



Long gone are the days of two chicken soft tacos and a gram of dope. Sixty dollars passed in a napkin yielded something extra on my tray. There are no more beepers. No more waiting in the rain next to a payphone for two hours hoping my dboy is going to call me back. My abscesses have healed. My old street sister, the hooker with the colostomy bag that turned tricks for a few pints of vodka is dead. My homey died of liver failure a few months back. The places where I used to sleep in abandoned buildings are being torn down in favor of condos. I haven't had lice in awhile (although my kids had it eek. How did I ever live with that shit). The players are gone yet the narrative stays the same. People are dying from overdose. I lost a colleague this week. Hep C is on the rise. People are still getting HIV, people I know in fact. What the fuck am I doing wrong? Am I not doing enough? The cycle repeats itself. The dog chasing it's tail until it dies from exhaustion.





I feel like we have to keep trying. I am more like the kids in the hallway then I will ever be like the people who say we don't matter because we have drug problems. I sit around with cats. I regroup. I go back to work.





I got some extra spicy prawns with tortillas yesterday. There wasn't any dope in my napkin but I was surrounded by people who love me. I saw my friend pick up his six month chip, a friend who was dying alone in his room this time last year. Maybe I can't save everyone but I can start by saving myself then being kind to others.





I love you. I wish you loved yourself a little more.

A few days ago, I was get off the train station at the Civic Center train station in the center of the city I love so much. As I walked down the hallway on my way to the escalator that would lead me towards my office, I passed by homeless folks that lines either side of the corridor. A few were laying on their sides, sleeping soundly. I could see open sores on the legs of a dusty older man. A young brother in a peacoat had passed out, his crack pipe still in his hand. A woman slept on tops of her bag, which appeared to be filled mainly with other bags. A few half eaten chips were next to her hair. The two centuries who appeared to be watching over their companies stood on opposite ends of the hallway, one with a bloody uncapped syringe in his hand, the other with a full register in his arm. I held my hand up to signal "whoa- please don't stick me". I knew the transit police would be along soon to sweep the lot of them out of some of the only dry space available on a rainy weekday morning. My stomach started to turn as I saw the "Hondos" serving someone some delicious nuggets of tar as I walked towards the job site. I decided to catch a tag there-LOST. If they can sell drugs without consequences, I can mark my territory. Or so I told myself.