May 2nd, 2010.

My head's fogged with self-abuse decay. I'm a machine, I go through the motions.
Work, bank, chores, groceries, dishes... blah.
It's wet, nice out, but Vancouver soggy.
I'm taking the B-line today between tossing half of my bicycle lock through a chain link fence last night and having no fenders.
He's next to me, long hair, slight smell, but comfortable to be next to.

"Are you into Fine Arts or Literature?" He says.
"Well, I'm a photographer."
"That's a Fine Art isn't it? Or are you one of those commercial ones?"
(Slight disdain for the latter rides in his voice.)
"I guess so, I guess you could say I'm a fine artist."
"I've got something for you then."
He pulls a folder out of his sack, filled with posters of Van Gogh, Renoir, Matisse and Manet.
"You see," he starts, "Van Gogh, Renoir, they all start with the belief that man is the tree. You see here, Van Gogh's put the man in the tree. Like a tree, man needs the sun, reaches out to it.
Woman, now woman is always caught in man.
Look, see here, man in the tree. There's his nose and lips... and here, in the tree, woman is caught. And it goes on, look at this one."

He pulls out a poster of a mountainous scape.

"Man is the mountain in this one, you see his face and nose.
No eyes though, he's wearing a cloak, lying down you see?
And over here, headless, is woman, she's got her head in the clouds (literally)."

My stop is next, he sees I'm heading out.

"Thanks for your time, sorry for bothering you..." He goes on, but I'm genuinely grateful for the banter and interested. Random conversations sometimes spark functioning ideas.

I squish out with my leaking 5$ a piece Dungeness crab bag.
The sky sieves onto my face.