members would play music together.

There’s a public produce shelf stocked weekly.

Its doors are plastered with political activism.

Did I mention that the house is Vegan?

The walls are covered with murals done in the last 200 years.

One of the murals, a marble archway leading to a lawn occupied with nude picnickers, was a relic of the cult that resided here.

Another mural, a portrait of a woman, is dedicated to the spirit of a vengeful servant who was killed during pregnancy by the housewife.

It’s rumored that the spirit haunts the 3rd floor, and hates heterosexual couples.

Supposedly, every straight couple has ended terribly on that floor.

On the 2nd night of my visit, the house hosted its biannual "special dinner”

We first ate,

then barred the doors,

then everyone stripped,

and took Molly.

Then we brought out the jugs of cocoa-corn starch prepared earlier,

and people began rubbing it on each other.

Do you want to be rubbed? Everyone must ask because consent is important.

Everyone dance until dawn,

and many people made love to each other.

I did too, on the treehouse adjacent to the house.

But not the traditional kind of love,

the Happy One World Family Kind.

So, friends, I’m writing to tell you all

I’m a little too far gone to find my way back home.

I told you about the spot in Stanley Park to prove that I had really known and loved Vancouver.

But now I can no longer say the same.

I fear that if I go back, I’ll become as bland as the skyscrapers that reflect anything around them.

So, I won’t be coming home anytime soon.