May 09, 2004

Mother thought the kitchen would look better yellow, so I spent Mother’s Day straining my arms to spill yellow bile upon the walls and ceilings. I didn’t mind the smell of paint as much as the ache in my arms. A few hours later my arms were thoroughly tired and all I saw was yellow, but the yellow kitchen walls weren’t nearly as interesting as the yellow shades of my night.

Last night I roamed through the city with my visionary Indian friend, who brought me a mini gender changer labelled with a pleasanty yellow sticker. I jingled the gender changer in my pocket as we drank tea at Cafe 1842 and talked about madness (mine and his).

“There’s a difference between having a personality and having a pathology,” I said, trying to convince myself that I’m sane, that my eccentricities merely added texture to my life.

We finished our yellow tea and walked towards the park, where I pissed in golden streams on the nearest tree. We listened to the silence for a while before we walked out of the park and stood captivated before the turrets of light in front of the Clay and Glass Gallery. So strange and useless were those pillars of light that we climbed into them and stood transformed into yellow specks of light, our faces bright with excitement. In that moment we were visionary Indian angels floating over the deserted corners of the city on wings of gold.

Soon bored by angelhood, we drove his car into the Uptown Parkade which shone golden in the night and parked on the six floor. When you look down on the city at night, a million incandescent light bulbs poke at your eyelids, and if you squint your eyes everything turns yellow. City nights are no longer ruled by darkness but by a million shades of yellow.

I no longer mind the colour.