Toronto

It's cold and windy. Its not so cold that you feel it in your bones, but I could see the majority of my female friends shivering, while I mearly feel my skin tingle. I'm near the needle, the big huge tower, the one Seattle copied... hotel room is nice, everything is ridiculously clean and you can't smoke in the bars. I miss Montreal... maybe just a little bit, as being my frist Canadian city visited, it still seems like the best, regardless of context or anything rational like that. So I'm tired and need to sleep, a long day of presenting on a panel, covering problems back at the ranch remotely, and passing out business cards, although I think I've seen everyone here before, still, you never know who shows up, or who has moved to which company and is now director or Vee-Pee of what division, its fluid that way, but all too predictable. I hear there's an Art museum near by, hopefully on Friday or Saturday before I leave. In the mean time, a little thing I wrote from someone I saw in the airport, and someone who said I should start a poem like that...

***

Something dislodged itself when she shook her hair. A faint possibility that grew larger until the moment of introduction; it cascaded into a story about the friend who she should meet back home. This is a lie that's told in retelling the truth in order to make the lie true. Superior in all respects to being honest is being anonymous - and she knew nothing of nonexistence. I lay into my bagel unaware of falling crumbs and she went back to The Economist. All-seeds have this problem, leaving a little piece of themselves in the tracks of oncoming traffic.