It’s rush hour at Corydon and Stafford, a busy intersection at any time of the day. An hour ago a young woman lost control of her car, veered across the sidewalk and smashed into the west wall of the recently opened Tim Horton’s location at the corner. The hall to the washrooms was a mass of splintered and busted wood and plastic. No one in the store was injured and the driver had minor cuts and bruises. As you can see by the pictures, if she’d been a few feet further to her left, she’d have sheared the gas lines going into the building. It could have been worse. By the way, this Tim Horton’s doesn’t have a drive-thru.
My short video shows the car being hauled away by a tow truck and Winnipeg fire rescue personnel.
American poet Richard Brautigan was found in front of a large picture window overlooking the Pacific Ocean, an empty bottle of whisky and a .44 Magnum next to him, on this day in 1984. He’d probably been dead for over a month before his badly decomposed body was discovered. His suicide note said, “Messy, isn’t it?” Brautigan wrote contemporary poetry which either does or doesn’t stand the test of timeliness. I still find him amusing and wise. Here are some samples: “I didn’t know the full dimensions of forever, but I knew it was longer than waiting for Christmas to come.” “All of us have a place in history. Mine is clouds.” “It’s strange how the simple things in life go on while we become more difficult.” “Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee affords.” “Money is sad shit.” “Im haunted a little this evening by feelings that have no vocabulary and events that should be explained in dimensions of lint rather than words. Ive been examining half-scraps of my childhood. They are pieces of distant life that have no form or meaning. They are things that just happened like lint.” “I will be very careful the next time I fall in love, she told herself. Also, she had made a promise to herself that she intended on keeping. She was never going to go out with another writer: no matter how charming, sensitive, inventive or fun they could be. They weren’t worth it in the long run. They were emotionally too expensive and the upkeep was complicated. They were like having a vacuum cleaner around the house that broke all the time and only Einstein could fix it. She wanted her next lover to be a broom.” “The bookstore was a parking lot for used graveyards. Thousands of graveyards were parked in rows like cars. Most of the books were out of print, and no one wanted to read them any more and the people who had read the books had died or forgotten about them, but through the organic process of music the books had become virgins again.”