Mental Pictures

To the parents of the blond toddler dressed in frilly pink, standing in front of the tattoo parlour--
To the man who rode past me on a bike and farted loudly --
To the owner of the house draped in vines, who plays the flute wildly at night--
To the old woman who spoke so long to me on the bus of her bright American neice --
To the homeless drunk who assaulted the window beside our table, when we would not give him our food --
To the hot dog vendor who later assaulted the homeless drunk for much the same behaviour --
To the Tim Horton's lady who yells at you if you don't move fast enough --
To the Tim Horton's guy, who yelled at N and skulked away for a smoke --
To the lesbians next door who constantly deposit their trash on N and BO's lawn --

These are the pictures I have of you, these are the impressions that I get. And for each of your individuality you stand out in my memory. I have stored you there for future use, and one day you will caper immortalized on pages, bent to my will by my pen. One at a time, or in combinations, or all together, I will show the world the portraits I have made of you, and you will be unrecognizable to yourselves. Only I will know the truth of your origins, the piece of each of you that I have taken with my eyes and transformed with my imagination. Oh, but writing is a sinister trade, the trade of life and immortality. It gives wonderful credence to that indigenous belief: When I take your picture, I steal your soul.