traces in the cold

author: Deanna Bogaski

a short poem which describes an unsure exploration and experience of place, mediated by weather, time crunches and those who were part of the journey.

Fill in this booklet we were told, use it to guide your walk…

Well. It’s freezing out.

The wind makes it impossible to write without mittens.

Actually, my ink is barely moving it’s so cold.

I guess it the impressions that I make as I forcefully scribble will have to do.

They can be seen, but they are not obvious.

Perhaps I can trace over them later.

The surroundings which I am in are not very familiar to me.

Choose your favourite spot.

Your second favourite.

Your least favourite.

Can I have all three in a place which I am only in occasionally?

I have no strong opinions here.

My first favourite is also my second…

My least favourite is simply a traffic corridor, a sad passage.

I find a group with a professor in the Anthropology department.

She is lovely and warm, thoughtful.

I am also with a community member who heard about this walk and decided to join.

Finally, on of the co-leaders of the Urban Imaginary events asks if he can join our group,

We agree that he would be a welcome addition,

Perhaps thinking he will be able to provide some guidance.

My favourite spot is one of the only spots I have any attachment to,

It is in the basement attraction with a cat on the sign,

A pub called the Manx.

I choose another location that I like as my second, a park nearby to the Manx called St Luke’s.

I mistakenly place a sticker on Minto park.

The community member in my group has also placed a sticker on Minto park,

And the other members of the group have no strong opinions,

By two (one mistaken) sticker, we have chosen our starting point.

We question where else to go,

I offer up my spot.

It is met with a unanimous chorus – everyone loves the Manx.

We question where we avoid,

Looking at the map spread out on the table,

We agree, Catherine street.

Whoever named it Catherine street must have had a grudge.

In Minto park, the booklet asks a multitude of questions.

Three words to describe the place.

Cold, contemplative, peaceful.

I believe we can move on to the next, but more words keep getting added.

Open, safe, etcetera.

An over enthusiastic member keeps us on this question,

My pen will not write.

I keep repeating the words we have already chosen, hoping they will clue in, especially

Cold…

They think it’s a joke,

Asking how many times I’ve written that.

I ask the next questions in the book, and we move through them with the same pace.

I want to get to our next destination where I do not have to write in mittens,

It is warm in the Manx, and it is cold in the park.

I move through the exercises,

noting new things which I had not noticed before, which is largely the entire park.

We split apart to go look around the park,

Following things which catch our eyes.

I look at the picnic tables,

Looking them over for carvings,

For those who have claimed them as their own,

Or as the moment in their life as important enough to commemorate.

There are few, the tables seem as empty as the park.

The weather,

So warm the past few days, so cold today,

Has created frozen muddy areas,

Preserving perfect dog prints throughout the park.

Also in the mud I find frozen fake flowers.

There are more inside a memorial,

Memorializing with more permanence the survivors of domestic violence.

These tacky flowers last through all seasons.

They stay.

Leave traces, are traces.

They not disintegrate or fall apart.

We discuss our findings and head to our next stop.

Realizing on the way,

We do not have time for our second stop.

My little spot.

Warm. Cozy. Inviting.

We have to get back.

Disappointed we spent so long,

Because it was imperative to fill in, with detail, all the elements of the booklet.

We then go to Catherine street.

Cold cold cold.

Windy and deserted.

The sidewalk, mattresses, furniture from various rooms.

There is no more writing.

Rushing to get back,

Wanting to get off of this street,

Our last choice was a good one,

The street is one we will all continue to avoid in the future.

We fled back to the coffee shop.