12/30: Canadian Angst/Cascadian Rain

Dan Boeckner salutes the puddles collecting in the Central
District by the sidewalks by the 20th Century brownstone on
the corner, empty, mid-repaint, windows stickered with

construction logos. One still may not smoke near

the abandoned doorway. Synth tones and baritones soaring warped,

decades of lite socialism have not cured sadness, have not

bulwarked against nostalgia, nor have the neo-liberal reversals

restored good times glory to the Maple Leaf.

All the songs that make it south are sad ones;

dancing and crying translate internationally.

The rains of Vancouver don't hit different than the rains

of Tacoma or the rains, when they come, of Portland or

Everett; they flow to different bodies of water, but sound

the same in crosswalks.

Canadian citizenship became an active

interest that November day in North Carolina,
where rains were few and different
and my phone filled with texts, and

everyone’s Canadian friends
were suddenly Besties,
infinite couches and spare rooms
and job leads and citizenship paperwork,
and a different kind of city grid
but same kinds of mountains

seemed like not a sacrifice at all.

To hear the songs with ownership.  The washed out
melancholy of the Northern Cities of the

World.

As the days passed, and the texts petered out, and Everyone
Suddenly Knew Why The Bad Thing Happened and Whose Fault It
Was, everyone stopped their moves to Canada, renewed their

Passport for travel purposes only. Some cautiously suggested

it’d be for the best, for the dissolution of borders, of the lines

that dictate the nationality of rivers, the citizenship of rain. Others

suggested it’d be for the worst, for the dissolution of

everything. Under it all I heard
“When I get back

When I get back

Home

I won’t be the same
No more.”

And asked Jake if he was ever moving back. The answer wasn’t

No, he said, but the rivers up here are good, even if the bars are

expensive, and I can hear these songs just how I need to, sad

as they may be.